ipistachio - Tumblr blog

ipistachio · 13 days ago

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I died ⚰️ Felix and enemies to lovers trope is pure gold, art, peak. Love everything about it!

dancing around fire

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pairing: felix x fem reader

word count: 12K (holy shit I know)

contains: +18, enemies to lovers, mutual pining, dom/sub energy shift, oral (f. m. rec.), begging, teasing, unprotected sex (don't, pls), against the wall sex, cum swallowing (i think that's it??)

authors note: english is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes in advance +++ requests are open! :)

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this ff was requested by @velvetmoonlght <3

summary: Everyone knew you were... rivals. You were both the best. Both always trying to win the first place. And you hated each other for it. Until you had to dance as a pair. Until Felix touched your waist. Until the burning heat you felt... was not anger anymore.

!!!! MINORS DO NOT INTERACT !!!

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The echo of sneakers squeaking against the floor filled the dance studio, a rhythmic counterpoint to the heavy bass thumping from the speakers. You were already mid-routine, your body moving on instinct, sharp, precise, flawless. Every breath you took came with focus; every twist of your wrist, every snap of your hip, was calculated. And then he walked in. Late. As usual.

Felix walked through the doors with his usual swagger, hair a little messy, silver chain glinting under the overhead lights. He wore his grey sweatpants slung low on his hips. His bag hit the floor with a careless thud as he leaned against the wall, watching.

He tilted his head, amused. Smug. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Asshole.

You finished the last eight count and took a swig from your water bottle, pretending not to see him walk over to stretch in the corner. But of course, his reflection danced in every mirror, taunting you, teasing you, mirroring you. Like he always did.

It wasn’t like either of you ever said anything out loud. No insults. No arguments. But the tension was there, humming under the surface of every shared space. You were both the best from the college dance league, and everyone knew it. You just happened to show it with discipline. Felix? With flair.

He caught you staring and raised an eyebrow, one hand resting on his knee as he leaned into a lunge.

“You planning on dancing or just standing there judging me all morning?” he asked, voice low, just loud enough for you to hear over the music.

You scoffed. “Hard to dance when someone walks in late and steals the spotlight.”

“I don’t steal,” he said. “I earn it.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Keep telling yourself that.”

He grinned, and it did something to your chest, annoyance, definitely annoyance. Maybe. Probably.

The captain’s whistle cut through the room, silencing everything. “Alright, bring it in!”

You grabbed your towel and jogged toward the circle forming around your captain, shooting Felix one last side-eye as he joined you, standing just close enough for your arms to brush. You stepped away. He smirked again.

The captain held up a clipboard. “So. Nationals are in three weeks. And this year, our rivals are bringing in pro choreographers. That means we need to level up. Big time.”

A low murmur of concern rippled through the team.

“That’s why we’re trying something different. Instead of a full crew number, we’re going duet-based. Strongest duo leads the performance.”

Your heart thudded. Duet?

“And,” the captain continued, eyes twinkling, “after reviewing footage and rehearsals… the strongest pairing is obvious.”

No. No way.

You didn’t even need to look up to know what name was coming.

“Y/N and Felix.”

You blinked. Felix laughed, short, breathy, disbelieving. “You serious?”

The captain nodded. “Dead serious. You two have the kind of chemistry judges eat up. Sparks fly when you’re even in the same room.”

“That’s not chemistry,” you said quickly.

“Doesn’t matter what it is,” the captain replied. “It might work.”

You stared at Felix. He stared right back. A flicker of something passed between you, maybe shock, maybe panic, maybe...something… well, doesn't matter what the fuck was that flicker about.

This was going to be a disaster. You could feel it.

“We start tonight,” the captain added. “Studio B. Seven sharp. Don’t be late.”

His eyes lingered on Felix a beat too long. You didn’t miss it. Neither did Felix. You rolled your eyes and muttered under your breath, “So we’re already fucked.”

—

7:03 PM.

You were warming up on the studio floor when the door creaked open. Of course. Felix strolled in like he owned the place, again. No rush, no apology. Just that same cocky glint in his eye.

“You’re late,” you snapped, not even looking at him as you stretched deeper into your split.

He tossed his bag into the corner. “Relax. I’m here now.”

“Seven sharp doesn’t mean ‘roll in whenever the hell you feel like it.’”

He kicked off his slides, flexed his ankles like this was some casual beach workout. “Didn’t realize I was working with a time cop.”

You pushed up off the floor and walked past him toward the speaker. “No, you’re working with someone who actually gives a damn about not embarrassing us at Nationals.”

His laugh followed you. “If you think I’m the one who’s gonna fuck this up, sweetheart, you’re dumber than you look.”

You spun around. “Don’t call me that.”

“What, sweetheart?” he repeated with a grin, head tilted.

“Keep testing me,” you warned, finger pointed at his chest. “I’ll knock that pretty smile off your face.”

His eyes dropped to your finger, then back up, and the grin spread wider. “Pretty, huh?”

You groaned. “For fuck’s sake.”

—

Fifteen minutes later, the tension was still thick enough to slice with a blade, but at least the music was playing. Barely. The first run-through was chaos. Offbeat steps, mismatched timing, no synergy. And every time your bodies touched, on the lifts, during transitions, you could feel the resistance.

“This isn’t working,” you huffed after the third full stop. “You’re late on the spin every time.”

“No, you’re early,” Felix shot back. “You rush the drop like you’re trying to end the routine before we even hit the climax.”

“That’s because I’m trying to avoid you,” you snapped. “You keep dancing like your only audience is the goddamn mirror.”

He walked toward you, sweat glistening along his collarbone. “Judges are the mirror.”

“Not if you’re not in sync. This isn’t your solo stage, dumbass.”

“Maybe it’d be easier if you stopped treating me like I’m some scrub backup dancer.”

You stepped closer. “Maybe act like you’re part of a team, then.”

He held your glare. You were practically chest to chest now, neither backing down, breaths heavy, both flushed, not from the dance. From this. You could feel the air pulse between you.

“Again,” you barked, tearing your gaze away. “From the top.”

He didn’t argue. But as the music started and your bodies moved again, closer, faster, more aggressive.

There was no more flinching when he stepped into your space. No more hesitation when your hands met. You grabbed each other like you were trying to prove something. Like it wasn’t just choreography, it was war. And you? You were there to win.

Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt as you pulled him into a turn, not caring when the fabric twisted in your grip. He caught your waist with both hands, hard, dragging you into the next move with a force that nearly knocked the breath out of you.

You didn't care.

His palm slid up your spine to your shoulder blade as he spun you into a dip, fingers digging into your skin like he wanted to leave marks. You let your nails scratch across his bicep during the lift, your body arching just enough to brush against his, but not in softness.

There was no softness here. Just heat. Friction. Anger disguised as passion. Or maybe passion disguised as anger. You hit every count perfectly, but it wasn’t clean. It was wild. Controlled chaos. When he caught your leg around his waist, you gritted your teeth as you held onto his shoulders. He gripped your thigh like he was daring you to shove him away.

You didn’t. He didn’t. You were burning. Both of you. Eyes locked like you were seconds away from either throwing fists or throwing yourselves into something even more reckless.

Your faces were inches apart, breathing hard, chests rising and falling with the same unsteady rhythm. The song ended. Neither of you moved. The silence felt louder than the music ever did.

You didn’t let go. Neither did he.

Until, finally, you both realized how long you had been standing there, gripping each other like lifelines in a warzone.

You let go first. Fast. Like his skin burned you. He stepped back a beat later, jaw tight, hands flexing at his sides like he could still feel the imprint of your body against his.

“The fuck was that,” you muttered, brushing your hands down your thighs like you could wipe off the heat. “Trying to bruise me or what?”

Felix scoffed, dragging a hand through his hair. “Please. You were digging your nails in like you wanted blood.”

“Maybe I did.”

He gave you a look, eyes still dark, voice low. “You think I can’t take it?”

“No,” you said, stepping closer again, just enough to remind him you weren’t afraid. “I think you like it.”

A muscle jumped in his jaw. “You don’t know shit about what I like.”

“And yet,” you said, a slow smirk tugging at your lips despite the adrenaline still spiking your veins, “you didn’t stop me.”

His laugh came out sharp. Bitter. “Yeah, well. You didn’t stop me either, sweetheart.”

You shoved past him toward the mirror, pretending like your pulse wasn’t still wrecked. “If you call me that one more time, I swear to god-”

“What?” he shot back. “You’ll actually admit you like it?”

You whirled on him. “I’d rather choke.”

His smile was all teeth. “Kinky.”

You grabbed your water bottle like it mattered. The plastic crinkled in your grip, the tension still coiled tight in your fingers, in your jaw, in the space between your shoulder blades. You didn’t even drink, just stared at the floor like it might tell you what the hell that just was.

“You always dance like that?” he asked finally, voice dry. “Or is trying to kill your partner a special occasion?”

You scoffed, turning to face him. “Sorry. Didn’t realize you bruised so easy.”

He grinned, teeth sharp. “Didn’t realize you were so desperate to leave a mark.”

You rolled your eyes and tossed your towel into your bag. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve had more intense warmups.”

“Sure you have,” he said, folding his arms over his chest. “That why you looked like you were gonna explode?”

“Yeah,” you muttered. “From embarrassment.”

“Ouch.” He clutched his chest like you’d wounded him. “Harsh words from someone who almost tripped on her own ego.”

You stepped closer, slow and deliberate. “Say that again.”

Felix tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “What? You want me to spell it out?”

“I want you to shut the fuck up.”

“Not my fault you’re cranky when someone matches you.”

You blinked. “Matches me?”

He shrugged. “I kept up.”

“No, you didn’t. You followed.”

Felix let out a low laugh, the kind that hit somewhere in your ribs. “Right. My bad. Didn’t realize your dance degree came with delusions.”

You stepped even closer, close enough to make him stop smiling. “Keep talking, and you’re getting a concussion with your next lift.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Promises, promises.”

You stared at each other in silence, heat thrumming in your veins like leftover static. Finally, you turned, grabbing your hoodie from the floor. “This rehearsal’s over.”

Felix didn’t argue. Just leaned back against the wall and watched as you walked out.

“Try not to trip on your way out, sweetheart,” he called after you.

You raised a middle finger over your shoulder without turning around.

His laughter followed you down the hall.

And it kept echoing long after you were gone.

—

That night, you couldn’t sleep. You tossed. Turned. Kicked off your blanket. Put it back on. Your body was still thrumming, muscles twitching with the ghost of his hands, his grip, his voice. It was like your nervous system refused to power down, too wired, too alive, too mad.

This was important. Nationals.

Three weeks. No margin for error. No room for whatever the hell today was. You were supposed to be perfect. Not distracted. Not heated. Not thinking about the exact way his fingers had gripped your hip like he was trying to break something loose in you.

You cursed out loud, face half-buried in your pillow.

“Fucking Felix.”

—

It didn’t get better in the morning. Or the next day. Or the one after that. You showed up to practice early every day, thinking you could get a few moments of clarity alone. But every time he walked in, always three minutes late, always with that goddamn lazy swagger like the world bent around him, you felt your jaw clench so hard it hurt.

And then there was the way he moved. Like he didn’t even try to look that smooth. Like rhythm lived in his bloodstream. It pissed you off.

So did his hair, too blonde, always falling into his eyes. The way he’d tie it up with zero care, a mess of loose strands and lazy knots. So did the freckles that dusted his cheeks and nose, especially when the sun hit just right through the studio windows. So did his eyes, the way they got soft when he was focused on choreography. When he looked at the captain, or one of the newer dancers who needed help, or even the mirror.

But not at you. Never at you. You told yourself it was fine. Just nerves. Just pressure. Just the weight of being put together when you'd rather tear him apart. You told yourself you had to figure it out.

Because if you didn’t… You were going to lose.

And you? You never lose.

—

The studio was too quiet without the others. No chatter. No clapping. Just the thick silence of two people orbiting around a fuse. You were already warming up, pointedly facing the mirror, headphones in, pretending you didn’t hear him come in.

But you felt him. Like a change in the air pressure. Like the moment right before lightning cracks the sky open.

He dropped his bag. Loud. On purpose. You didn’t flinch.

“You gonna keep pretending I don’t exist?” he asked, voice too casual to be anything but bait.

You stretched deeper into your lunge. “You pretending to be worth acknowledging?”

He snorted. “Damn.” He walked up behind you, slow, deliberate. “You good?” he asked. No teasing. Just sharp, blunt, intrusive. You didn’t answer. Just stood up, shaking out your arms, rolling your neck like you could release all of this, him, through muscle memory.

But he didn’t stop. “Seriously. You’ve been acting like you’re ready to kill someone.”

You finally turned to face him, jaw tight. “Maybe I am.”

“Gotta say…” he took a step closer, eyes scanning you like he could see straight through the tension “I think you’re not mad at me.”

“Oh yeah?” you snapped. “Then enlighten me, genius.”

“I think you’re mad at yourself.”

That made something in you jolt.

“Get in position,” you snapped, needing motion, needing anything but this conversation.

He didn’t argue. You didn’t look at him when the music started. The anger was burning too hot, vibrating beneath your skin, coursing through your arms and legs like electricity. Every beat hit your chest like a challenge, every step daring him to match you.

And for once, he did.

You turned, and there he was. Right there. Not behind, not ahead, with you. His steps sharp, controlled. His eyes burning. He wasn’t looking past you anymore. He was looking at you. Like he could hear your thoughts, feel your fury.

You twisted into the spin, and he caught you on cue, solid grip, no hesitation. You landed the lift, his hands locked around your waist, breath syncing with yours. No one spoke. You were too locked in. Too alive.

It wasn’t perfect. It was real.

By the time the music faded, your chest was heaving, sweat dripping down your back. You stood facing each other, breathing in time, hearts pounding like war drums.

Neither of you said a word. But something had changed. The silence wasn’t cold this time. It was charged. Felix wiped his brow with the hem of his shirt, his eyes flicking up to meet yours.

“That,” he said, voice low, rough, “wasn’t bad.”

You blinked.

It wasn’t a compliment. It wasn’t praise. But it wasn’t war, either.

You swallowed. “We should’ve been doing that from the beginning.”

He gave a short, dry laugh. “Maybe we needed to get pissed first.”

You didn’t smile. But you didn’t look away. Because for the first time, you felt it, not the rivalry, not the fight. Something that hummed under it all. And neither of you knew what to call it yet.

"You're... burning" His voice was quiet. Different. Not cocky, not distant. Just… honest. You barely had time to react before his hands lifted. Slowly, cautiously, and brushed over your arms. The pads of his fingers were light, tentative, like he wasn’t even sure why he was doing it. But his touch was real. Warm. Anchored. His eyes followed his own movement, watching the way his fingers slid over your skin, like he felt the same electricity thrumming through your body.

You froze.

The moment was quiet, almost gentle. And it was too much.

You stepped back. Too quickly.

His hands dropped instantly. His expression shifted, not surprise, not hurt, but something in between. A flash of something unreadable behind his eyes before he blinked it away.

You swallowed. Hard. “I’m fine,” you said sharply, too fast.

Neither of you moved. The air buzzed with tension again, but not the kind you could channel into dance. Not the kind that pushed you forward. This was different. Unsettling. Your breathing was sharp, uneven, still too close to his, he looked at you.

Soft. Fucking. Eyes.

Like maybe, just for that second, it wasn't hate at all.

And all you could think was: Motherfucker.

—

That night, for the first time in days, you actually slept. No tossing. No turning. No stress loops playing choreography behind your eyelids. But rest didn’t mean peace.

Because he was there. Of course he was.

In the dream, you were back in the studio. Same lights, same mirrors, same silence humming around your ribs. Except this time, it wasn’t the same. There was no music. No captain. No rules.

Just you and Felix. And he wasn’t cocky. He wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t teasing or provoking.

He was standing still, chest rising and falling slowly, watching you like he’d never seen you before. Like you were new. Like you were something he didn’t know how to touch. But he did. He reached for you. Not with the sharpness of practice. Not with the urgency of a lift or catch.

Slow. Careful. Like your skin mattered.

His hands came to your hips, solid, grounding, but his eyes never left yours. They were soft. Curious. Unfamiliar. And worst of all, warm.

You hated how your body leaned in, even in the dream. Hated how your breath hitched when his fingers moved, light and tentative up your sides, like he was relearning what he already knew from every rehearsal. Every grab. Every choreographed push and pull. Except this wasn’t choreography.

This was… something else. You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even blink.

But in the dream, he said your name. Not mocking. Not loud. Just… soft. Like a secret.

And when you looked up at him…

You woke up. Heart pounding. Sweat clinging to your skin.

His name caught in your throat like a curse. The sun was barely up. But you were already fucking annoyed.

“Motherfucker,” you whispered into your pillow, dragging a hand down your face.

Of course he followed you here, too. Of course he didn’t know how to stay on his side of anything. Even your dreams.

—

The next evening, the studio was louder than usual, other teams were running through their sets, music overlapping like chaos. You stood against the mirrored wall, arms crossed tight over your chest, eyes scanning the room like you were trying to focus on anything but him.

Didn’t work.

Felix strolled in late again, hood up, hair a mess, chain swinging. But his eyes found yours instantly. Like magnets. Like instinct.

Shit.

You looked away too fast. Too obvious.

He noticed.

He wandered over slow, all casual arrogance, until he was standing beside you, not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel.

You didn’t turn your head.

“You good?” he asked, like he didn’t already know the answer.

You nodded.

Then, his voice dropped, lazy and sharp at the same time.

“I looked into your eyes once and now you can’t breathe around me?”

Your breath caught again. Just for a second. And that second ruined you. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He chuckled under his breath, but it wasn’t mocking, it was… knowing. Too knowing.

You were still trembling. Barely. But enough. Enough that you had to shift your weight, pretend you were cold, pretend you weren’t breaking under the weight of it all. And today? There was no dancing. No excuse to be close. Just benches and feedback and clipboards and standing across the room pretending you weren’t watching each other every second.

But you were. Every time he laughed with someone else, your body tensed. Every time his eyes flicked to yours, it felt like a punch to the ribs. Every time you didn’t move toward him, it felt like you were dying. You were burning inside, motionless. Trapped.

He caught your eyes one more time from across the room, those stupid, soft eyes again. And you looked away like they hurt you. Because they did. Because this thing, whatever the hell it was, was dangerous. You couldn’t afford it. You didn’t want it. You didn’t need it. But fuck, you were fighting it with everything you had. And... losing.

Felix wasn’t even near you. Not exactly. He was leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, one ankle over the other like he didn’t have a care in the world. But he kept watching you. And you knew because every time your eyes shifted across the room, his were already there.

Lingering. Following.

It wasn’t subtle. Not today.

Your skin prickled, hypersensitive, like every inch of you was on edge. Every sound too loud. Every shift in light too bright. You folded your arms over your chest, fingers clenching your own elbows. Grounding yourself. Pretending like you weren’t falling apart from just a look.

He wasn’t even doing anything. He was just… watching. Breathing. Existing in the same goddamn room. And it was wrecking you.

Your heart thudded too fast. Your palms were damp. Your stomach clenched every time he so much as tilted his head in your direction. And worse, your brain wouldn’t stop thinking about that fucking dream. The way his hands had touched you there. Like you were something delicate. Something chosen.

The way he looked at you right before you woke up. Soft eyes. Exactly like the real ones across the room.

You blinked hard. No. No. No. Fuck no. This wasn’t real. You hated him. He hated you. It was the only thing that ever made sense. Your body didn’t seem to agree. Because every breath you took brought you closer to some kind of edge. And every time Felix shifted, rolled his shoulders, pushed his hair back with those stupid rings on his fingers, your throat went dry.

Maybe it was your hormones. Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe you were just losing your mind. Because you weren’t supposed to feel this. Not for him. Not for the guy who made you crazy. Who got under your skin. Who was too smug, too late, too fucking much.

But you felt it anyway. You felt everything.

And when he finally moved, walked across the room to grab his water bottle, you caught his scent as he passed.

Sweat. Soap. Something faintly sharp and earthy.

It hit you like a punch.

You didn’t even realize you had turned to look until his head snapped back, catching you in the act.

And fuck.

His eyes–

They weren’t sharp. Weren’t teasing. They were… searching.

Your chest seized. You turned away fast, blood rushing to your ears. You couldn’t do this. Whatever this was, it couldn’t be real. It wasn’t happening.

It was the dream. It was the heat.

Because if it wasn’t—

If this was something real—

If that softness in his eyes was true—

Then everything you thought you knew about him, about yourself, about this... Was about to fall apart.

—

The studio lights had gone off behind you, your skin still buzzing from the residual heat of the room, of him. You had taken slow steps down the hallway, trying to breathe, trying to think.

And then,

There he was.

Leaning against the wall just outside the exit, hood up, hands tucked into his pockets. Head down, like he wasn’t really waiting. Like this was some coincidence.

But when you stopped walking.

He looked up. He was waiting.

Your chest tightened, breath catching before you could stop it. You were tired. Not physically, no, your body was alive. But emotionally? You were frayed. Raw. Like something inside had been rubbed too hard and was now too sensitive to touch.

For a long second, the only sound was the soft hum of the hallway lights, the faint buzz of the city through the glass door behind him.

And then, quietly, he said: “I saw you looking.”

Your pulse stuttered. “I wasn’t.”

He pushed off the wall, slow. “You were.” He took a step closer. “All day.”

You stood your ground. “You were looking first.”

He gave a quiet, humorless huff. “Yeah. I was.”

Your stomach twisted. That wasn’t supposed to be an admission. That wasn’t supposed to mean anything. But the way he was looking at you now? It meant everything.

You shifted your weight, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands, with your voice, with your heart. “What do you want, Felix?”

He didn’t blink. “I don’t know.”

You swallowed. “That’s not helpful.”

“I didn’t wait here to be helpful.”

Another step. He was close now. Not touching. Not even reaching. Just… there. Present in a way that made your spine go stiff and your knees feel loose all at once.

You tilted your chin up. “This is stupid.”

“Maybe.”

“We hate each other.”

His eyes searched yours. “Do we?”

You didn’t answer. Because he wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t smirking. He looked serious. And calm. Like this, whatever this was, wasn’t rattling him the way it was rattling you.

And then, softer, like a confession:

“You looked like you couldn’t breathe today.”

Your throat dried up.

“I kept watching you,” he said, eyes dipping to your mouth, then back up again, “and it felt like I was doing something I shouldn’t. Like… I wasn’t allowed.”

You should’ve stopped this. You should’ve turned around. Should’ve shut it down before it could crawl under your skin and take root.

“Oh, shut up.”

His mouth twitched. Not in that smug, arrogant way you had gotten used to. It was softer. Darker. Like he saw something in you now that you hadn’t meant to show. “Make me,” he said, low. “Shut me up. I know you want to.”

Your jaw clenched. “You are so full of shit, you—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” And then… he kissed you.

No warning. No hesitation.

Just mouth on mouth, heat on heat, like the tension had finally found a place to go. His hands were already in your hair, on your waist, tugging you into him like he couldn’t stand the distance a second longer.

And you?

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t stop to think. You kissed him back like you meant to ruin him. Fingers clutching his hoodie, dragging him closer, mouth hungry, furious, desperate. There was no softness. No slow build. Just fire. Just need. Just finally.

His back hit the wall, and you followed, chest pressed to his, all tangled limbs and short gasps and everything you had refused to name for weeks exploding. He groaned into your mouth, breath hot against your cheek as he broke away for a second.

“You fight dirty,” he murmured.

You shoved your hand in his hair, tugged until he hissed.

“And you talk too much.”

“Then shut me up again.”

And you did.

You knew, maybe you’d regret this. Maybe.

Maybe tomorrow. Maybe even five minutes from now. But right now? Your brain was fire and fog and nowhere to be found. Because that ache… deep, low, constant, had been haunting you for days. Since that dream. Since he touched you like he meant it. Since you caught him looking at you like you were something he didn’t know how to want properly.

And the second his mouth was on yours again, the second his hands gripped you like they could anchor the chaos in your chest, you knew he could.

He could stop the ache. He could silence the burn.

And god, you hated that. Hated how easy it was to lean into him. To open your mouth for him. To meet that hunger with even more of your own, like your body was starved and he was the only thing it ever wanted to taste.

And Felix? He loved it. He loved how you trembled but didn’t pull away. How you grabbed at his shirt like you were furious with it. With him. With yourself. Because he knew what this was. He knew what you needed. He knew you hated needing it this much.

His mouth was hot and hungry on yours, his hands dragging down your spine, across your waist, gripping your hips like he couldn’t decide whether to pull you closer or crush the space between you completely. And you let him. You let him. Because you needed something to stop this feeling. This chaos. This fucking ache.

His breath was ragged when he pulled back for a second, his forehead pressed against yours, voice wrecked. “You hate that you need this, don’t you?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because your chest was rising and falling like you had run ten miles, and your skin felt too tight for your body, and your throat was full of heat and spit and words you couldn’t say. He brushed his thumb over your bottom lip, slow, like he needed to memorize it. You hated that too. And he smiled, soft. Almost cruel. “I like watching you try not to want me.”

That snapped something. Your hands pushed at his chest, not hard enough to make him stumble, just enough to say fuck you in motion.

You didn’t move. He... waited.

He tilted his head, the edge of his mouth curling up like he already knew what was happening to you.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you hissed.

That made him laugh, soft and dark. “I know you’re flinching,” he said, taking a step closer. “Just not where anyone can see it.”

Your breath hitched. Fuck.

But you didn’t back down.

He stepped forward, close enough that the heat between you sparked like live wire.

“You really want to play that game with me?” he asked, voice rough now, just slightly breathless.

You raised your brows, forcing yourself to smirk even though your heart was pounding. “Why not?” you said. “Scared I’ll win? That I'll ruin you first?”

For a second, just one, his expression flickered.

And then he laughed again, this time sharper. Dirtier.

“Ruin me?” he repeated, like it was the funniest fucking thing he had ever heard. He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“I’ve been dreaming about you” he whispered. “And I promise, sweetheart, when I finally get to touch you, you’ll find out what ruined really feels like. You're fighting yourself not to beg me to”

Your whole body shivered. You hated it. You loved it. You wanted to break him just as bad as he wanted to break you. So you turned your head, eyes locking with his, close enough your noses brushed.

“I’m not begging,” you said, voice hoarse. “Not yet.”

The sound he made was filthy.

“Keep talking like that,” he said, “and I’ll make sure you do.”

You clenched your jaw. “You're such an asshole.”

“You’re flushed,” he murmured. “Breathing all fast. Shivering. You feel that?” His hand slid up your side, just barely grazing the skin beneath your shirt. “That’s your body giving you away, sweetheart.”

Your breath caught, again. God, he was doing it on purpose. Picking you apart like he liked watching you lose control.

“Careful,” you whispered, voice steel wrapped in silk. “You keep running that mouth and I might have to show you how I ruin people.”

That knocked the air out of him. For a beat, he just looked at you.

And then?

“Promise?” he said, voice hoarse, eyes blown wide. And before you could answer, before you could pretend this wasn’t happening, he was kissing you again. Harder. Wilder. Less like a question. More like a surrender. And you didn’t hold back. And he knew you wouldn't.

You didn’t know who moved first. Maybe it was him, grabbing your wrist and dragging you back inside with a look that promised nothing good. Maybe it was you, fingers curled into his hoodie, pulling like you’d die if he let go.

But somehow, you were back in the studio. The door slammed shut behind you, echoing off the mirrors. His mouth was on yours, messy, greedy, all tongue and teeth, like the kiss outside hadn’t scratched the surface. Like he had been starving for this. For you. And fuck, maybe you were starving too.

Your back hit the mirror, and you gasped, the sound swallowed by his mouth. His hands were everywhere, on your waist, under your shirt, dragging along your ribs like he wanted to map you out by touch alone.

His hoodie was too soft, too warm. You needed it off. You pushed it up, hands flat against the hard lines of his stomach, and he groaned, low, guttural, like just that, just your hands on his skin, was too much. He yanked your shirt off in one second, stopping his hurried movements only to pull you closer, feeling skin to skin.

“You’re so fucking warm,” he breathed, pressing kisses along your jaw, down your neck, like he wanted to taste every part of you that made you gasp. “So soft.”

Your head tilted back instinctively, mouth parted, breath ragged as his tongue dragged over the skin just below your ear. Your fingers dug into his back, pulling him even closer, until there was nothing between you but heat and friction and want. He rocked his hips into you, once, hard enough to make you moan, and the sound that tore out of him after that? Ruined.

“God, you sound so good,” he muttered, like it hurt him. Like he didn’t know what to do with it. “I’ve fucking dreamed of this.”

Your mouth found his again, kissed him hard enough, your teeth knocked together, fingers curled in his hair, tugging just right. He hissed, and the way he rutted into you after that? Filthy.

It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t soft. It was frantic.

He dropped to his knees like gravity had pulled him there, hands gripping your thighs, shoving down your sweatpants so smoothly, lips bruising as he mouthed at the skin just above your waistband. Your fingers twisted in his hair, legs already trembling, and he looked up at you, eyes dark, lips swollen.

“You still not begging?”

You stared down at him, chest heaving. “Try harder.”

And he fucking did. His smile was crooked, dangerous, as he slowly took your panties off.

“Say less.” Felix lifted one of your legs over his shoulder and pulled you down to his mouth like he had been starving for you.

Heat. Tongue. Pressure. It hit all at once.

Your hands slapped against the mirror behind you as your head fell back with a choked gasp. His mouth was filthy, licking, sucking, tongue dragging slow and firm through your folds like he wanted to memorize you with his mouth.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Because he wasn’t just eating you out, he was devouring you. Humming like he loved the taste of you, fingers digging into your thighs to hold you still while he worked you open with his tongue.

“Fuck—Felix,” you gasped, voice cracking.

That only made him groan, the vibration shooting straight through you. He slid one hand down, thumb rubbing lazy circles over your clit while his mouth worked lower, tongue dipping inside you, slow and deep.

You were burning. Your hips bucked, grinding into his mouth, and he just groaned again, like he liked it. Like he wanted it messier. Needier. Louder.

“That's it,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to breathe against you. His mouth was slick, swollen, chin wet. “So fuckin’ pretty when you fall apart.”

“Stop talking,” you rasped, breathless.

He licked a stripe up your center, slowly, before sucking your clit into his mouth and making you see stars. You clawed at the mirror, legs trembling around his head, pleasure coiling so tight in your gut it was almost unbearable.

“You still not begging?” he asked, voice wrecked, mouth still pressed between your thighs.

He didn’t move. Just stared up at you, lips swollen, chin slick, the pad of his finger circling just barely, a ghost of a touch, maddening and light.

You squirmed, hips jerking, breath catching in your throat.

Still, he waited. Smirking.

“Say it,” he murmured. “Come on. Give it to me.”

Your laugh cracked right through the tension, low and breathless. “You’re such an asshole, aren’t you?” His brows lifted, the smirk deepening.

You stared down at him, chest heaving, eyes wild. “Can’t you see I’m fucking dripping already? You need more than that to do something?”

He groaned, visibly affected, but didn’t break. His finger trailed down, slow, torturous, just barely parting you without slipping in.

“You think that’s how it works?” he asked, voice low. Dangerous. “You think you can mouth off like that and still get what you want?”

You tilted your head, eyes blazing. “I know you want to give it to me.”

The look he gave you was feral.

“I want a lot of things,” he said, dipping his head, lips brushing your inner thigh. “But right now?” Another brush of his finger, just shy of where you needed him. “I want to hear you say it.”

You bit your lip. Refused for half a second.

But your thighs were shaking. You could feel yourself throbbing. Desperate and dripping and empty. And he was right there.

“Fuck,” you snapped. “Fine.”

He looked up through his lashes, eyes gleaming. Waiting.

“Please,” you rasped. “Touch me.”

He didn’t move.

You growled. “Felix—”

“Say it right.”

You glared, seething. Flushed. Your whole body is on fire.

“Please touch me,” you ground out. “Please—just fucking eat me out.”

That broke him. His eyes blew wide, hands grabbing your thighs, and then his mouth was back on you, devouring.

And this time? He didn’t stop.

No hesitation this time, no teasing. Just his tongue, hot and greedy, licking a long, deep stripe up your soaked slit.

You nearly collapsed.

Your knees buckled, hands slapping against the mirror for support as his mouth closed over you, sucking, flicking, lapping, like he wanted to taste you from the inside out. Every filthy sound he made vibrated against you, all tongue and lips and moans, like he couldn’t get enough.

“Fuck,” you choked out, body trembling, heat crashing through your veins. “God—Felix—”

He groaned into you, nose buried, tongue working deeper, hungrier, wetter. Your arousal coated his chin, your thighs, everything. You were dripping, and he was eating like he needed every drop. He loved it.

You could feel it in the way he gripped your thighs tighter, how his fingers dug into your skin like he was trying to keep himself grounded. He pulled you closer, burying his mouth so deep between your legs you thought you’d break.

And then, suddenly, he pulled away.

You gasped, hips rocking forward, chasing his mouth in desperation, but he was already standing. His hands slid up your thighs, over your waist, to your hips, and then he turned you around so easily.

You blinked. “What—?”

But before you could get the words out, he had bent you forward, just slightly, enough to arch your spine, enough to put you right where he wanted. Your palms flattened on the mirror again, and now? Now you were facing yourself, flushed, panting, eyes wide with need.

His voice, low and wrecked, came hot against your ear. “Look at you.”

You shivered.

“You see that?” he murmured, one hand sliding down the small of your back, fingers ghosting over your ass. “That’s what I do to you.”

You swallowed hard, body aching, soaked and swollen and ready to burst.

“I’ve wanted to eat you out like this since the first time you rolled your eyes at me,” he said, lips brushing your temple. “Bent over. Spread for me. Fucking dripping.”

Your breath caught, loud in the quiet studio.

“Could smell how bad you wanted it the second I got on my knees,” he went on, “You were already soaked, weren’t you, sweetheart?” You moaned, barely holding yourself up.

His hand gripped your hip again, tight, like he needed to anchor you in place. The other slid down, fingers splaying over the curve of your ass, grabbing, spreading you open for him without shame. His breath hit your skin, hot and hungry, and then...

His mouth was on you again.

From behind, the angle was deeper, filthier, his tongue licking straight up your slick folds, slow at first, like he was savoring. And then he groaned, deep in his chest, like your taste had just wrecked him all over again.

You nearly collapsed. Your thighs trembled, your forehead bumped the mirror. But his hands were there, one on your ass, kneading, holding you open; the other sliding down the back of your thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh like he couldn’t decide whether to hold you still or spread you further apart.

“Fuck,” he muttered into your cunt, the vibration ripping through your core. “You’re dripping all over me.”

And you were. It was messy, wet sounds echoing in the quiet studio, his mouth and your body and your helpless little gasps filling every inch of the space between. His tongue worked in tight circles, relentless, flicking up to your clit and back down, every few seconds dragging the flat of it through your folds like he couldn’t get enough. His thumbs spreading you wider, and he growled, like it wasn’t enough, like he wanted more of you, all of you.

“You feel that?” he murmured against you, voice soaked in sin. “Feel how messy you are for me?”

You whimpered.

“Fucking perfect,” he whispered, and then sucked your clit into his mouth again, slow and tight, until your legs were shaking and your fingers were clawing at the mirror like it could save you from the way your body was unraveling. But there was no escape. Because he wasn’t stopping. Not when you were soaked and spread and shaking on his tongue. Not when you moaned his name like it meant something. Not when he had you just where he wanted, open, ruined, and completely his.

Your thighs were trembling, your breath catching in frantic little bursts as his tongue worked you closer, closer, closer, every flick, every suck, every low groan against your cunt like he knew what he was doing to you, like he had studied your body for this exact moment.

And then, it hit.

Your hips jerked, your hands slammed against the mirror, palms flat and sliding from the sweat. You moaned, loud, wrecked, helpless, as your orgasm tore through you like a fucking explosion. And when your legs started to give out, when the strength drained from your knees and your body began to sag, he didn’t let you fall, he hooked your thighs and pressed them hard to his chest, locking you in place with a grip so solid it felt like being claimed.

He groaned into your cunt like he was starving for it, mouth pressed flush to you as you came, sloppy and soaking, making a mess of his face. You felt it, your slick pouring over his tongue, dripping down his chin, coating his lips, everywhere. And he fucking loved it.

You could hear it, the wet, obscene sounds of his tongue still lapping at you through your high, slurping, desperate, filthy. He moaned again, a low rumble that buzzed straight through your core, and when he finally pulled back, his face was a wreck, lips swollen, chin wet, cheeks flushed, eyes dark and wild.

“Shit,” he panted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then licking that clean too. “You made a fucking mess of me.”

And you?

Still trembling. Still pressed against the mirror. Still panting like you had just run for your life.

He stayed on his knees for a second longer, hands still gripping your thighs, face still wet with you, chest rising and falling like he was the one who had just been wrecked.

And then slowly, he stood.

You watched him rise in the mirror, his reflection looming behind you, jaw sharp, lips slick, eyes molten. Your chest was still heaving, skin flushed, your mouth parted like you needed something more to breathe properly again.

His hand slid up your side, over your ribs, until it curled around your jaw, turning your face just enough to the side.

“Come here,” he murmured, voice thick, ruined.

And then he kissed you. Hard. Hot.

Still tasting like you.

The second your mouths met, you moaned into him, something guttural, something desperate. Your hand flew back to grip the back of his neck, pulling him down into it, while his other hand slid around your waist, tugging you tight against him.

You could feel him, hard against your lower back, pressed flush to you like he needed this kiss to survive it.

He kissed you like he meant it. Like he had been waiting to. Like everything up until this moment was just a build-up to this: your mouths slick and open, teeth clashing, tongues filthy and frantic, lips red and aching.

And fuck, he tasted like you. You whimpered against him, and he swallowed the sound like it belonged to him. Because maybe it did. Because maybe, you did.

He pulled back just enough to murmur against your mouth, “You taste so fucking good.”

You turned around and kissed him again. Because you wanted more. Because you could still feel the ghost of his mouth between your thighs, still felt the ache of his tongue inside you, still felt the way your legs had nearly given out from the sheer force of it. And he let you take control of the kiss this time, let you push him back until he hit the mirror behind you, until your hands were on his jaw, your tongue in his mouth like you meant to burn him from the inside out.

You pulled back slowly, just enough to look at him. His lips were swollen, wet. His eyes? Wrecked. Wide. Fixed on you like you were the only thing in the universe.

You dragged your thumb over his bottom lip, slow and dirty, watching the way he shuddered under your touch.

“You liked that?” you whispered.

He blinked, breath catching. “Are you—fucking kidding—?”

You leaned in, lips brushing his, your voice low and hot.

“I loved it,” you said, biting the word. “Loved the way your mouth felt on me. Loved how greedy you were. Like you couldn’t get enough of me.”

He groaned, hands twitching like he wanted to grab you again, but you held his jaw firm, fingers tight, claiming him. “And I also fucking hated it,” you whispered, like a secret. “Hated how good you were at it. Hated how you made me fall apart for you.”

You tilted his face up, your mouth ghosting over his cheek, your words sliding straight into his ear.

“You like watching me break, huh?” you said. “Like knowing I’m gonna come all over your face and still want more?”

He was trembling. God, he was trembling. His hands came up, barely touching your waist, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to yet. Like you had undone him so thoroughly, he didn’t trust himself.

You smiled against his skin. You smiled against his skin. Teasing. Cruel. Addicted. “What now?” you whispered, brushing your lips along his jaw. “Lost your posture?”

He exhaled hard, like the words hit somewhere deeper than they should have. His hands flexed at your waist, jaw tight beneath your touch, breath ragged against your cheek. You pulled back just enough to look at him, smirking like you knew exactly what you were doing. And you did.

“You were so cocky before,” you murmured, thumb stroking along the edge of his cheek. “All that dirty talk. All that control. What happened to it, hm?”

His eyes were heavy-lidded, pupils blown, lips parted like he couldn’t catch enough air.

He hated it. Hated how much he loved you like this, powerful, wicked, gleaming with satisfaction. Hated how the words made his stomach twist and his cock throb and his brain melt into static. But god, he loved it even more.

“Still in there?” you asked sweetly. “Or did I mess up all that fight out of you already?” His breath stuttered.

And then, through grit teeth, he muttered, “You’re fucking insane. I knew you would be like this."

Your fingers trailed lower, slow, dragging down the plane of his chest, over his abs, until you found his hard cock beneath the fabric of his sweats. He jolted under your touch, a sharp inhale punching through his lungs, his whole body tensing like a live wire.

“And you're fucking hard,” you whispered, eyes locked on his, voice all venom and velvet. That broke him. A sound clawed out of his throat, half growl, half laugh, full fucking surrender. His hands gripped your waist like he needed something to anchor him, eyes wild, chest rising too fast.

And you leaned in, smirking, lips brushing his, just a tease, just a threat, before licking into his mouth like you owned every inch of him.

Because right now? You did. And he knew it.

He barely had time to breathe before your fingers hooked in the waistband of his pants. “My turn,” you said, voice low, wicked, dripping with intent.

And then you sank to your knees.

His breath hitched, sharp and ragged, his hands twitching at his sides like he didn’t know whether to stop you or fall apart on the spot. You looked up at him, slow and smug, as you tugged his pants down just enough to free him, watching the way his cock sprang free, hard, flushed, leaking at the tip.

“Oh, fuck,” he whispered, already gone.

You wrapped one hand around him, slow and tight, just to watch him twitch. His eyes slammed shut. His head tipped back. And then you leaned in and licked up the length of him, slow, collecting the taste of him like you needed it. You heard the crack in his voice when he groaned. Heard the way his breath stuttered when you took him into your mouth, lips sliding down, tongue pressed flat and firm along the underside. You didn’t stop, not when he cursed under his breath, not when his knees buckled slightly, not when one hand finally shot out to brace himself on the mirror behind him.

You took your time. Let him feel every second of it. The heat of your mouth, the pressure of your lips, the slow drag of your tongue as you pulled back just enough to swirl around the head, tasting the salt of him, savoring the way he shook. His other hand found your hair, tentative at first, like he didn’t dare push, but then you hummed around him, eyes locked on his, and his grip tightened instinctively, like he couldn’t help himself anymore.

“Shit—” he gasped, chest heaving. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You pulled back, slick and slow, lips flushed, spit-slicked, still wrapped around the head of his cock like you were savoring dessert.

“Then die pretty,” you whispered, and took him deep again.

This time, he groaned so loud it echoed. Your hand stroked what your mouth couldn’t reach, and you kept your eyes on him, watching the way he unraveled, the way his composure shattered piece by piece. He was wrecked. Beautifully, completely wrecked. Muscles tense, thighs trembling, head tipped back and mouth open like a prayer had just fallen from it.

“You feel so good,” he choked out, voice rough, breaking at the edges. “Fucking perfect—shit, you’re perfect—”

You moaned around him, and he nearly doubled over. And then his hand in your hair tugged, not rough, just enough to pull you back, to make you look up again, your lips flushed and shiny, your eyes full of heat and power. He looked down at you like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Like you were some dream he had dared to touch and gotten burned for it.

“You’re driving me insane,” he said, voice hoarse, broken.

“Good,” you whispered. “lose your mind for me.”

Your hands were wrapping around the base of his cock as your mouth took him in again, deeper this time, no teasing now, just heat and hunger and pure, filthy intent. He swore loudly, one hand slamming against the mirror behind him, the other tangled tight in your hair, knuckles white, holding on like he was seconds from flying apart. “Fuck—god—don’t—don’t stop—”

You didn’t. Your head bobbed steadily, rhythm firm and relentless, tongue sliding along the underside, lips tight around him. You hollowed your cheeks and let him hit the back of your throat, over and over, the wet sounds of it obscene in the otherwise breathless silence. He was gasping now, hips twitching, thighs shaking under your palms.

“Shit—I’m—fuck, I’m gonna—”

You moaned around him, and that was it. He came with a broken sound, like something sacred had snapped inside him, hips jerking, breath catching, hand fisting tighter in your hair as he spilled into your mouth, hot and thick and fast. You took it. All of it. Let him ride it out, swallowing every drop like you were starving for it. You didn’t flinch, didn’t pull back, just kept your mouth on him, lips sealed, throat working until he was empty and trembling.

And then, only then, did you pull off, slow and smooth, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, looking up at him like he was yours already.

He stared down at you, utterly destroyed, chest heaving, eyes glazed with something like awe and disbelief. You swallowed once more, just for show, and then smiled, slow and sinful.

“Still with me?” you asked, voice syrup, sweet and smug.

He nodded, barely.

"You… you swallowed it?" he asked, voice still raw, cracking around the edges. He looked stunned, like the reality of it had just hit him, like he couldn’t quite believe what you had just done.

There was something in his eyes, impressed, yes. But more than that. Amazed. Reverent. Like you had flipped some switch in him he didn’t even know existed.

You licked your lips slowly, just to watch his breath hitch again.“Every drop,” you said, voice soft, wicked-sweet. “Didn’t want to waste a thing.”

His jaw flexed. You could see him swallow hard, eyes dragging over your face like he was committing every second of this to memory.

“Holy shit,” he whispered, almost to himself.

—

The next day, you couldn’t focus.

Not in class, not during practice, not even when your friend waved her hand in front of your face and asked, for the third time, if you were okay.

You said yes. Of course. Fine.

But you weren’t.

Because you could still feel him.

The echo of his mouth between your thighs, his fingers pressing into your hips, the gravel of his voice in your ear when he told you how sweet you tasted, how long he’d dreamed of doing exactly what he did to you.

It was burned into your skin.

Every flick of his tongue, every groan against your mouth, every shattered sound you dragged out of him when you dropped to your knees, still vivid, still so close, like it hadn’t just happened in that studio but had taken root somewhere beneath your ribs.

And worse?

You wanted it again.

You wanted him again.

You clenched your thighs under the desk.

No.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

It was a mistake. Heat of the moment. A product of too many late-night rehearsals, too much tension, and one too many dreams you shouldn’t have had in the first place.

So you did the only thing you could think to do.

You ignored him.

When you walked into the practice room and saw him already there, stretching on the floor, hoodie pulled up to his elbows, you didn’t even look at him. Just found the farthest corner and started warming up like nothing had happened.

Like he hadn’t been inside your mouth. Like you hadn’t made him come so hard he forgot his name.

It was safer this way. Cleaner.

Except… it wasn’t.

You could feel his eyes on you.

Burning. Questioning.

And then he spoke. Quietly. Like he didn’t want to push too hard.

“Hey.”

You didn’t look up. “Hey.”

He waited.

You kept stretching.

Nothing else.

No jokes. No flirting. No biting words. No you taste so fucking good.

Just silence.

He shifted on the mat. “Are we… are we pretending it didn’t happen?”

You stood, grabbed your water bottle, took a sip like you hadn’t heard a thing.

Because if you answered?

You didn’t know what you’d say.

Yes.

No.

I want more.

I can’t want more.

So you gave him nothing.

And that, that, was what scared you most.

Because you had given him everything just one night ago.

And now?

You couldn’t even look him in the eye.

—

The next weeks were a quiet war of almosts and maybes.

Rehearsals went on like clockwork, but the space between you and him felt electric, an unspoken charge humming just beneath the surface. No words passed between you, but your bodies spoke a language all their own. When you stood side by side, your shoulders brushed. Not quite accidental. Fingers twitched too close, gripping a little too hard on a wrist, on a hip, like trying to hold on without saying a thing. Breaths came faster, just for a second. when your eyes met across the room, and then quickly darted away.

He caught you staring once. His gaze held yours longer than usual. There was something raw and naked in the way he looked at you, as if he could see through all your walls.

You swallowed, heart hammering, heat pooling low in your belly.

Neither of you said a word, but you both knew.

You wanted each other again. Desperately.

But there was fear wrapped around that need, thick and suffocating.

So you danced around fire. Leaned closer but didn’t touch.

Breathed the same air but never crossed the line.

Waiting.

Because neither of you wanted to be the one who broke the silence first. Yet every time you rehearsed, every time the music pulsed through your veins, the tension between you grew sharper, impossible to ignore.

And then… the Nationals arrived. And right before you had to perform... Felix pushed open the door to your changing room without knocking.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” you breathed, heart already hammering.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped inside, eyes locked on you with that raw, desperate intensity you had been trying to ignore.

“Well,” he said, voice rough, low, trembling just slightly, “I came here to fucking tell you I can’t dance with you one more time and pretend I don't want to touch your whole fucking body. I can’t.”

Your breath caught, chest tightening like someone had pressed a fist against it.

He took a step closer, voice dropping to a harsh whisper that made your skin prickle. “And I can’t fucking deal with the fact that today is the last day I can use our dance as an excuse to touch you, to feel you next to me.”

His words hit you like a jolt of electricity, raw, honest, impossible to ignore.

You wanted to say something, anything, really, but your voice caught in your throat.

Felix’s eyes searched yours, fierce and pleading. “So what do we do now?” he asked, breath hitching.

You swallowed hard, knowing the answer was already burning in your chest. The silence stretched between you, thick, electric, impossible to break without shattering everything.

Then, without thinking, you stepped closer, closing the last bit of space between you. Your voice came out low, raw, “We stop pretending.”

Felix’s eyes darkened, a slow, almost predatory smile curling his lips. “Good. Because I’ve been done pretending for weeks.”

His hand found your waist, fingers curling tight as if to anchor himself to reality. Your breath hitched at the contact, the familiar, heated weight of him against your skin.

“Today,” he murmured, voice rough, “we don’t just dance. We burn this whole damn place down.”

You grinned, biting your lip. “Then let’s make them remember who we are. Let's fucking win this thing"

"Oh yeah, we will. But first, I want to win you"

And with that, everything inside you ignited, every hesitation, every fear, every doubt melting away in the heat of what was finally... real.

"You already did"

His eyes flicked down to your lips, and yours did the same.

And that was all it took.

He surged forward, crashing his mouth against yours with a hunger like you've never kissed before. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It was desperate. Starved. Like he needed this to breathe.

You gasped against his lips, and he used that moment to deepen the kiss, tongue sliding against yours as his hands gripped your waist tighter, pulling you flush against him. Every nerve in your body lit up at once. Your fingers found his hair, threading through the strands and tugging, just enough to make him groan into your mouth, low, guttural, like it had been buried too long.

His hands slid down to your thighs, gripping just above your knees before lifting you with ease. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively, your back hitting the wall of the dressing room. The sudden contact stole a gasp from your lips, but he swallowed the sound greedily.

“Fuck, this taste like trouble,” he murmured into your neck, voice thick with heat.

You arched into him, head falling back. “Then why are you still here?”

He pulled back, eyes blazing. “Because I’m addicted to it. To you.”

Your fingers trembled as they slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, finding hot skin, tracing the lines of muscle that twitched under your touch. Your hips moved against his on instinct, and he groaned, head falling to your shoulder, breath shaky. You wanted more. You needed more.

Your hips continued rolling, and the sound he made, low, guttural, breath catching in his throat, was enough to send a wave of heat straight through you. He dropped his head to your shoulder, panting, trying to hold back. Failing.

“Felix—”

His lips brushed the shell of your ear, voice almost lazy with lust. “Hm?”

“I can't wait. I fucking need you. Please.” The words tumbled out like a confession, raw and helpless.

He froze. Then laughed, quiet and dark, the sound vibrating against your skin. “I told you. I fucking told you you were going to beg.”

“Oh, shut up.” You bit back, but your voice was breathy, already breaking.

“Yeah? That again? Shut up and what?” he taunted, smirking against your neck.

You looked him straight in the eye, defiant and undone all at once. “Yeah, that again. Shut up and fuck me. Right here, right now.”

That snapped the last thread of his restraint.

“Say less, sweetheart.”

His mouth was on yours again, rougher, deeper, like he wanted to consume you. One hand braced against the wall, the other found your thigh and hitched it higher around his waist, grinding you against the hard outline of him through his pants.

You moaned into the kiss, and he swallowed it whole, his hand moving up under your top, fingers splaying across your ribs, then your chest. He broke the kiss just long enough to pull your shirt over your head and drop it to the floor.

He worked fast, unbuckling his belt with one hand while the other kept you pinned. You helped, fingers fumbling with your own waistband until he growled, “Let me—fuck, let me take care of you.”

You didn’t resist.

Your leggings were down and gone before you could blink, and he pressed his forehead to yours, holding your gaze as he aligned himself against you. “Last chance to stop me.”

You reached between your bodies, wrapped your hand around him, and guided him to where you needed him most. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

“Turn around, then”.

You stared at him for half a second, chest rising and falling like you couldn’t get enough air, and maybe you couldn’t. Not with the way he looked at you, like you were already undone beneath his hands. Like he owned the moment. Owned you.

Your hands reached behind to steady yourself against the wall. You turned slowly, pulse pounding in your ears, spine tingling as you gave yourself over to him, utterly, completely.

Your back met his chest, and he pressed in close, one hand skimming the curve of your waist, then lower, settling with a firm grip on your hip. His other hand ghosted up your arm, along your ribs, until his fingers brushed the underside of your tit, and you shivered.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “That's it, sweetheart.”

A breath hitched in your throat. You felt him line himself up behind you, the head of his cock teasing between your legs, thick and hot, and when you arched back just slightly, inviting him, challenging him, he answered.

With one hard, perfect thrust, he was inside you.

You cried out, biting it back against your wrist as your fingers gripped the edge of the bench. He groaned behind you, voice raw in your ear. “Fuck—this. This is what I needed.”

And then—

Knock knock.

Someone rapped on the door.

Once. Twice. Sharp. Demanding.

You froze, lips parted, breath caught. Felix didn’t.

He slid his hand up to your mouth, covering it gently, as he stayed buried inside you. His voice was low, just for you. “Don’t say a word. Let them wait.”

Then he started to move. Slow. Deep. Purposeful.

Like the door didn’t exist. Like the world outside it had already burned.

He set a rhythm that made your knees buckle, slow at first, almost cruel in its precision. Each thrust was slow, deep, dragging him against every sensitive spot inside you like he was mapping you from memory. Your teeth sank into your wrist to keep quiet, but it didn’t help much. Your breath came in sharp, choked bursts, legs trembling with each press of his hips.

Felix leaned in again, mouth pressed to your ear. “You feel that? How tight you are around me? Fuck, sweetheart… I could live here.”

You whimpered, and he groaned like it was a reward.

His hand slid down your front, between your thighs, fingers slipping through where you were already dripping for him. “You want this?”

You nodded, desperate, breathless. “Yes—yes, please, I need—”

His fingers circled your clit and your hips bucked back into him hard.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Use me. Let them fucking hear how good I make you feel.”

He picked up the pace then, hips snapping forward, fucking into you with reckless heat, his name slipping past your lips. His grip on your waist tightened, grounding you, holding you right where he wanted you. You could feel him everywhere. Inside you. Around you. Burning through your skin. Your head fell back onto his shoulder, and he took the chance to kiss your throat, wet, open-mouthed kisses that made your whole body shiver.

“You close?” he asked, voice ragged, hips stuttering.

“I—I—fuck, yes, I’m gonna—”

“Come on, sweetheart. Come for me.”

He rubbed tighter, faster, and that was all it took.

You shattered.

Body locking up, your climax hitting hard and fast as you clenched around him with a cry you couldn’t quite swallow. He held you through it, kept moving even as you trembled and shook, his breath harsh in your ear. And then he was right behind you, thrusts turning erratic, rough, desperate.

“Fuck, fuck—you’re so fucking perfect—”

He buried himself deep, once, twice more, and then he groaned low in your ear as he came, heat pulsing inside you, hips twitching against yours. He stayed there, pressed tight to your back, both of you breathless and wrecked.

The room went silent again. Just the sound of your panting. Of his heart pounding against your spine. He kissed your shoulder, soft this time, reverent. “Told you I’d win.”

You laughed, wrecked, hoarse, completely undone. “I think we both did.”

You pulled your clothes back on in silence, hands trembling, lips still swollen, skin flushed in all the places he had touched. Felix was watching you like he hadn’t come back down yet, like he’d burn this whole building to the ground if it meant keeping you pressed against him for one more minute.

But the knock came again. Louder this time. Urgent.

“Let’s fucking go!” someone shouted from the hallway.

He ran a hand through his hair, chest still heaving as he reached for his shirt. “You good?”

You looked up, met his eyes, and something passed between you. Not words. Not yet. Just truth.

A nod. “Yeah. You?”

His grin was crooked. “Never better.”

The stage lights felt hotter than usual. Or maybe that was just your body still trying to recover from what had just happened, what still lingered in every inch of you. The adrenaline didn’t know whether it came from the performance or the way Felix’s hand brushed yours just before the music started.

You didn’t look at him. You didn’t have to.

The music hit, and your bodies moved like muscle memory. But this time, every step felt alive. The tension that had coiled around you both for weeks was gone. In its place, something unshakable. Unbreakable. Something holy.

You danced like there was no one else watching. Like there were no judges, no lights, no rules, just heat, and fire, and the unspoken promise that everything had changed. And god, they felt it. The crowd. The judges. Your teammates. They didn’t know what had happened behind that door, but they felt it in the way Felix gripped your waist in that one lift, how you leaned into him like his body was the only place you were meant to be.

And when the final beat came, your feet landing in perfect sync, the audience was already on their feet, clapping, cheering, losing their minds. You turned toward him, heart racing, chest still rising and falling from the high of it all, and he was already looking at you.

Like he had been waiting for this exact second. And then he kissed you. Hard. Certain. In front of everyone. It wasn’t shy or sweet or cautious. It was real. The crowd lost it. You heard gasps, cheers, someone scream-laughing “FINALLY!”

But you barely noticed. Because when Felix pulled back, foreheads touching, both of you were grinning like idiots.

And suddenly winning the Nationals’ didn't matter.

Because now? You've won each other.

taglist @anjian03 <3 (comment or dm me to be added)

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ipistachio · 22 days ago

Text

❤️‍🩹 made me melt like butter

Little Rivalry - Lee Know

summary: after the birth of your third child, your firstborn begins to struggle with sharing his mommy

pairing: dad!lee know x mom!reader

genre: fluff, humor, domestic

word count: 2609 words

a/n: you guys, I missed my fictional son mingi soo much—had to bring back a little lee family chaos ♡

Dad!SKZ Masterlist

The Kids: Eldest Son (Mingi - 5 years old), Middle Daughter (Minjung - 2 years old), Youngest Son (Minhyuk - newborn)

~°~

Minho slips an arm under your shoulders, steadying you as you swing your legs over the side of the hospital bed. Your legs feel like jelly, but his strength is steady and warm.

“Easy there, jagiya,” he murmurs, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face.

He gently eases you into the wheelchair and straightens your robe around your knees while tucking a small pillow behind your back.

“Ready to go home?” he whispers, voice soft with relief.

You close your eyes for a moment, breathing in the faint scent of his cologne mixed with antiseptic. “Yes,” you reply, voice thick. “I— I miss my other two babies so much.”

Minho chuckled and leaned forward to kiss your forehead, then your nose, then finally your lips softly. “They’ve missed you too. But don’t worry. They’ve been terrorizing Han, Jeongin and Changbin all day.”

You burst out laughing despite the dull ache in your body. “Of course they did.”

He pressed one last kiss to your temple. “Let’s go home.”

*********************

The drive home was quiet and peaceful. You and Minho kept stealing glances at the rearview mirror where your newborn, Minhyuk, lay snug in his car-seat, oblivious to the world he’d just entered. Your hand rested over Minho’s on the gearshift the whole ride home with an unspoken promise between you two— we’ve got this.

When you reached home, there was immediate, unmistakable chaos.

The moment the door opened, a blur of movement shot past Minho.

"TO THE DINOSAUR PLANET!" Changbin shouted with Minjung hanging from his back like a koala. The two of them disappeared down the hallway, trailed by screams of laughter.

Mingi’s voice echoed through the hall, “UNCLE INNIE SAID I COULD HAVE SEVEN COOKIES.”

Jeongin’s voice followed immediately, “I SAID NO SUCH THING—MINGI, GIVE ME THAT—”

“TOO LATE!” He was running.

Minho looked over his shoulder at you, Minhyuk bundled in his arms. “Well,” he muttered, “at least they’re all still alive.”

“Welcome home!” Han beamed as he stepped into view, he was wearing a pink feather boa and had a suspicious amount of glitter on his cheek. "I lost control around hour two. But hey we did amazing and nobody lost a limb."

Minho laughed while cradling Minhyuk protectively. “That’s my bar for success too.”

Jeongin practically bolted to the door. “Congratulations! Goodbye!” he yelled in one breath and disappeared, sprinting to his car.

Changbin emerged from the hallway next, panting and slightly sweaty but grinning like a proud uncle. He reached for a careful side-hug, mindful of your post-delivery soreness. “You did amazing. How are you feeling?”

“Like I could sleep for a week,” you laughed, brushing your fingers through your hair.

Changbin cooed at the newborn baby, while patting Minho’s shoulder.

You looked at them both, heart warm and aching in the best way. “Thank you. Really. I don’t even have the words.”

“You don’t have to,” Changbin said, gently patting your shoulder. “Just name your next baby after me.”

Minho blinked. “That’s not happening.”

Han snorted. “I’ll settle for a gift basket.”

“Mommy! Mommy!” Minjung yelled, charging toward you. She hugged your legs tight, eyes wide, “Candy? You bring me candy?"

You smiled, ruffling her hair. "No candy, but I brought you something better."

Minho knelt slightly, adjusting his hold on the baby and showing him to Minjung, “This is your little brother, sweetheart. He already loves you so much.”

Minjung gasped. "Daddy he is so small!"

Mingi reappeared, standing quietly a few feet away with his arms crossed. He stared at the baby like he was analyzing an alien species. You smiled at him gently. "Come meet your baby brother, Mingi. His name is Minhyuk."

He blinked. "He’s small."

"All babies are. You were, too," you chuckled. Mingi just shrugged and went to the living room.

After you were gently settled on the couch—Minho carefully adjusting the throw pillow behind your back like a certified sleep-deprived dad nurse—the soft daylight spilled through the living room windows. There were a few quick FaceTime calls with the other members. Everyone made plans to visit over the weekend, then eventually the babysitters said their goodbyes.

“Call us if you need anything!” Han said cheerily.

Changbin, already wrangling his sneakers on, added, “Like if you want us to take the older two for the weekend. Or the year. Just say the word.”

You laughed, and as the door finally shut, a soft, sleepy silence settled over the house. You looked around the living room.

Minho crouched in front of the bassinet, his hand on tiny Minhyuk’s chest, just watching him breathe. Minjung was playing with her dolls and Mingi sat a little away from the rest, quieter than usual.

You looked around at your little family of five. Your heart was full.

Minho leaned against the back of the couch, taking it all in with you. “We’re outnumbered now,” he muttered.

You smiled up at him, exhausted, glowing. “And I wouldn’t change a thing.”

*********************

The house was quiet deceptively so.

The fairy lights in your bedroom cast a gentle afternoon golden glow as you sat on the bed, gently shifting Minhyuk in your arms. He’d just started stirring, his tiny fists bunching up and that familiar hungry whimper escaping his lips. Your robe slipped slightly as you adjusted to begin feeding him, holding him close to your chest.

“Shh, baby, mommy’s here,” you whispered softly, stroking his little cheek as he latched on. The moment was peaceful. Minho crawls into bed beside you.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You smile, reaching for his hand. “I am. We’re acing Day One.”

He turns to face you, that classic smirk on his face, “Only 18 more years to go.”

“Jesus.”

“But you know…” He squeezes your hand, kisses your knuckles. “I wouldn’t want to do this madness with anyone but you.”

You smiled at him and before you could reply you heard tiny footsteps approaching your bedroom.

Mingi entered your room and padded up to you, squinting. “Is Minhyuk drinking again?”

You nodded, smiling. “He’s hungry, baby.”

“Nooo, Mommy, put it back!” Mingi whined. “Minhyuk is stealing you!”

“He’s not stealing me,” you chuckled.

“Mommy! He already got your boob!! That’s MY boob!”

Minho choked. “Well, technically—”

“LEE MINHO, DON’T YOU FINISH THAT SENTENCE,” you snapped, throwing him a look

Minho snorted, looking away like he was trying not to burst out laughing. Meanwhile, Mingi huffed and left the room dramatically.

“Minho, I’ll throw a diaper at you!” You threatened your husband.

*********************

Later that evening, you sat in the dim nursery, bathed in soft lamplight, rocking slowly as Minhyuk nursed. His little hand gripped the collar of your robe as his tiny body curled into yours. You rested your head back, eyes fluttering shut as a wave of peace washed over you.

Minho entered quietly, barefoot and warm from the shower, and sat cross-legged at your feet. He watched you with his usual quiet awe, his fingers lazily tracing patterns on your shin. "Still feels unreal," he said softly. "Three of them."

You smiled without opening your eyes. "You remember when it was just us and Mingi? When we used to sit here, staring at him for hours like he was made of magic?"

"Because he was," Minho murmured. "Still is. They all are."

A soft hush fell over the room. After a moment, Minho’s voice broke the silence.

“Dinner is ready. Let’s go eat?”

You set Minhyuk gently in his bassinet and followed Minho to the dinner table. The warm light from the kitchen wrapped around you like a cozy blanket.

Minho crouched down to adjust Minjung in her high chair, making sure her feet dangled comfortably and the tray was just right.

“There we go, all set,” he said softly, giving her a little smile as she giggled, swinging her feet.

You called out softly, “Mingi! Dinner’s ready!”

A few moments later, Mingi appeared at the doorway. His usual bright smile was tempered by something quieter tonight. He stepped forward and wrapped you in a brief, tight hug.

“Hi, Mommy,” he whispered.

You smiled, squeezing him back, “Come eat. Daddy made your favourite pasta.”

As you all settled around the table, the comforting sounds of cutlery and soft conversation filled the room. Suddenly, a sharp cry pierced the calm indicating Minhyuk was awake.

You stood quickly and went to the nursery, cradling the newborn close to your chest as you soothed him back to calm. Returning to the table with Minhyuk in your arms, you caught Mingi’s gaze. His eyes flickered with something like jealousy, and he fell quiet, pushing his food around his plate without a word.

“Mingi,” Minho said gently, tousling his hair, “You want ketchup like usual?”

He shrugged. “It’s okay.”

Minho’s eyes met yours. For the rest of dinner, he remained unusually quiet, his usual playful chatter noticeably absent. Your heart quietly ached as you watched your firstborn hold back his feelings.

*********************

After dinner, you moved to the nursery, already dimmed by the nightlight casting stars on the ceiling. Minhyuk was fussing, his tiny face scrunching up as you lifted him into your arms. You nursed him gently, humming a quiet lullaby that barely carried over the soft creak of the rocking chair. His lashes, impossibly delicate, dusted his cheeks as he finally drifted off again.

You placed him back into the bassinet slowly, one hand resting on his tummy for a moment to reassure yourself—yes, he was warm and safe and real.

You quickly went to Minjung’s room. She was already curled under her blanket, hugging her LeeBit plush, her lashes heavy with sleep. You bent down to kiss her forehead, brushing a stray curl away from her face. She mumbled something about dinosaurs and cookies, and you whispered, “Goodnight, baby,” before slipping out quietly.

Then you made your way to the kitchen where your husband stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, methodically scrubbing a plate as the soft clatter of water and ceramic filled the kitchen. His brows were furrowed, his movements slower than usual—like his mind was far away.

You crossed the kitchen silently and came up behind him, wrapping your arms slowly around his waist and resting your cheek against his back.

Minho was startled just a little before exhaling, his muscles relaxing under your touch.

He set the plate aside and leaned into your hold, one hand reaching down to cover yours, interlacing your fingers.

“Hey handsome,” you murmured, smiling softly.

He turned in your arms, water dripping from his hands as he gently cupped your cheeks. “Hey beautiful.”

“Minjung’s down,” you said quietly. “Minhyuk too. Milk coma took him out like a champ.”

Minho smiled at that, forehead resting against yours. “Bet he was out before you even finished burping him.”

You chuckled, letting a beat of silence hang in the air.

"Mingi was really quiet today," you whispered.

“Yeah,” he said with a sigh, reaching for the towel again. "He’s not himself. He barely touched his pasta, and you know that kid would fight an army for that stuff.”

You leaned your head against his chest, arms still looped around his waist as he dried his hands. The warmth of his body and the rhythmic beat of his heart grounded you.

“I think he’s feeling... left out,” he murmured.

You nodded against him. “He’s five now. That whole emotional awareness thing is kicking in. When Minjung was born, he was still too little to really process what was happening. He was just happy to have a baby to pat on the head and call a potato.”

Minho snorted. “He did try to share his gummy bears with her like, every day.”

You smiled. “Yeah. But now it’s different. He’s old enough to realize that Minhyuk takes up a lot of time and energy. And I think he’s trying to figure out where that leaves him.”

Minho nodded, looking thoughtful. “Yeah…I caught him looking at you while you were holding the baby. He didn’t say anything, but... you could tell he wanted to.”

You let out a soft sigh. “He’s never had to share me like this before. Like, really share. And now I’ve got this tiny koala latched to me half the day.”

Minho smiled gently. “A cute koala, though.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately. “Still a koala.”

He leaned in and bumped your forehead with his. “We’ll figure it out. He’s got a whole lot of love in that tiny body. Just needs a little help sorting through it.”

You nodded. “Maybe we should go talk to him. Give him some time with just us, even if it’s short.”

Minho nodded, pressing his lips together. “I hate that we can’t fix it with a cookie or a new toy this time.”

Minho wrapped an arm around your shoulders, holding you close.

“Let’s go find him then,” he said softly. “He needs a reminder that he’s still our whole world too.”

And with that, you turned toward the hallway. You find Mingi sitting by the big window in his room, knees to chest, holding his dinosaur plush. His little eyebrows are furrowed. You and Minho shared a look, bracing yourselves.

“Baby?” you say softly, sitting beside him. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

Mingi glances at you but says nothing. His lip wobbles.

You pull him into your lap, despite the soreness, and cradle him. “Talk to me.”

He sniffled. “You… you didn’t hug me as long today. You were in hospital for two days and you didn’t even talk to me. You were holding the baby all day, Mommy. He’s more special to you.”

Oh.

Your heart cracked. You pulled him gently into your arms, pressing your cheek to his messy hair.

“Oh, Mingi. Mommy is so sorry. I missed you every second I was away. The baby needs help with everything right now. Just like you did when you were little. But he’s not more special. You’re all special.”

He sniffled. "You love the baby now?"

You swallowed. "Oh, baby. I love him and you and your sister so much. Just because there’s a new baby doesn’t mean I have less love. It’s like… my heart grew bigger, so now I have even more to give.”

“You’re my first baby, you know that? You made me a mom. There’s a special part in my heart that’s only yours.” He clung to you, finally letting the tears fall.

“I love you mommy!”

“I love you too, my sweetheart. Never forget that, okay?” you whispered softly, brushing his hair with gentle fingers.

A few tears welled up in his eyes, but he nodded. You kissed the top of his head, just as Minho came in, sitting behind you both, wrapping an arm around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder.

"Hey, big guy," Minho whispered. "Minhyuk’s gonna look up to you, you know. He’s gonna want to be just like you. That’s a pretty big job."

Mingi sniffled, glancing up at his dad with wide eyes, trying to imagine himself as the big brother for the tiny new baby.

Minho kissed his hair. You all sat there by the window for a long time. You, with your eldest son in your lap, your husband at your back. For a moment, your heart swelled with bittersweet nostalgia—when it had been just the three of you. When Mingi had been the tiny burrito you brought home.

Now, your hands were full, your eyes a little heavier, but your heart... your heart had grown with each baby, each chaotic day, each loud, love-filled night.

Minho pulled the two of you tighter against him.

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

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