#Power of Attentive Teaching

[personalgrowthoasis]

The Single Most Important Quality to Look for in a Teacher

Never underestimate the power of undivided attention. Whether you're a teacher, student, or in any other role, being fully present can change everything. Share your stories of transformative teaching moments with us! 🍎🎓💡

Hello, Personal Growth Oasis family! Today, I’d like to share my thoughts on a topic that I hold dear to my heart: education. Specifically, I’d like to discuss the question: “What makes a good teacher for you?” From my earliest years in school to the entrepreneurial seminars I attend today, I’ve had the fortune of being guided by many mentors and teachers. Each of them has left an indelible…

[reality-detective]

Mathematics 🤔

[o4o41]

Teenage mutant ninja turtles 2003

Imagine if we scored in both ways. A secure girl and a strong woman(mom) in a T-shirt

[downtherabbitholewithlucy]

POV: He's the hot new substitute teacher

[dawning-day]

what if i said kevin day was one thousand million percent a piano kid growing up. what then

[cagcd]

Skills  &.   powers.

don't reblog or steal or i will live in your walls <3

Johnny's interest in martial arts hadn't been intended,   despite his fascination with the likes of Bruce Lee and other famous action stars while growing up,   it never occurred to him that he would ever go down the same path as them,   and reach so far beyond than the life of any Hollywood star would ever hope for.   He began with a simple course of Karate as a means of self defense,   his mother came to the decision after many instances of bullying that went unaddressed and unpunished in his school,   he needed to learn to toughen up and stand up for himself,   [  a task that should be appointed to a father that was constantly out of the picture.  ]   It was fun to the young boy he was at first,   but as he progressed from one belt to another,   his interest had grown exceptionally,   he practiced non stop and got recognised for his hard work,   eventually earning him a spot in various local tournaments then world championships,   which he had won four in his lifetime.   His achievements gained him audience with the best masters around the world and he was eager to be taught by them,   he advanced in other forms of Karate like Shorin Ryu,  Shinto Ryu,   [  that he later developed better from Darrius' teachings,   who he had gotten to meet during his training in Orderrealm later on.  ]   He mastered Jeet Kune Do and Muay Thai as well.

  It was all skill and physical abilities that had unknowingly qualified him to be a part of the mortal kombat tournaments,   which he at first agreed upon as a publicity stunt to save his failing career at the time.   It was at the end of the first tournament that something within him had sparked into a life,   a power beyond his imagination or knowledge to ever be in possession of.   Raiden himself didn't seem to be aware of it but after some research it's revealed to the star that he was a descendant from a mediterranean cult that bred warriors for combat.   That green glow is similar in essence to the likes of Shang Tsung,   Quan chi,   Nightwolf and even Shao khan,   which is presumably cultivated by souls.   The method with which this cult used to create a generation of warriors by using the souls of their fallen as enhancement for combat.   It was dormant during Johnny's life,   awakened at the defeat of Shao,   as his last remains were fading,   he had unknowingly absorbed a large amount of souls the Kahn had in possession from all the worlds he had conquered.

  It was a gradual shift from then on,   something was off but he could never put his finger on It,   only for it to emerge during the encounter with Shinnok,   the green glow that encased his body and acted like a shield,   fading as quickly as it had appeared.   He couldn't summon it by will again,   but rather it showed by itself,   more frequently the more he fought,   constantly feeding into that power until the near catastrophic end result as sudden bursts of energy from a huge quantity of souls his body was now struggling to contain.   He sought Raiden and Nightwolf's advice in order to control it,   or at least understand it,   [  for he was worried he might hurt those around him unintentionally  ],   the only solution they could come to was to send him to Orderrealm,   where he went through long and extensive training by both Hotaru and Darrius,  the conclusion was learning how to channel those powers through controlled blasts of energy,   as seen through what became his signature move afterwards the shadow kick.   He also learned to direct them through his kicks and punches,   conjuring energy blasts,   then later and with enough experience,   encasing his body with it to be used as shield upon command,   or his fists and kicks as an enhancement of strength during combat.

  Moreover,   due to this connection with souls,   his attentive nature is heightened as he can sense the others feelings to a relative degree by picking up on negative energy and thus better understand those around him.   It might be said he mastered his inner powers with age,   he's certainly more in control and attuned to its full capacity,   he can channel energy with ease and fluidity as though its second nature to him or an extension to his strength.   But he isn't exactly in full control at all times,   as explained,   he simply learned how to channel it   &.   keep those bursts of energy in check.   However,   when he's driven to an edge and is at the end of his limits,   his powers shift from green to crimson red,   which happens only when he uses his powers to its full extent,   but lack of concentration in that state can he destructive and it's highly draining to him that his body shuts down completely afterwards,   it's a last trump card he uses only at dire circumstances.

  Johnny possesses those powers in the new timeline as well,   had never been aware of them but just like the previous timeline it's a gradual process,   already triggered without his knowledge during the fight against Quan chi to stop the well of souls from creating Ermac.   Some of the souls that escaped when the stone was broken had gone through to Johnny who had been knocked unconscious at the time.   Some semblance of his powers show through speed for the most part,   when he dashes forward to evade an attack or when he puts enough force into a punch or kick,   the shadow left behind is quick for the eye to see but there's a faint green glow within it.   It's a slight shift he had noticed but took it as nothing more than a result of more extensive practice.   But its only bound to grow and emerge in full with time,   well after the first tournament and constant combat that he finds out and seeks Liu kang's aid this time around.

[spotaus]

The Judgement Hall

A semi-awaited drabble about Doppletale's Sans and Asgore! (Specifically about Sans becoming the Royal Judge!)

Word Count: 2,663

Tw: Death, Cannibalism(kinda? eating humans)

No revisions, I die with my typos 🫡

(aaaaand @oodlesndoodles and @mylackofgrammaristerrifying because it's not Oc lore but it's Dopple-stuff lol!)

(It's under the Cut for viewing convenience ♡)

   The day was different.

    Not like any others.

   It'd been a week since Gaster's death. A week since Sans had had the hard talk with Alphys about quitting his work at the lab. It'd been a week since he'd moved as far away as possible, all the way to Snowdin to the vacant house at the edge of town.

   Now he found himself in the Capital.

   He'd gotten a letter asking him to come visit. King Asgore wanted to see him. To have some tea and chat.

   Part of him worried the King was going to convince him back to the Lab. The CORE was structurally sound, but Gaster's research went unfinished and now was left entirely to Alphys. He knew one scientist couldn't handle it alone, but he couldn't bare to be in that place anymore.

   Maybe Asgore would reprimand him for moving so far off. Away from the Capital where the King said his door was always open. Sans knew, but it hurt to think of taking up residence in the castle while other monsters were starving.

   He worried on these thoughts as he walked down the streets. The buildings here stood tall and crooked, white stone buildings having been shoddily constructed when Monsters finally arrived here. The Capital held most monsters, but the numbers were dwindling.

   Even now as his boots clicked against the white stone street, very few monsters were out and about. He thought he spotted Madjick entering a shop, two whimsum further down the street sat with eachother on the front steps of a building. It was barren compared to the lively and exciting streets he'd used to shy away from in the past.

   It was a ghost town.

   The castle that always loomed tall over the white stone city was closer now. He could see a few of the remaining Royal Guard stationed outside at the top of the steps. The doors were wide open. They were never closed, just as Asgore always promised.

   Sans hardly acknowledged the Royal Guard when he passed by them. He doubted they'd even recognize him if he did say hello. The skeleton-look was new. Without his lab coat, his glasses were the only defining feature of his that was truly left.

   It didn't matter. He clearly wasn't human, so they let him pass uncontested.

   The halls were just as he remembered, if not a bit more dusty. White brick that was painstakingly chisled and pieced together. A far cry from the messy work outside. The walls, the floor, all flawless. The floors had long purple carpets running along them, and the walls were covered in tapestries, each one painstakingly woven before their imprisonment, and a few more that were made after.

   One, at the very end of the hall, sat unfinished. Sans wondered if the one who'd been weaving it was taking a water break, or if they were long gone. He didn't bother to look for dust.

   And soon enough? There stood the hall he knew well.

   He entered, and he thought about just how much had happened here. The white pillars spanning up and far above his head into a ridiculously tall ceiling. It was completely consumed by shadow, but he could see the twinkling of crystals they'd had moved from Waterfall. He'd been the third to see it finished after all the construction. They still glimmers brilliantly like stars.

   The windows were all stained glass, seemingly untouched by the years. Blue and purple glass, all of it picturing different monsters of glory from their past. Each one portraying them as they heroes they were. Sans knew no more would be added, but he humored hinself to think that a few monsters he knew deserved a glass pane of their own.

   He remembered the coronation. The day the monsters big and small, disguised and not, gathered here in this hall as King Asgore and Queen Toriel introduced their children as their royal heirs. Asriel and Chara. They'd appeared in their disguises at the time, and they'd been the most precious little creatures. The underground had partied for a week straight.

   No one regretted wasting those precious meals, it was worthy of celebration, but the memories were bittersweet now that both heirs were dead.

   Sans sighed gently, dragging himself away from memory lane. The door at the end of the hall was still shut tight, but he knew it wasn't locked. It never was.

   So, he pressed his palms against the heavy wood, the wood that had been stripped white with water damage, and pushed.

   The hinges didn't squeak. The rush of hair that flew past was nice. Asgore's throne room had always doubled as his and Toriel's garden. A safe-space for them, so close to the barrier that sunlight could leak through the windows and allow sunlight to reach the plants. The burst of wind once smelled like a forest, earthy with a tinge of dew. Now it smelled of sickly sweet perfume. The plots that once held different types of plants only held buttercup flowers, the golden yellow blooms constantly swaying in an unseen breeze.

   He missed that old smell, but he knew, at least, that the scent of Buttercups would always alert him to the King's presence. He hardly ever left this room anymore, as far as he'd heard.

   At the thought, his eyes skimmed past the flowers and to the throne.

   Empty.

   He tried again. To the left, closer to him.

   There.

   Asgore was stood with his back to the door, leaned slightly over a small table that made Sans' soul squeeze with nostalgia. He hadn't seen that table since before Gaster's condition turned for the worst. Asgore had started bringing Tea to the lab instead of meeting here.

   The king himself was just as Sans remembered. He was a perfect replica of a human. He was tall for a human, maybe 6'4" with his boots on. His shoulders were broad, and while he was a walking wall of muscle, his flesh was soft and jiggled when he laughed. His blonde hair was a bit messy, long enough to barely fall over his shoulders, and his beard was fuzzy and rough.

   The king stood upright, and shifted a bit. His head turned, and from the few meters away that they stood, Sans could see his confusion turn quickly into a soft smile as the King recognized him.

   "Sans, my old friend." His voice was deep and held authority, but his tone was perfect. Gentle lilts at the end of his commands that made them feel more like suggestion. "Come, sit."

   Asgore gestured to the table, one arm escaping the confines of his heavy blue cloak. In the shadow, Sans could see the familiar galaxy mist that swirled purple. The truth behind the king's facade. Though as he started moving wordlessly, he couldn't help but notice how Asgore's hands were calloused and wrinkled with age, scars along his fingers that told the story of a kindly, aging king. One whose people were unjustly locked away.

   Sans let the king leave his vision as he rounded to the opposite side of the table. A familiar tea pot sat in the center, two cups sat ready to be used, one where Sans sat, one where Asgore was moving to sit himself.

   The king gazed at him, and Sans stared back. It was only a second to two, but it was enough for Sans to really take it in. Asgore's tanned skin had just the right wrinkles draped around his face. His eyes were soft and a bit sad. Disarming. The folds of his skin were largely laugh-lines, things you'd expect to see from a kindly older man whose spent most of his life laughing.

   Hid eyes were a deep brown, almost black. His pupils were perfectly round. A few stray strands of his blonde hair fell infront of his face, his crown displacing the strands with its weight.

   "It's been some time since we last spoke outside of our duties," Asgore supplied warmly to the silence, "How are you faring, old friend?" He knew the answer to that. Sans knew he did.

   He answered anyways.

    "I've been better." He supplied, "Losing G has been hard." It was obviously what Asgore wanted to bring up. He'd just get it out of the way.

   Asgore nodded sadly. Knowingly. His movement was perfectly natural.

   "I see that you've taken on a new shape. How long have you held your old one?" Asgore questioned gently. Curiously.

   Sans thought for a moment. "Must've been 200 years or so." Being underground had gotten rid of the need to constantly make new disguises. He'd been content with his latest one.

   Asgore took that with a grain of salt. Pretender kept an unconscious notice of how often Asgore blinked as the silence dragged on.

   "Sans, I heard that you left the Lab. Alphys says you have no intention of returning, either." Asgore cut to the chase. His brows furrowed. He wasn't mad. The wrinkles on his forehead were still too undefined to imply he was mad.

   Sans agreed. He really did have no plans of going back. He couldn't stand another second in there after what his team had done.

   "Very well." Asgore said, then. "I will respect your wishes. Though, I do not want to let your kindness and talent go to waste. Your grief should not consume you." Many monsters had fallen down after the loss of loved ones. Asgore had seen some of the worst here in the Capital. One monster dusted, and entire families fell into despair and couldn't recover.

   He thought the same would happen to Sans.

   The skeleton said nothing, but Asgore didn't hear a refusal yet. He pressed on. "Old friend, our people are dwindling. Many of them have never hunted, those who knew how are losing themselves." He informed. The grim truth was just that: Even if they could escape, how would they survive? "I know you've always dedicated yourself to the survival of our people. I want to ask a favor of you once more." Asgore's voice was growing soft.

   Sans couldn't help but be a tinge worried.

   He'd met Asgore for the first time when the underground was first their prison. Sans had a surplus of supplies, as he was well-liked by his local humans and they'd escorted him to the entrance to the mountain without taking his things. Asgore and Toriel had been hard-pressed to provide for their people, and had asked Sans for assistance. He'd given all he had. It was for the greater good.

   After that, he'd been the royals go-to for problems they just couldn't solve. Sans wasn't often called upon, but when he was he was efficient and smart with his solutions. That was how he'd met Gaster and joined the team working on the CORE.

   Now Asgore wanted more?

   "I have an offer for you, Sans."

   The skeleton let one of his sockets fall closed as he tiredly tilted his head. "You stopped blinking." He said casually.

   The grin grew on his face as Asgore jolted a bit and raised a hand towards his face. He rapidly blinked, seemingly startled that the skeleton had replied with such an absurd statement.

   Then he laughed.

   It was a hearty and playful laugh, one that held no malice or grudges. One that shook the tea cups on the table. Asgore was smiling wide. Pleased.

   "You had me worried." Asgore chimed when he finished his laugh.

   Sans shrugged slightly, "Have ta keep you on your toes, old man. How else are we gonna escape?" He teased right back, voice calm and drawling. "Now, what's this offer?"

   Asgore, a lot less tense than before, smiled at Sans. His eyes squinted so much that Sans could hardly see his eyes past his eyelashes.

   "That keen skill of observation. I'd like to offer you the position of my Royal Judge." He announced pleasantly. "Someone to keep myself, and the Royal Guard, in top shape. To help settle disputes. To tell us if a human has entered the underground and guide the Guard in how to properly hunt it." The ball was dropped. Asgore had outlined a job that Sans knew had been vacant for a long time now.

   Gerson, he remembered. A turtle-monster who rarely looked human. He'd been through the ringer, but had an extremely strong moral code. He'd been the one to suggest that the Dreemurs keep Chara alive. He'd starved pretty early on, passing his lessons onto his apprentice...

   "Isn't Undyne training the guard?" He voiced without thinking on it. Undyne was Gerson's pride and joy, abd Asgore had taken over training her when Gerson passed. Besides Asgore, she was the most human-like monster he knew.

   Asgore's shoulders raised a bit as he tilted his head slightly. "She... is a skilled warrior, and is sure to train her men in combat, but she lacks the knowledge of what a human is meant to look like if it does not look like myself or her. The disguises beneath their armor are very... messy." He admitted wearily.

   That would explain why the guard outside had their armor on. Monsters who'd not eaten or seen humans alive had a much harder time understanding how they worked. Had a harder time imitating them.

   "Your disguise is like your very own skin, Sans. You know well what makes humans trust you. What's normal and what is not. Our people need that." He explained.

   It was true.

   Sans was friendly. He spent most of his life on the surface learning what drove humans. What their system of customs and morals were. Not because he cared, but because it made things easier for him. No one was suspicious when he had just the right amount of flaws, or threw an awkward laugh into the mix of his words. People never asked about his staring problem when he learned to seem hurt by it and explained his vision problems.

   Every muscle twitch and hand motion meant something for humans, and he'd studied all of it for hundreds of years.

   He'd also taken the time to hand-pick what humans he killed. That was something monsters couldn't afford to do anymore. He'd seen it time and time again, but did his best to work through it. He was lucky those he'd encountered in the past gave him bad vibes. He'd felt justified killing them.

   He wondered how hard it would be to teach his fellow monsters human morals. He wondered if Asgore or Undyne would respect a judgement if he found it unreasonable to kill someone. Maybe they'd ignore him. Would he have any authority?

   But then again. Humans weren't worth dying over. They'd trapped them down here. The humans were starving his people. He could teach the Guard how to survive this. He could kill again. Humans were food, and as much as he could delude himself into thinking otherwise, even the ones he liked were glorified animals. Things to let live because they behaved. Underground was different, and he couldn't afford that luxury.

   "I'll do it."

   His voice was still calm and confident. It didn't betray his racing mind. The idea that maybe if he'd given up these fake morals a bit sooner then he could've gotten more meat for the Lab crew. Maybe this would make up for it.

   Asgore smiled at him, and Sans smiled back easily.

   Sans was given his uniform, a heavy set of robes and sashes and belts. A hood could be pulled up to cover his face, and he realized it brought him a bit of comfort.

   Every week he'd visit Asgore and the Guard. Every week he had tea. Every week he'd have a training session that could last 3 hours just to help the guard hone their disguises.

   Every other day, he stayed at his home in Snowdin and patrolled. Every other day he walked the sane exact route.

   Every day was the same.

[the-most-humble-blog]

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🧠 FREE WRITING LESSON — THE MOST POWERFUL CHARACTER DEPTH TRICK YOU’LL EVER READ.

Let’s say your character sucks.

She’s flat. Predictable. “Strong” in all the wrong ways. Let’s call her Nicolle. Or Carol. Or whatever name Hollywood gave her.

She’s a superhero. She’s got powers. She’s got sarcasm. She takes no shit. She leads the squad. She’s admired by everyone — and loved by no one.

You’ve seen this character before. Now watch what happens when you give her one secret she doesn’t brag about.

Nicolle has two sons.

She’s raising them alone — to become men like her late father: A man who sacrificed everything to raise her after her mother disappeared, broke, or gave up.

The world sees Nicolle as the apex of visual empowerment. But the world doesn’t see:

The arguments with her boys’ father — about what being a real dad means.

The prayers whispered in the dark over a fevered forehead.

The way she ghosted the only man she maybe wanted, not because she’s flaky — but because she doesn’t know if wanting love makes her a bad mother.

The nights she tucks her boys in, then collapses into her bed, staring at the ceiling, heart full of ache, because she gave the world her strength but kept no one to hold hers.

They don’t see the days her sons cry after watching her get slammed through buildings on TV.

Held by the throat. Left for dead. Motionless for seconds too long. Until she rises — because she has to.

They don’t see the breakdowns. They don’t see her flinch.

They assume she doesn’t feel fear. But the truth?

She feels it every single time.

She’s not fearless. She’s never been. But fear is a luxury she doesn’t have.

That’s a luxury for men. She is a god. And she will make any threat scream that truth — as she crushes it beneath her bleeding hands.

Because when demons invade, tyrants rise, and monsters descend, She suits up.

Not for hashtags. Not for feminism. Not for attention.

She suits up because the idea of her sons growing up in a world she could’ve fought for and didn’t — is more terrifying than death itself.

And she will not let the universe teach her boys that their mother ever cowered.

🔺 THE TRIFECTA THAT MAKES ANY SUPERHERO NEXT-LEVEL:

Intimacy. Contradiction. Duty.

Intimacy gives them a soul — something they protect more than their own body.

Contradiction gives them depth — because perfection is forgettable, but conflict creates memory.

Duty gives them immortality — because we remember those who bled for more than applause.

Give a character that trifecta — and suddenly:

She’s not annoying. She’s haunting. She’s not fanfiction. She’s canon. She’s not shallow. She’s legend.

✍️ That’s how you fix a weak character. You don’t soften her. You give her something to fight that fists can’t touch.

And suddenly?

She’s not a girlboss. She’s the last myth your enemies ever tell themselves before they die.

</div>

[headspace-hotel]

All who are interested in the cause of plant diversity, pollinators, and the restoration of ecosystems, please pay attention to the simplest articulation of my advice:

You must seek those who know the ways of the plants and who share the plant agenda

Look for organizations, events and places where these people might be found, and wait for them to appear. Some are from the academic world, many others came to know the plants another way

If someone's email address is publicly available, you can use it to contact them. But the most powerful contacts will be those unreachable by online means

When you find someone, they will tell you the names of other people, so you can seek those people as well. When contacting new connections, tell them who sent you

If you learn to explore your surroundings, recognize the plants, gather their seeds and grow plants yourself, you will be a valued connection

Write down your contacts in a little book and make yourself slightly annoying by offering your service in some way

The plants will teach you the rest...start learning from the weeds, which are easy to know and easy to grow

[obsessivevoidkitten]

Practical Demonstration

Kinktober Day 3: Exhibitionism Yandere Male Alpha Professor x Gender Neutral Omega Teacher Assistant CW: Noncon, public sex, exhibitionism, abuse of authority, knotting, musk, scent kink, biting, claiming bites, pheromones, overstimulation, a/b/o dynamics, slick, suppressants, manipulation, praise kink, general yandere behavior Word Count: 1.6k (Okay guys, hope you enjoy this given how long you have waited for it! PLEASE comment, comments feed me <3)

You were the teacher's assistant for the renowned and well-regarded Professor Reid Sullivan. He had degrees involving anatomy and physiology as well as the psychology of alphas and omegas, and the college he taught at was prestigious.

Professor Sullivan was a bit of a prodigy, already being a highly respected academic despite only being in his early-thirties. His unkempt shaggy hair, dark circles around his eyes, and slight stubble made him appear older. His classes were popular, though he refused to teach large crowds. They reduced his efficacy. At most, he would teach 24 students at a time. This class, though, was limited to 20.

This meant students were always clamoring to sign up before all the slots were filled. Not only were people eager to watch him teach because he was so accomplished and good at educating but also because he was considered rather attractive by many students.

It didn't help that he was also an alpha, and despite his tired nerdy demeanor, he was actually quite fit.

But the main reason his classes were so popular was that he often incorporated live demonstrations into his lessons. In the past, he had omegas demonstrate heat and alphas show off knots while he pointed to and described the anatomy and the purpose for it. He even had an alpha and omega pair demonstrate mating on more than one occasion.

Working under him wasn't bad at all. You were an omega, so you were naturally pretty nervous at first. Working with an alpha superior could sometimes be rather hard. Even in this progressive age, there was still a degree of discrimination and power abuse.

Professor Sullivan was exceedingly kind to you. He even got you coffee and something to eat every morning, even though that would typically be a task more suited to you. He also let you sit in his large cushy chair and was quick to let you use his jacket as you rarely used one, and his classroom tended to be cold.

He was very patient and understanding, guiding you through lessons and helping you learn how to handle a class.

Then, on the day of the final lecture, his true colors were revealed.

He locked the door and then stood in front of it. He put on the display screen a presentation about seducing and breeding an omega.

"Omegas are instinctively attracted to mates that provide them with food. It doesn't have to be major, but a daily coffee and small bit of food will make them naturally more receptive to you..."

The lecture went into greater detail on the subject, also explaining how he microdosed the coffee to make suppressants less effective, but you weren't paying much attention. You were too busy staring at the screen that had pictures of you happily sipping coffee or nibbling on muffins or bagels. It was all so surreal.

"For a shy omega, you can't simply bombard them with your scent. It could scare them away or turn them off completely from your continued advances. Instead, get them acclimated to it..."

The screen now showed how he slightly scented his chair and jacket and gradually scented it more juxtaposed with images of you grading papers while wearing the jacket and sitting in his chair.

You were mortified. Professor Sullivan was a monster! You tried to push past him and get to the door. It almost worked as he was taken aback by your determination to escape, but the extra few seconds that you spent fiddling with the lock were all he needed to wrap his arms around you from behind.

"If your omega acts fearful before mating then the steps we took earlier will help us now."

“G-get off!”

You thrashed and squirmed, but he licked, sucked, and nibbled at your neck until the overstimulation clouded your mind and made your resistance much more feeble. After that, he turned you towards him and, after disrobing completely, pushed your head under his arm so that you got a full dose of his pheromones.

The students gave the professor their undivided attention. One or two omega students envied your place as they stared with wide-eyed fascination at Professor Sullivan's now throbbing cock. The rest were a bit uneasy because you clearly hadn't been willing. They weren't actually too shocked, though, this type of thing wasn't exactly uncommon.

"See how limp the omega is? That's because I canceled any bothersome suppressants, made them accepting of my scent, and subconsciously had them see me as a provider."

The professor had a student roll over his chair to the center of the class before locking the wheels in place. He sat you down tenderly after taking off all your clothing and setting it aside.

"Gather around class, feel free to masturbate as long as you pay attention. This is especially important for you alphas."

Some of the students rubbed their crotches. The alphas encouraged the omegas since it would be helpful later to get them all hot and bothered. After the class formed a circle around the two of you, he continued.

"Now, before an alpha inserts themself into their omega, they must make sure the omega is properly slicked up. Some was produced earlier, but we will want more."

He demonstrated the proper neck stimulation techniques as well as how to slowly stretch out and prepare an omega by inserting gradually more fingers. Then he showed them how to massage an omega’s entrance with their cocks before penetration.

Before he even slipped his cock into you, you were already drooling with a dazed expression.

"Okay class, I said today would be an interactive lesson. The 10 alpha students were each delegated an omega and as part of their final grade, they were tasked with doing everything to their omega classmate that I have done to the TA. Omega students will be granted a participation grade."

The alpha half of the class began pulling the omegas close, stuffing the omegas' faces into their musky crotches or underarms.

The omegas were all bewildered. One gladly accepted their fate, a few were shocked into inaction, and most struggled. Only one managed to escape and get out the door but was chased down and brought back.

These were all students with dreams and goals, most didn't want to be an alpha's property and cumdump. At least not before they did things with their lives.

"I made sure all of your desks were sturdy enough for this, you can prop your omegas up on them if you'd like, putting your clothes on the desk and laying your omega on that will make them more comfortable, like a miniature nest with your scent."

The alphas were all stoked and barely able to hold back.

"If you have your omega in a state like our wonderful TA here is demonstrating then you may slip your cock into them, go slowly though, at least at first."

Professor Sullivan was the first to sink in, causing you to moan softly, soon the entire room was filled with the gasps and moans of a room full of omegas mingling with the grunting and heavy breathing of their alpha lovers.

The air was heavy with pheromones, musk, and the scent of slick.

Your mind wasn't really able to process what was happening around you, though. Your nose was focused on the scent of the one mating you as you instinctively wrapped your arms and legs around him.

"Oh, don't forget to praise your omegas, they may not understand your words right now, but the tone will soothe them."

He kissed you possessively.

"You're such a good mate for me. A perfect partner. So good at helping me teach this lesson. Taking my cock so well~"

He cooed into your ear lovingly as the alpha students praised and complimented their mates. Occasionally, an omega shuddered and squealed in orgasm with their alphas not too far behind.

Sullivan sped the pace up for you, and you didn't last much longer after that. You spasmed wonderfully around his dick as you came hard. Not the only time, though, as he coaxed several more climaxes from your trembling body before he finally came himself and tied you with his big knot.

"Once you've knotted your lover you should bite their neck to mark them as yours. This is essential to making your omega feel safe and loved and will make you secure in the knowledge that everyone knows who they belong to."

The professor bit your neck hard, causing you to moan more even as you flinched in pain.

"You look so beautiful with my mark."

After all the mating had finished and all the knots had deflated, the omegas were all still pretty out of it. Mating and being claimed took a lot out of them and it would probably be an hour or two before they recovered.

"Don't forget your homework! Aftercare is ESSENTIAL!!! Take your omegas to your dorms and make sure they are hydrated, well fed, and praised. If they get cranky at today's events, they probably just need another round or two of breeding."

Which, as it turns out, is exactly what he determined you needed when you wouldn't listen to reason at his home later. He tried to explain that it was all to enhance his teaching. He had been looking for the right omega to fall in love with and help with his lessons for YEARS!

And he finally found you. A TA aspiring to work in his field! You had always wanted a career in academics, and now you had one as his permanent assistant and live demonstration participant!

[tarotwithavi]

Mars and the type of men you might be attracted to

Mars in your chart shows the type of energy you're drawn to when it comes to passion, desire, and attraction especially toward masculine traits (regardless of gender).

This is a general interpretation, so it might or might not resonate.

Mars in Aries/1st house

You're attracted to bold, take-charge types. Confident, competitive, and a bit impulsive. The "I see it, I want it, I get it" kind of guy. Alpha energy? Yes please.

Mars in Taurus/2nd house

Slow burn attraction. You like someone grounded, dependable, sensual. A man who’s stable, loyal, and maybe a little possessive in a hot way. Bonus if he smells amazing.

Mars in Gemini/3rd house

Sapiosexual vibes. You're into witty, talkative, mentally stimulating men. Give you banter, debates, and late-night convos over someone with just good looks any day.

Mars in Cancer/4th house

You're drawn to emotionally intelligent, nurturing men. Protective and soft-hearted, but with a quiet strength. He might cook for you and remember all the little things.

Mars in Leo/5th house

You want someone who shines. Proud, bold, and a little dramatic. You're into men who are confident, expressive, and aren’t afraid to show you off or make big gestures. sassy men.

Mars in Virgo/6th house

The quiet fixer. You’re attracted to men who are helpful, attentive, detail-oriented — maybe even a little anxious. He shows love by doing, not just saying. You might have a thing for men in suits or formals.

Mars in Libra/7th house

You're drawn to charming, classy men. Someone who’s balanced, graceful, and knows how to flirt. A lover, not a fighter but with strong opinions under that pretty smile.

Mars in Scorpio/8th house

Intensity is your love language. You’re into deep, mysterious, magnetic men. You want someone who makes eye contact and suddenly you’re spiraling into obsession.

Mars in Sagittarius/9th house

You love a wild soul. The type who’s adventurous, funny, spontaneous, and never afraid to speak their mind. Big 3AM road trip energy. Give you the thrill. Something who can teach you and help you learn new things.

Mars in Capricorn/10th house

You're into powerful, responsible men. The strong, silent type. Driven, ambitious, and lowkey intimidating. Daddy energy. You want a man with a plan. You like men who have their life together.

Mars in Aquarius/11th house

You’re attracted to the unconventional ones. Detached but intriguing. You like someone who’s intellectually stimulating, unique, and doesn’t follow the crowd. You might love some rebellion.

Mars in Pisces/12th house

Hopeless romantic alert. You like dreamers, artists, soft souls. Men who feel deeply, love spiritually, and may be a little mysterious or poetic.

I'm up for criticism, just be nice about it.

[rampantrhino]

☝Exactly this 💞

No words necessary 🤔

[bishovapls]

Our Little One - You Make Such Pretty Sounds When You're Sorry.

Relationships: Natasha Romanoff & Wanda Maximoff & Reader

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

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

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

Word Count: 12,527

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

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

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

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

Professor Romanoff.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But not today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, finally, your phone lit up:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Y/N: May I ask what I did? 🥺

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

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

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

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

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

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

-----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

While unplanned originally, there is now a part 2!

[cinnamorollcrybaby]

Can’t live without your love inside me now

Tags: sextherapist!Nanami x fem!reader, nocurse!au, taboo romance, heavy topics such as sexual assault, dead dove due to the power imbalance and heavy conversation, is this considered angst? idk

Synopsis: In which Kento Nanami is a sex therapist, and his client is a young neglected wife with an emotionally absent husband. He teaches you what love is really all about.

An: Just another warning that this fic deals with heavy themes. It’s honestly been so therapeutic for me to write due to my own history. If it’s not for you, I have plenty of other Nanami fics that are more lighthearted. For the anons in my requests asking for more Nanami, this is for you.

Part one. | Part two.

“With those things in mind, I’m interested in what has brought you into my office today.”

“I’m not sure… Sex just doesn’t appeal to me much anymore.”

Being a sex therapist, Kento Nanami has heard it all. He’s seen this same presenting problem again and again. He’s counseled young and older men with erectile dysfunction. He’s counseled persons of the LGBTQ+ community come to terms with their sexuality and how that relates to sex. He’s counseled so many people who come from purity culture and struggle with sex. He’s counseled couples who can’t seem to get it right in the bedroom. He’s counseled sexual assault survivors.

Kento Nanami prides himself on upholding the ethics of counseling. He keeps the code of ethics proudly sat upon his shelf. His goal as a therapist was to give everyone a safe space to divulge their most vulnerable inner thoughts to him.

Sex was too often treated as a taboo, offensive subject, which is why Nanami got into sex therapy in the first place. He wanted to change the stigma around it. Sex was a basic need for the majority of individuals, and many times, people have poor experiences with sex since it’s not normalized and hardly talked about.

“Okay, so is it fair to say you don’t often feel like you’re in the mood for sex?” he asked as he looked towards his client. A pretty young lady sat across from him on his couch. His “office” was in his home, finding that people often didn’t want to talk about sex in what they considered to be a “public” space like a therapist’s office.

“Yeah, I mean… I just...” your voice trailed off. You already felt like this might be a mistake. Your arms crossed over your chest as it felt like you were naked in front of your incredibly handsome counselor.

His office was nice, serene almost. He had different seating options and all kinds of fidget items around his office. He also had a plethora of books on a shelf behind his desk.

It seems he enjoys spending his time reading up about the art of sex. You can’t help but feel your face warm from thinking about him reading those sorts of things in his free time.

The walls were painted a nice soft blue grey color, and the office smelled like fresh linen from the aroma diffuser in the corner of the room. Several different houseplants were also scattered about. They all looked healthy, assuring you that Nanami paid attention to detail. He was responsible and consistent.

“Take your time,” Nanami assured you as he sat back in his chair. “The first visit is always the hardest. Don’t feel pressured to get down to the bottom of why you’re lacking a sexual drive. These things take time and trial and error.”

That was… almost reassuring. You took a deep breath as your fingers absentmindedly twirled a strand of hair behind your ear. The familiar ministration worked to calm your mind.

“I’m young, and I’m recently married. I have no kids. I feel like I should be… I don’t know— at my sexual prime or something.”

“What gave you that idea?” Nanami probed as he continued observing your small nervous habits. He found his lips trying to curl into a smile, but he kept his face meticulously trained as a look of interest.

“Well, girls talk, you know? My girlfriends talk about their lack of a sex life stemming from other obligations or from a lack of a connection…” you explained as you briefly looked up at Nanami. Each time his hazel eyes met yours, you had to look away immediately.

When you found his information online, you didn’t think he’d be this handsome. You just saw all of his credentials, and you had heard good things about him on different websites centered around “rating” therapists.

Of course, you had done some digging on him. There was no way in hell you were going to go to some strange man’s house to talk about sex. That sounded ridiculous.

“Do you compare yourself to these so called ‘girlfriends’ often?” Nanami asked calmly. His voice was even and smooth, allowing you feel even more safe to open up.

“I mean, no. They’re just all I have in terms of what’s normal for sex.”

“Okay, so let me make sure I understand this right. You lack a sexual drive. You feel guilty that you lack sexual drive because you believe you don’t have a good enough reason to not want sex on a regular basis, and you think that you’re not normal. Does that cover it?”

You winced a bit as it was all laid out on the table for you. Your eyes squeezed shut, trying to hide from how pathetic you sounded. You sheepishly nod in response.

“Y/n, open your eyes for me,” his voice spoke gently, coaxing you to slowly flutter your eyes open to look into his. Once he had your gaze, he went on, “These are all normal feelings to have. I can blab on and on to you about how our society is blatantly misogynistic when it comes to sex, but I’ll spare you the details since I’m sure you’re painfully aware. We’re going to figure this out together, alright?”

You took a deep breath, letting his words wash over you as a security blanket. It was nice to have someone to just talk about these things freely to. You felt a glimmer of hope shine through.

“Okay,” you said with a small nod, feeling more confident now.

“So, you mentioned earlier that you're recently married. Tell me a little bit about that."

You try not to have a physical reaction when Nanami brings up your husband. It was a topic that felt too raw.. too close to home. You’re supposed to be a dutiful wife, right? So, why would you feel that way when talking about your husband?

“Oh, uh… well,” you stammer, looking away from Nanami as you suddenly came up blank on your own marriage. “We got married about a year ago. Some say we’re still in the honeymoon phase, but…”

Nanami perks up a little in his chair. Some therapists take notes or record their sessions. Nanami doesn’t believe in it. He thinks it takes away from the moment. He’d much rather be present with his client rather than jotting down notes.

“But..?” he urges you to go on.

“But… I guess it just doesn’t feel that way.”

“What is your idea of the honeymoon phase? What does that look like to you?” Nanami asks, clasping his hands together in his lap as he relaxes into his chair.

You take a moment to process his question. What does the honeymoon phase look like?

“For me, it looks like the movies where couples do things for each other without being asked. They’re attuned to each other’s emotions, and they make a conscious effort to be sensitive to their partner’s feelings.” Your eyes meet Nanami’s once again, and you let out a deep breath. No one told you that counseling would be this mentally strenuous.

“Okay, what about in your current life? Do you feel like that’s how it is now?”

You nearly laugh from the question. You mentioned that sort of love being in movies because you’ve never seen it in real life. You’re nearly convinced that it doesn’t happen in real life, and anyone who claims to have that type of love must be lying.

“No, I feel like we’re both focused on our own lives… We just happen to also be in a marriage together.”

“That doesn’t seem like an active partnership,” Nanami responds as he searches your face thoughtfully. He can feel his heart ache for you. This is by far his least favorite presenting problem to work with because he can’t just tell you that you need to leave your husband. All he can do is inspire you to seek the changes you need. “What are you focused on in your own life right now, y/n?”

You feel the tension set in your shoulders and neck as soon as you hear that question. Just thinking about what all you have to do is enough to stress you out. “For starters, I work full-time. It’s a standard corporate job from eight to five, but it can be a lot.”

“That’s not easy, y/n. Just because that is what’s considered to be standard, doesn’t mean it’s easy. I’m sure that’s a lot on your plate.” His voice was low and calm. His presence felt so warm in the room; you feel like you’re finally able to open up a little.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. I also take care of the house and our pets.”

“The housework… is that all your responsibility?” Nanami asks as his eyebrows knit together slightly. He feels like he’s already scratching the surface of why you don’t have any sex drive.

“Yeah. If I want him to do anything, I have to delegate the work to him. My husband always says to just tell him whenever I want something done, and I should be grateful that he’s willing to help—“

Nanami couldn’t help himself. He doesn’t like to interrupt clients often, but the more you talk about tour husband, the more he’s having to hold himself back. “That’s the bare minimum.”

You’re slightly taken aback, and you look away from Nanami. A part of you knows that he’s right, but… you didn’t want to bad mouth your husband. A large boulder of guilt settled into your stomach.

“Tell me what you’re feeling right now,” Nanami’s voice returns to that gentle tone. “That probably wasn’t appropriate for me to say. I apologize.” He knows he shouldn’t have said that, and he knows he has to appropriately handle this if he wants you to feel comfortable enough to open up again.

“I guess I just… It feels wrong talking negative about my husband to another man. It just feels different when I’m ranting with my girl friends.” You straighten your posture and take a deep breath. It feels good getting that out in the open.

Nanami slowly nods his head. He can see why you view that act as troublesome. “So, you’re feeling tense because of our opposing sexes? Tell me. Does your husband know where you are right now?”

“Well, yeah… He was honestly the one who told me I needed help since I don’t feel any sort of sex drive.”

Nanami’s teeth subtly clench together, but he keeps a stoic expression as best as he can. The thought of your husband claiming that there’s something wrong with you absolutely repulses Nanami.

“How does that make you feel?”

Your fingers twitch a bit as you look down to the ground. You should be honest with Nanami if you really want the help that you came here for.

“I guess it makes me feel like I’m not good enough for him. Every time we have sex I try to cater to him, but it just feels like it’s never enough. If he had it his way, we’d probably have sex everyday, but I just don’t have that kind of time, energy, or desire.”

Nanami feels his chest tighten while he listens to you. This is why he hated working with this presenting problem. This man is ruining your confidence and self-esteem, and your low sex drive is either completely natural or it’s because of him.

If Nanami could show you what it was like to be truly loved, he would. Then, you’d probably open your eyes and see that your husband is the one who isn’t good enough for you.

He shakes those thoughts out of his head. He knows he’s bound to a code of ethics. He can’t pursue you romantically or sexually. It’d be morally wrong.

“That’s heavy.” He nods, allowing silence for reflection. He then speaks up again after a pregnant pause, “Let’s break down what you said sentence by sentence, okay? First, you have said that you feel guilty and not good enough in terms of sex.”

You slowly nod, still avoiding eye contact with Nanami. Why didn’t anyone tell you that this would be so emotionally exhausting.

“Do you put a lot of pressure on yourself to perform?”

That question alone opened up the floodgates. Tears bit into your eyes, and you covered your face with your hands. “All the time,” your voice cracked, betraying how deep this affected you.

“Oh dear,” Nanami says softly. He grabs a box of tissues, and he hands them to you. “Sex is meant to feel natural and progressive. It’s understandable that you don’t feel any drive if you’re constantly pressuring yourself.”

You nod as you take the tissues, dabbing your eyes gently.

“I just,” you let out a deep shaky breath, trying to calm your nervous system. “It’s easier to just do it and get it over with rather than to hear him ask multiple times.”

Nanami clenches his jaw. His hand gently finds your shoulder, and he makes you look up at him. “Listen to me. If you take nothing else away from this entire session, take this. Asking multiple times even though the answer was clearly a no is coercion. Whenever he asks multiple times, he’s hoping that you get tired of telling him no and just give in.”

Your eyes meet Nanami’s, and your eyebrows furrow a little. Coercion? No.. no, that can’t be right. He’s your husband. He’s just asking to make sure you hadn’t changed your mind. He wouldn’t coerce you into anything you didn’t want to do…

You slightly pull away from Nanami. “I don’t think that’s right… He wouldn’t do something like that. He’s not abusive.”

Nanami leans back. He chides himself internally for going in too deep too quickly. He’s grateful that you’re giving him grace right now. You definitely could’ve just left the session after he blatantly told you that your husband was a conniving piece of shit.

He takes a deep breath. “I apologize. I must have it wrong,” he says as he regains his posture. He knows he needs to make you understand. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Oh—? Uh, no.. no I’m okay, thanks.”

“Are you sure? It’s good tea.” Nanami leans in slightly, not breaking eye contact with you.

“Yeah, I’m sure… I don’t really think I can stomach it..” you respond, confused as to why he was suddenly wanting to make you tea.

“Tea is good for digestion. It might help your stomach. You really don’t want any? I can make it quickly with an electric kettle I bought the other day.”

You slouch back a little, a frown covering your lips. “I mean.. I guess tea would be okay.”

Nanami then gives you a knowing look, and the realization hits you. “Did you actually want the tea, or were you just going to accept the tea because I kept pestering you?”

Goddammit. This therapist is good.

Taglist: @theuniversesnepobaby @airandyeah

[illyrianbitch]

Are We Still Friends? — Part Four

Pairing: Reader x Azriel

Summary: You navigate the aftermath of your confrontation. Azriel takes his first steps toward making things right.

Warnings: brief mentions of injury, bruises, and physical fighting. nyx being a cute baby. some fun introspection. reader is tired and overwhelmed. az is honest and open (hallelujah)

Word Count: 7k+

Part Three | Series Masterlist | Part Five

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Rhys was trying to be serious. 

He truly, truly was. 

From behind his polished desk, he looked every inch the High Lord—back straight, jaw tight, fingers drumming against the wood. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again, as though he couldn’t decide where to start.

You shifted in your seat, your body aching in strange places from the fight. The cut on your cheek throbbed and the bruising across your knuckles made every twitch of your fingers tender. But none of it compared to the strain in your cheeks—from holding back a laugh.

Feyre was perched on the arm of a chair beside you, Nyx cradled in her arms, his tiny fingers gripping the fabric of her flowy blouse. She wasn’t looking at you—refusing to, actually. Her gaze was locked firmly on her son, her lips pressed together in a trembling line, but you could see the corners twitching with suppressed amusement. You kept your gaze on her, waiting until the burn of your stare would render too hot for her to ignore. 

It didn’t take long.

Feyre’s resolve crumbled as soon as her eyes met yours. She let out a laugh—sharp and bright and loud in the too-quiet room.

Rhys’s head snapped up. “Feyre, please. Not you too.”

Not you too. Morrigan had found the situation just as amusing. 

Her laughter only grew, and Nyx joined in, making incomprehensible happy gurgles in response to his mother’s amusement. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, though she didn’t sound sorry at all. 

She passed Nyx to your open, offering arms, and crossed the room, wrapping her arms around Rhys’s neck. Her cheek brushed against his as she murmured—loud enough for you to hear, “You have to admit it’s funny.”

Rhys groaned, glancing at you. He opened his mouth, probably to protest, but you cut in, your voice laced with mock sternness as you bit back a smile. “Yeah, Rhys. You have to.”

“I don’t have to do anything,” he replied, fixing you with a look. “It is not funny.”

You gasped dramatically, adjusting Nyx in your lap and covering his tiny,pointed ears. “Don’t teach your son it’s okay to lie.”

Another groan. A hand dragged down his face, but his lips twitched as though fighting a losing battle. Finally, with a resigned shake of his head, he muttered, “Alright. Fine. It’s funny. But—

His words faltered. 

“I am sorry,” you offered, filling the silence. You raised your free hand solemnly. “I lost my cool. That’s my bad. But in my defense, she really had it coming.”

Rhys casted a look at Feyre, who was leaning against the desk now, a smile still tugging at her lips. He shook his head again, sighing. “Maybe so,” he conceded, “But I can’t have our court’s emissary beating one of our citizens in broad daylight. It’s not a great look.”

“It wasn’t broad daylight,” you corrected, your attention shifting to Nyx as you untangled your hair from his iron grip, grimacing as the motion pulled at your scalp. “The sun was setting by the time we were done.”

Feyre let out another laugh, the sound powerful enough to pull a snort from her. 

“And,” you added, “It was, at most, semi-private.”

“Unbelievable,” Rhys muttered, though there was no real heat in it.

Nyx babbled again, his chubby hand reaching for your hair once more. 

“Okay, alright,” you said, straightening in your chair. The ache in your body flared as you moved, but you ignored it, your focus on Rhys. “You’re right, Rhys. I have a title and an image to uphold. I should’ve acted better. Tell me how to fix it, and I will.”

Rhys’s gaze lingered on you, as if the longer he stared at you, the easier words would come. Then he leaned back in his chair, his attention flicking to Feyre. They were in each other’s minds, you realized, talking in that way only they could. You could pick up the signs now, even subtle—a faint twitch of her lips, the softening in his gaze, even the rhythm of their blinks syncing up. 

Finally, Rhys looked back at you, then down at Nyx, who was still babbling in your lap. When his gaze returned to yours, there was a thread of warmth beneath his voice. “You’re the most, objectively, rational of us all. If you say there was reasoning, then I believe you.”

You gave him a grateful smile.

“We just have to prepare for some damage control,” Feyre said. “It’s not exactly comforting for our citizens to see three of their highest-ranking officials fighting in the streets.”

“Three?” You frowned. “What—”

You were cut off as the door creaked open. All three of you turned as Mor stepped in, a large grin on her red painted lips. She was holding something small in her hand, and when she held it up, the light caught on the all-too-familiar jewelry.

“Don’t forget. She also found these,” Mor sang as she entered fully. She tossed two bracelets into the air, catching both effortlessly before holding them up again for emphasis. “So, I think that’s enough for a pardon.”

Rhys stood, crossing the room in a few long strides as Feyre followed. He took one of the bracelets from Mor, inspecting it carefully.

“What did you find?”

“What Y/n heard was right,” Mor said, rolling the other bracelet between her fingers. “It’s a simple listening charm. Very basic.”

Rhysand hummed. “And how does it work exactly?”

“It’s an anchored spell.”

“What does that mean?” Feyre asked, frowning. “An anchor?” 

“It means the spell needs an anchor to function—a tether to keep it active and contained. Like a balloon tied to a string.” Rhys explained, his tone turning clinical. “It’s simple magic. The charm was designed to spy on whoever it was bound to.”

“And it was bound to who? Az?”

”Actually,” Mor said. She nodded towards you. “It was bound to Y/n.”

You weren’t paying full attention, not as you played a game of tug-of-war with Nyx and a strand of your hair. When the words finally hit you, you blinked, glancing between Mor and the bracelet in her hand. “What? On me?”

Mor nodded once more as Rhysand said, “Interesting.” 

”And this was in Azriels room?” Feyre asked, looking over at you. 

“One of them,” you confirmed. “The other Selene was wearing.”

Feyre’s gaze flicked to the cut across your cheek. “So she put it in Azriel’s room, but bound it to you?”

“No one tends to go into Az’s room.” Rhys frowned. “So she was only interested in conversations you were a part of.”

Of course. A bitter laugh bubbled up, but you clenched your jaw, forcing it down. You reminded yourself of what you’d seen earlier— the insecurity, rather than the malice you’d anticipated. Still, a certain annoyance lingered. Was her relationship with Azriel so fragile that she couldn’t talk to him? Were you so unapproachable that she couldn’t come to you? Instead, she planted a charm. To spy. 

”Can I see it?” You asked. 

Mor stepped forward, holding it out, and Nyx reached for it first, his tiny fingers desperately grasping at the shiny surface.

“This isn’t for you, buddy,” Mor cooed, crouching slightly. “This is Aunt Y/n’s special bracelet from her secret admirer.”

You shot her a flat look. “Secret admirer, my ass.”

Mor grinned, but her gaze flicked over you briefly, her teasing dimmed by something else—concern, maybe. Feyre stepped forward, lifting Nyx from your lap as you examined the bracelet.

“So what do we do with it now?” You glanced up at Mor.

“I can pay Helion a visit. Break the charm.” 

“Alright,” Rhys said, the word accompanied by a considering hum. “But first, let me talk to Selene and Runa—Runa was the other one, right?”

Hearing her name sent a wave of irritation coursing through you. Your grip on the bracelet tightened instinctively as you nodded, the cool metal digging into your palm. You held it out for Mor to take, watching as she then took the second one back from Rhys. He studied you for a moment, his gaze drifting to your clenched fists.

“You’re just too great,” He said with a small grin. It was very father-like in its presentation, like he was trying to cheer up a sad child. “It’s intimidating.”

You rolled your eyes, but his attempt worked— the easy cadence chipping away at the tension in your shoulders, managing to coax a reluctant smile to your lips. “So I’ve been told.”

Your attention shifted to Feyre as she rocked Nyx gently in her arms. His soft breaths had already settled into the rhythm of sleep, and something in you softened at the sight. Your smile deepened, this time warmer, more genuine. Feyre caught your gaze, then glanced at her mate.

“It’s his bedtime,” she murmured, her attention returning to you. “And maybe you could use some rest too.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but Mor cut you off, her hand already brushing against your arm. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” she said softly, though there was no room for argument in her tone.

“I’m fine,” you tried to insist, but she gave you a look, leading you out of Rhysand’s office. You gave both him and Feyre a quick goodbye. 

“Walk or winnow?” Mor asked once you were in the hall, tilting her head.

You thought it over for a brief moment. “Winnow,” you replied.

She nodded in agreement, the corners of her lips curving upwards. “Probably for the best,” she said, “Wouldn’t want you to find another citizen to fight on the way home.”

You moved to swat at her arm in mock indignation, but she was already gone, her laughter echoing faintly as she winnowed away. 

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Mor was humming a small tune as she led you to your bedroom. She had a few more items in her hand since the last time you saw her, only a few moments prior.

“Sit,” she instructed, nodding towards your bed. Without waiting for a response, she pulled your chair from the small desk, its legs scraping sharply against the floor. Usually, you might've winced at the sound, but tonight it barely registered. You were too tired, too lost in your own thoughts to be fully aware of your surroundings. 

You lowered yourself onto the edge of your bed, hands folded in your lap, watching as Mor set her haul on your bedside table: a first-aid healers kit and a small jar with a golden lid, the faint scent of herbs already wafting from it.

“Whats that?” you asked, motioning towards it as Mor sat down.

“I stopped by Majda’s earlier,” Mor replied, grabbing the jar and offering it to you. 

You gingerly took it, running your fingers along the small glass. A healing balm, you gathered from the label, crafted and spelled to sooth the tenderness of injuries.  “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Of course I did,” she replied, fixing you with a look. She held her hand out in a silent request, and you granted it, placing the jar back in her soft palm.  “I ran into Adrin while I was there, too.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm. I think he has a crush.” 

Your brows furrowed. “On you?”

“No,” Mor laughed. “On you.” She twisted the lid off, the scent growing stronger, fresher. “This was practically free when I mentioned your name. He says hello, by the way.”

You rolled your eyes at the tone of her voice, at the small quirk in her lip.  “How generous of him.”

Adrin was one of Madja’s recent apprentices, a male from the Dawn Court. Over the past year, you’d developed a sort of friendship with him—inevitable, given how often you stopped by Madja’s for elixirs, balms, or to request healing for one of your family members. Adrin was sweet in a way that stood out, especially for someone of his stature and wealth. Humble, easy to talk to. You’d always enjoyed your small conversations with him, none of which had ever felt particularly flirtatious. 

But Mor liked to do this—tease you about romantic prospects where there were none.

“He seemed very sad to hear you were hurt,” she teased, dipping her fingers into the balm. “Here. Give me your hands.”

Reluctantly, you stretched out your hands, knuckles bruised and raw. She took them, her touch gentle as she worked the balm into your skin. It stung at first, then cooled, easing the ache. 

“He’s cute,” Mor said lightly, noting your silence.  “You should consider it.”

“Mhm,” you replied, not really listening. “Maybe.”

Mor glanced up at you, her hands pausing briefly before she resumed. “What are you thinking about?”

You shrugged and stared down at your hands, tracing the patterns of Mor’s thumbs as she smoothed over the worst of the bruising. “I don’t know. The whole thing, I guess.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t just beat them both.”

A small laugh slipped from you, unexpected. You were quite proud of how diplomatic you’d managed to be given the circumstances— though, you were sure diplomatic wasn’t the word Runa would use.

“I think,” you began, “I just figured it wasn’t worth it. At least with Selene, it wasn’t personal. There’s nothing I could’ve said to her that’d be worse than what I imagine she already tells herself. Runa just… said the wrong thing at the wrong time.”

Mor nodded with an amused smile, tilting your chin up with a finger so she could dab the balm along your jaw. On a hit you hadn’t even noticed until it started throbbing an hour later.

“Still. A listening charm is kind of insane,” she said. Her tone was measured, but you caught the edge of anger beneath it. “Can you imagine what else she could’ve heard?”

Your chest tightened. You nodded. Although not to the extent you might usually have, you had thought about it—the implications of the bracelet, the act Selene had committed, the idea Runa had planted. It was almost laughable. Your court was condemned for its supposed cruelty, led by a High Lord as infamous as Rhysand, yet citizens still felt emboldened enough to pull stunts like this. In any other court, Selene and Runa would’ve faced very different—more permanent—consequences.

“I don’t want to think about it too much,” you replied after a moment. “I’ll just get angry, and I’m kind of over that. It’s exhausting.”

“You’re better than me,” Mor muttered.

“Not really. I’m just tired.” You said simply. “Selene did a bad thing. She’s lucky it didn’t cause a serious disaster. I don’t feel the need to play the Mother’s role. Rhys will deal with her.”

Mor sat back, a faint grin tugging at her lips. “And in the meantime, I get pretty jewelry.”

You raised a brow. 

“What?” Her grin widened. “Like we told Rhys, it’s only a basic listening spell. If I’m in possession of both charms, and I’m not talking to you, then no one’s hearing anything.”

“And if you lose one?”

She raised an eyebrow, slowly twisting the cap back onto the jar. “I won’t,” she replied simply. And you knew that was the end of the conversation. Mor guided your head to the side, leaning in to inspect the cut across your cheek.

“That bitch got you good, though,” Mor muttered. She touched it gently, and you grimaced. “All this from that bracelet?”

“It was chunky,” you replied dryly. “And I think Runa split it open much further.”

Mor scowled. “If I see her, she's as good as d—”

“Mor.”

She sighed dramatically. “At least tell me you got her good.”

You gave her a look and her grin widened. “Gods, I love you,” she said, shaking her head. “You might be the most terrifying one of us all when you’re angry.”

A smile tugged at your lips, the faint pull of it brushing against the ache in your cheek. The sound of a laugh started to rise in your chest when a low voice cut through the moment.

“I would agree.”

You jumped, and your head snapped toward the doorway— where Azriel now stood. 

Your chest tightened at the sight of him, the moment’s levity collapsing under his presence. Instinctively, your eyes ran over him, taking in every detail. He looked tense, wings drawn in tight to his back, his posture stiff. Shadows hung close to him, unnervingly still. Disheveled, too—his hair was a mess and faint bruises bloomed along his face. His hands were hidden by his shadows, but you’d bet they bore the same marks as yours. Three officials, Feyre had said. You now knew the second. 

He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to interrupt.”

Mor snickered beside you, drawing your attention just as her brows lifted in amusement. She turned away from him and faced you instead. “You hear that, Y/n? He’s sorry.”

You raised your own brows, gaze flicking back to him. “So those words do exist in your vocabulary.”

The bite didn’t feel as satisfying as it should have. It felt hollow, old. Azriel’s jaw tightened, his chest rising as he drew in a measured breath. After a moment, he stepped forward. His gaze lingered on you for another moment before he turned to Mor.

“May we have a moment alone?”

Mor’s eyes narrowed, the sharpness in her gaze dragging over him like a knife. She didn’t answer right away, looking back to you instead, searching your face for permission. Despite yourself, you gave her a small nod.

Her displeasure showed in the faint widening of her eyes, but she stood anyway, brushing her hand against yours in passing. Her touch was soft, careful not to press too hard against the bruises. “Love you,” she murmured. “Let me know if you need anything else tonight.”

You gave her a small smile, nodding again as she walked past Azriel. His shadows recoiled from her, drawing a dark outline along his arm. She casted one last glare over her shoulder.

“Idiot,” she muttered, loud enough for both of you to hear. Then she was gone.

The silence she left behind felt suffocating, a heavy thing that settled over the room. You avoided Azriel’s gaze, focusing instead on the healer’s kit sitting on the bedside table. You reached for it, but Azriel held up a hand to stop you.

“I can do it myself,” you said. 

“I know,” Az replied softly. “But let me. Please.”

You hesitated. He looked troubled, guilt heavy in his expression, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. The conversation had been inevitable, long overdue. Might as well get it over with while he tended to the cut on your cheek.

Besides, you were too exhausted to care. 

“Fine.”

Azriel gave you a small, unsure smile—grateful, almost. He disappeared to the bathroom, and when he returned, he sat with a wet rag in hand.

You tried to hold on to your anger, to avoid his eyes, but your resolve began to falter the moment his shadows began to twist around your arms. They moved languidly, curling up your wrists and brushing your fingers as you played with your hands in your lap. You focused on them instead of him— on their quiet presence, the personality in them that so few ever noticed. You’d missed the way they felt like him.

Azriel began unpacking the kit—clean cloths, antiseptic. The smell made your nose scrunch. You took in the bruising on his face—on his cheek, a split near his eyebrow, even on his lip. Strange, strategically unplaced.

“What happened to you?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

“Cassian happened.”

And there it was— the third official. You wanted to probe for more details, were even tempted to make a joke out of his current appearance, but your irritation held you back. You stayed silent as he cleaned the wound, as he dried it. When he soaked another cloth with antiseptic, he looked at you.

“I owe you a big, proper apology.” 

You didn’t look at him, even as his words pulled at you. “Yeah.”

He paused— like he was thinking, like he was ashamed— and took a deep breath before he said, “Many, actually.”

You didn’t respond. You just nodded, watching him from the corner of your eye. When the cloth touched your cheek, you winced. He grimaced, eyebrows furrowing in apology.

“Sorry,” he murmured. 

Another pause. 

“You were right,” he said, his focus staying on your cheek. “And I should have listened to you.”

This time, the pull of his voice was strong enough to draw your attention. As he leaned closer to begin cleaning the cut, you studied his face—the sharp line of his jaw, the crease in his brow as he worked with precision. 

“I’m always right,” you muttered, and the words had more mirth than you’d expected. You supposed that was natural with Azriel, an instinct of sorts. Even when you were unhappy with him. “You’re going to have to be specific.”

Something softened in his expression—just for a second. But you saw it. You could’ve sworn you saw the faintest hint of a smile tug at his lips, heard a soft breath of amusement. His molten eyes met yours briefly.

“You were right about Selene.”

Your chest tightened. You didn’t know why, but his gaze burned. You couldn’t hold it for long and looked back down at your hands, letting the shadows weave between your fingers. You wondered what information Az knew— wondered who told him. If it was Mor who had talked to Cassian, if it was Cassian who then, in turn, had given Azriel the whole story. Had they fought beforehand? What for?

“I broke up with her,” Azriel added. “When I heard about what happened.”

You looked up, but Az’s gaze was no longer on you. “You did?”

He nodded. You tracked the bob in his throat as he swallowed. 

“There’s no coming back from what she did.”

Azriel set the cloth aside, carefully wiping away the excess antiseptic. He seemed unnervingly calm for the situation—for the invasion of privacy from someone he’d been intimate with. You’d expected something more. Anger like you’d seen with Eris, confrontation like he’d shown Lucien. But, instead, he was gentle. Maybe it should’ve bothered you, that he seemed so unphased at your current state. It didn’t. If anything, you were grateful. You would’ve been too tired to deal with anything else. 

You studied him closely. This side of him—tender, unguarded—wasn’t a side he let many see.

Your thoughts wandered back to Selene. It made sense, in a pathetic, strange way, why she might have done what she did. If she’d seen this side of him, this kindness, this care... how could she not have wanted to protect it? How could she not have gone to extremes to keep it?

You thought about it for a moment. Came to the realization that the love Azriel offered was probably worthy of madness.

“Because she spied on you?” 

It was a stupid question. But the urge to ask had persisted, so you voiced it anyway. Azriel stilled, his hand pausing mid-motion. Slowly, he turned to look at you.

“No,” he said, his voice softer. “Because she hurt you.”

His words landed with a force that sent your thoughts spiraling.

“Although,” Azriel added quickly, “The spying was definitely a dealbreaker.”

He was making a joke, you realized. Or a small attempt at one. And somehow, it settled something restless in your chest.

“She didn’t mean to,” you heard yourself say before you could stop it. 

The moment the words left your mouth, you cursed yourself. What the hell were you doing? You had no obligation. No reason. It was counterproductive, if anything. Rhys was bringing her in. You had every right to trash her, right here, to Azriel himself. To tell him over and over that you told him so.

But you didn’t. Maybe it was because she’d mattered to him—enough for him to trust her despite the flaws that had undone her. Even if that truth made your chest ache, you wanted him to make his decision with all the facts.

Your care for Azriel wasn’t something led by your pride.

“Selene didn’t mean to hurt me,” you said again, more certain this time. “It was an accident.”

His eyes softened as he observed you. You swallowed and shrugged. “Runa was the one who actually did.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Azriel said. “You were in that situation because of Selene.”

A beat.

“Because of me.”

The air between you thickened. You tried to focus on anything else, anything but the way your chest tightened, the way your heart thudded faster than it should. But you couldn’t. Your eyes stayed locked with his.

You thought about the past week, how something had shifted between you. The distance that had grown, how long it had taken him to reach out.  Azriel was someone who didn’t apologize easily. You knew that. But it hurt in ways you didn’t expect because you’d always thought you were different. That your friendship, your bond, was worth the discomfort. 

You thought he’d make it right. That he wouldn't have let it fester for as long as he did, wouldn’t have felt comfortable leaving you simmering in your hurt. 

“Az?”

The name escaped your lips unguarded, and his face softened at the sound of it. His wings shifted too, just slightly, like tension bleeding out. You hadn’t said his name like that—without anger, without bitterness—for days.

“Yeah?”

“Why didn’t you actually apologize earlier?”

Azriel’s jaw tightened, and his gaze flicked down, as if the answer was there, somewhere in the floor. “I—I didn’t know how.”

You let out a breath—annoyance, defeat, something too messy to untangle. “It’s actually really easy,” you muttered. “You just open your mouth and say the words ‘I’m sorry for being a dick.’”

There was a soft shuffle as Azriel leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. He tilted his head, trying to meet your averted gaze.

“Y/n,” he said softly. “I’m sorry for being a dick.”

You let the words settle for a moment before sitting up straighter. Met his eyes once more. You raised a brow, unimpressed. “A bit late, don’t you think?”

Azriel didn’t move, his eyes meeting yours steadily. He was closer now—close enough that you could almost feel his presence like a tangible, heavy thing. His shadows stirred, curling around your fingers, then shifting toward his hand. They tangled between you both, like they were tying you together, threading through the space that separated you.

“It is,” Azriel said. He looked down the second his words hit the open air. It reminded you of repentance, like a sinner confessing to a priestess. His hands rubbed together before he clasped them into a fist, looking up again.

Even then, his thumbs kept moving, brushing over each other in a way that gave him away. He was nervous.

“I messed up,” he said. “I knew I did the minute I repeated what Selene told me. But I’d messed up so badly that I felt like an apology needed to be big enough to make up for it. I couldn’t think of anything.” He took a shallow breath. “I—I was embarrassed.”

You frowned.  For Azriel, who stood in front of you, unwavering in the face of so many enemies, embarrassment seemed almost foreign.

“Embarrassed?”

“Yes.” His voice was quiet as he admitted it.

“What could you possibly have to be embarrassed about?”

Azriel’s face shifted, his eyes looking almost vulnerable, wide open, like you could see everything. Even his shadows slowed to a faint crawl. They seemed to be waiting for something. You weren’t sure what.

“That you were right. I was changing. For her. And I did it on my own.”

“What?” You barely breathed out, confused. “Why?”

“I just…” He hesitated, his eyes lowering. “I thought it might be for the better. That maybe this relationship, maybe Selene, could mold me into something else, something more…” He trailed off.

“More what?”

“Something—someone, more easy to love.”

Your breath faltered, and for a second, everything froze— like the sheer sadness in his voice was enough to freeze time. And then you were flooded with emotions, each different from the one that came before. Confusion. Anger. Pity. Heartbreak. You felt a deep, hollow ache at the idea that he truly believed he needed to change to be loved. 

For the first time, you weren’t sure what the right thing to say was. If there was one at all. All you could do, in the most genuine tone you could muster, was say, “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Azriel’s gaze faltered, his expression shifting as though he wasn’t quite sure how to process your reaction. You glanced at his hands, pushing the rush of emotions back, then met his eyes again.

“You should never feel like you need to change. Not like that.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything, but his eyes softened, and you found yourself focusing on the crease between his brows. It made him look so tender. So young.

Finally, he spoke again. “I was having a bad day that night you came to talk to me. I didn’t realize how I’d hurt you. I thought I just pissed you off, that you were angry.”

“Well, you did piss me off,” you said, your anger bubbling up once more. His expression faltered slightly at that, but you continued, “I’m still angry. You were dismissive. You made me feel selfish, like I didn’t have the right to care about you.”

The words caught in your throat, threatening to stick, but you pushed them out. You’d spent centuries enduring criticism from males in Prythian politics—males who dismissed your input no matter how educated or experienced you were. You knew how to let their opinions roll off your back, not to let them settle. But you never thought Azriel would be the one to hurt you. Make you feel silly. Stupid. Small.

Azriel’s jaw tightened, and his eyes darted away as if he was trying to find the right words. “It was all so stupid. I can’t believe I entertained her ideas—that I let my desire to be needed make me accuse you of having ulterior motives when you were just being a good friend.”

A good friend.

That was exactly what you were trying to be—and yet, the word hurt you. It made you want to wince like you had when Azriel pressed that rag to your cut. You thought back, unwanted, to Selene’s words, and your chest tightened even more. 

Was it possible for the room to be losing air? Maybe that would explain the stupid decisions you’d been making. The thoughts you could feel in the back of your mind. A lack of oxygen to your brain.

“So why did you believe her?” you asked quietly. Your voice sounded more tired now. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted after a long pause. “It doesn’t change what I did. It was cruel. It belittled you. And I’m sorry.”

You stared at him, at the set of his shoulders, the faint downturn of his mouth. He was sincere—you could feel it in every word, in the way his eyes stayed fixed on you, like nothing else existed in the room. You didn’t think you’d ever had someone apologize like this before, so open and raw.

And yet, something inside you still simmered. The anger hadn’t disappeared. Not yet.

“Thank you,” you murmured, “For apologizing.”

Azriel didn’t move. He kept looking at you, really looking at you, and you felt pinned beneath the weight of his gaze. His eyes had more green than Cassian’s. It wasn’t something you usually noticed—how the colors shifted in the light, how clear and startling they seemed up close. Now, though, you couldn’t seem to stop noticing, like every detail of him was suddenly magnified.

You wanted to stay angry. You deserved to. He’d hurt you, and that kind of hurt didn’t just disappear because he finally decided to show up and say the right things. But then his gaze held yours a little too long, his voice a little too raw, and that tightrope you’d built for yourself began to fray.  A sharp sting of guilt came, and you couldn’t shake it—couldn’t shake the growing realization that maybe you didn’t want to be angry at him. Maybe it wasn’t even anger anymore.

You cleared your throat as Azriel shifted his attention back to the kit, his shadows curling and shifting behind him. He grabbed a few butterfly bandages, his voice quiet when he spoke.

“You’re better to me than I deserve,” he said, almost to himself. “I think I convinced myself that it was a matter of time until the ball dropped—until you realized I wasn’t worth this friendship. I thought I’d finally reached that point. I almost just laid down and accepted it.”

You frowned at his words. 

Azriel always carried that shadow of self-loathing like a second skin, like he couldn’t believe anyone could see him as more than his darkest thoughts. As much as you wanted to heal him, to assure him that none of it was true, you knew better. It hurt to know that, after everything, he still didn’t believe it. Because, the truth was, Azriel wasn’t hard to love. It wasn’t hard to support him, to be his friend. He had his moments, as anyone did, but he was always there. Which, you supposed, is why the way he treated you hurt in such a deep, unique way.

The thought that he’d believed, deep down, that your friendship—your loyalty—could be so easily withdrawn, made something inside you ache. Made you sad. Angry. 

“I take back what I said earlier,” you murmured. “That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Azriel’s lips twitched as he searched your face for any hint of a joke. His shadows perched on the apex of his wings, watching you both. Then, when his lips curled, just slightly, they began to move once more. 

“I have my moments,” Azriel said, a half-smile playing at the corner of his lips. He glanced at you, checking if it landed.  “Maybe one too many head injuries is getting to me.”

“Maybe,” you said, the hint of a smile brushing your lips. “In that case, we should keep an eye on Cassian.”

Azriel’s breath escaped in a quiet, almost relieved laugh.  He carefully removed the butterfly bandages from their small packs, the silence settling around you once more. But the air felt heavy, like there was something unspoken hanging between you. Like you needed to say something to rid yourself of the pressure in your chest. 

“You can’t just lay down and accept it, Az,” you said, your voice firm. His eyes snapped to yours. “That’s not what friendship is. Not ours.”

Azriel nodded, his expression softening. “I know. I’ll do better.” 

You smiled faintly, nodding back. Watching as he turned his attention back to the bandages on your cheek, you took a slow breath. His scent washed over you as he leaned in, familiar and warm. For a moment, you almost let yourself close your eyes, just to breathe him in further, to let his scent linger. Had it always been like this? Or had Selene’s words made you overanalyze everything?

“I was shocked when Cassian told me what happened. I can’t believe that while I was busy kicking myself for not doing anything, you were trying to talk to Selene. Trying to be kind. Do you realize how crazy that is?”

His words weren’t disbelief—they were awe. As if he couldn’t comprehend why you’d chosen the harder path, the path of peace. You could barely believe it yourself, sitting with a scratched-up face and a mind full of unwanted revelations. But in the end, it had been simple. 

You’d done it for Azriel. 

You’d found sympathy for her because of Azriel. You’d set aside your anger, your pettiness, because you valued your relationship with Azriel more. Even after everything, after the way he’d treated you, you still believed in him. Believed in his ability to know what he wanted.

“Your happiness was worth it,” you said finally. “I didn’t want to be the one to stand in the way of it. To make things hard.”

Azriel stopped at that, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made you feel exposed in a way you’d never felt before with him. You shrugged it off, trying to play it cool, and added with a dry chuckle, “Also, I figured if I did the noble thing, I’d get to hold it over you for a few centuries.”

Azriel laughed—a genuine, rumbling sound. His shadows fluttered around him. “Yeah, well, you can. More than a few centuries, actually, because you came out with some battle scars.”

You almost spoke again, but the breath left your lungs as you felt his fingers gently press the butterfly bandages to your skin. It was almost funny to think about how angry you’d been—rightfully so. But now, with the feel of his hands on you, it all began to ease. A specific sense of healing, like the betrayal you’d felt—at least in part—was being mended. That Azriel tending to you now, with the soft touch he so rarely granted, proved that he didn’t mean to hurt you. That he did care. And maybe you could give him a little grace for being a flawed male.

When Azriel turned back to the kit, you touched your cheek, feeling the cut deeper than you expected. You hadn’t realized how long it was. Mor’s earlier reaction made more sense now.

Azriel glanced at the wound, then back at you, brow furrowing. “Is it okay?”

You nodded slowly, a soft breath escaping as you winced slightly. “Yeah, just tender. Thank you.”

He nodded in acknowledgment and moved to place the last bandage. And then, almost too quietly, he murmured, “I’m sorry I hurt you. I really am.”

“I know.” You hesitated before adding, “But you’re going to have to make it up to me. You know that, right? This wasn’t enough.”

Azriel steadied his gaze on you, leaning back to face you fully. Suddenly, you weren’t sure if anyone had ever looked at you properly. Not like this. Not as he said, “I will. I promise. In ways that are better than some baked goods.”

“Well… I wouldn’t mind some croissants. They looked good.”

Azriel chuckled. “Oh really?”

Soft tendrils of his shadows weaved around you as you nodded, biting back a smile at the tone of his voice. Something so lively. So Azriel. Although you were used to them, you resisted the urge to shiver as his shadows threaded through the ends of your hair. 

“That’s odd,” he said. “I seem to recall them looking untouched. Some even squished.”

The memory of how you’d grabbed the pastry in frustration, squeezing it in your hand, brought a small smirk to your face. You shrugged a little. “I was pissed. I couldn’t give in.”

“In that case, I’ll buy out the whole bakery.”

You rolled your eyes, but the hint of a smile was still there. It was probably obvious to Azriel.  “The Spymaster supporting local businesses by single-handedly buying out a local bakery. How noble.”

He smiled at that, his expression lighter now—boyish, amused. But his words were sincere. “Whatever you need me to do. I’ll do it.”

“And if I told you to swim naked in the Sidra at night, when it’s cold and snowy?”

“I’d ask Rhysand to make an order for all the children to stay inside.”

You laughed at the thought, and the atmosphere shifted. For the first time in a while, it felt like the world had stopped turning its back on you. The anger, the grudge you’d been cradling like a newborn babe, didn’t feel so heavy now. 

Azriel stood, folding the bandages and packing away the medical supplies, and you found yourself watching him without meaning to once more. You couldn’t help but notice how effortlessly… beautiful he was. There was something in the angle of his jaw, the way the light caught his features that made your breath suddenly catch. He was always handsome, of course, but this was different. 

A sudden wave of curiosity bubbled up inside you. Before you could second-guess yourself, you spoke.  You’d never noticed the sharpness of his eyes, the intensity in them, the way his wings twitched when his shadows curled against them.

“Can I ask you something?” 

He paused, looking down at you with that soft gaze. “Always.”

“Why did you want to change into someone more loveable? Why stay with Selene?”

Azriel’s eyes flickered away, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I… I think I was jealous.”

“Jealous?”

Azriel nodded. Something sad washed through him, made him blink, made his wings fall an inch closer to the ground. “Everyone around us is finding love. They’re starting new lives.”

Something sharp jabbed at you, a bitter feeling you didn’t quite understand. Was there something wrong with you for not feeling the same need to fall in love?

“I’m not,” you said. 

The expression that took over Azriel’s face was one you couldn’t describe, but there was a new kind of weariness in it. His lips parted as though to say something else, but instead, he simply shook his head with a small, wistful smile. “It’s only a matter of time, Y/n.”

You blinked. “What does that mean?”

“It means you’re you. You’re amazing. It’s only a matter of time until you fall for one of your many suitors.”

You furrowed your brow, a bitter taste now settling on your tongue. You didn’t respond— didn’t know how to.

Azriel’s eyes darkened for a brief moment, his jaw tightening, but then his face softened. He exhaled slowly. When he spoke, his voice was quieter than before. “I didn’t think I could handle being alone when you moved on, too.”

The way he said it, the weight of it, made something ache inside you, like a deep hollow was opening up in your chest. You swallowed hard, wishing for something—anything—to ease the growing pressure behind your ribcage.

You wanted him to tell you more, to say something that would make sense of all this. But you didn’t know how to ask for that, didn’t even know what you wanted him to say. 

“Because you don’t want to be the last one standing?”

The silence that followed was almost suffocating. Azriel’s shadows seemed to quiet around you both.

Then, he gave you a half-smile—sad, lopsided, but somehow more real than anything he’d shown you in a long time. Not for months. Not since he began dating Selene. 

“Something like that.”

Before you could dwell on his words, on why they made you feel sad, disappointed even, Azriel finished packing up the kit and turned toward you.

“All done,” he said.

You blinked, pulled out of your thoughts, and nodded. “Oh. Cool. Thank you.”

You looked down at your hands, your fingers brushing over the growing bruises on your knuckles. Your hair fell forward, partially hiding your face, and before you could move it out of the way, one of Azriel’s shadows darted forward, tugging at the strand. You glanced up as he gently called the shadow back with a subtle motion. 

“So... how do I look?” 

Azriel's eyes flicked over you, the corner of his mouth quirking up as he reached forward, his hand brushing that same strand of hair from your face.

“Tough,” he said, slowly moving the strand back. “I think the bandages really bring out your eyes.”

And even though he’d done it a million times before, as Azriel tucked your hair behind your ear, something inside you cracked right open.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Part Five

authors note:

tending to wounds scene!!! tending to wounds scene!! mor has both bracelets??!? az and selene are done?!?! he's being weirdly calm abt the whole thing?!?! reader is THINKINNN...

now begins the fun time of reader wanting to let az grovel (bc he has entered his groveling era) but also overthinking everything and wanting him to just....go away. also fun time of reader having to prove to everyone that despite things she may...or may not... feel, her intentions with Az were neverr driven jealousy hehe

so fun!!! i have some fun ideas guys. thank yall for reading <3 i wonder if you can guess what might happen.... there are a few hints

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@marina468 @azriels-human @book-obsessed124 @bubybubsters @starswholistenanddreamsanswered 

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[girl-lostconnection]

For @nightunite. I actually came back with some Seal!Soap and some hurt/comfort of poly!141 x fruit bat!Reader. Hope this is satisfactory

Harbour seal!Soap who’s off the base whenever he can — getting back home as soon as possible, the favourite baby of his mama, the oldest son and pride of his family.

Harbour seal!Soap who has difficulty slotting into most teams, he’s not a pack hybrid, he’s not attuned to the thin threads of connection that wolves or bats or even cows can feel, he’s him and maybe that’s the problem?

Harbour seal!Soap who tries hard to blend in, because he is friendly, of course he is friendly, he’s the friendliest guy on base but whispers are that he smiles too wide, that his laugh is too strained, that his teeth are always out — sharp, menacing things.

Price takes one look at his file and thrusts the pup in Simon’s hands, hums to take care of the seal and Wolf!Simon isn’t even sure what the fuck is he supposed to do.

The lad is jumpy despite obvious brilliance, the lad is trying to smile so hard Simon’s wolf grumbles with the urge to paw at him, press cheeky pup in the ground, teach him some bloody manners. You don’t show your teeth off to the likes of Simon unless you want to have them knocked out.

But Soap wiggles his way in every conversation, eyes shiny and smiles wide up until Ghost corners him, looming like death himself — snarls that if he doesn’t want a big bad wolf to bite him, he’ll fucking stop.

Simon doesn’t know whether to act on his promise or laugh in disbelief when Johnny raises his head and grins wider, now showing off his own canine’s deliberately. Look at that, the pup can bite, can’t he?

Komodo dragon!Price just hums when he finds them tangled in each other and places a bite under Soap’s collar, teeth sinking in warm salty flesh, tongue licking off the blood.

Komodo dragons thrive on hierarchy, Price thrives on power — that’s the only thing he won’t compromise on.

Johnny grins and finds way in his arms as well. Too damn bad, captain, too damn bad. Harbour seals thrive on attention.

Their unit is all live wires and sparks and heavy heady tension — air so thick with perpetual hunger that they could carve their initials inside of a little heart.

It gets easier when Kyle arrives — he takes away some of the tension, he gets each of them, catching up on everything twice as fast as Soap did.

It scratches Johnny the wrong way, makes a sensitive small part of him whine that this is it, that Kyle will take his place because how can anyone not like Kyle? Kyle is handsome, Kyle is bright and so effortlessly charming Soap wants to whip out little notebook where sergeant speaks.

But at some point Gaz pecks a kiss to his temple and pulls him on the couch of the rec room. Warm, inviting, draping hand over his shoulders — draping wing over both of them.

Soap watches him — teeth sharp, jaws itching to try the pretty wings on the pretty Gaz, head plopping in his lap.

Kyle slots into their team like he always was there — fingers careful in Johnny’s hair, hands warm around Ghost’s shoulders, talons sharp on Price’s skin.

And then you arrive. Little bat with big eyes and big wings and some of the fluffiest hair Soap has ever seen.

You don’t slot in like Gaz, you are a little rougher around the edges, a little awkward with your approaches.

Bats are social creatures but not all of us take the best parts from our hybrid sides.

You are bloody amazing at what you do, your efficiency is not a concern but you don’t wiggle your way right in the team.

You hover on the outside, you eat your fruits alone (he isn’t even sure why you even eat them? Aren’t bats carnivores? Maybe you just like them) and in the dark, you watch them — always in the periphery of the vision. But never too close.

You remind Soap himself.

Small childish part of him wants to keep things that way, small childish part of him doesn’t like new people on the team, doesn’t like sharing attention.

But you don’t ask for any. You are just there.

It takes him month and a half and a stupid joke Ghost makes about vampires for you to reply that you are a) vegetarian b) a fruit bat and not a spectral bat for Soap to feel like someone kicked him in the face. Simon pauses, tilting head to the side, his tail stopping its friendly wag.

Your smile is too wide, your teeth are so sharp and you don’t try to fit in.

You try to stay away.

They don’t know you and you just let them know that they don’t. You just let them know that they haven’t tried to know you.

Soap spends the whole evening googling information about your species with Ghost hovering above his shoulder, dark eyes reading faster than Soap scrolls.

The next morning is the first time none of them comments on the amount of fruit you consume for breakfast.

Kyle slots in next to you, murmurs “gorgeous wings, love”, asks if you could help him with preening, offers you company for the morning drills.

Offer makes something in you flutter, sending spark of hope down your chest, your big eyes zeroing on warm friendly Kyle.

(Kyle will never admit how embarrassed he was to realise that you slipped through the cracks. Kyle will never admit that social “bird” part of him croaked with distress when he noticed that you are always a little behind. Never with them.)

Soap feels something in him clench when you glance in his direction and then shake your head at Kyle. Soap knows why you looked at him very very well.

He notices Price with your file in the afternoon, reading glasses on the tip of his nose, tail swaying in with something very similar to agitation. Price doesn’t know how to crack on you, you never fight for his right at the top of the food chain, you never contest his power. He has nothing to bite down on.

Soap isn’t sure you will give captain anything to hook on. Soap isn’t sure you feel like you can.

Johnny finds you late at night, ridiculously big bowl of fruit in your lap, his cheeks burning when your head snaps up at him and you put it away.

He and Ghost used to tease you about the amount of fruits and berries you consumed — you started eating less at dinners with them.

Soap’s throat bobs when he gulps and he shakes his head, plopping himself down on the carpet next to you.

He should have thought you’d find a way to catch up on your meals when no one looks.

When no one can make you feel wrong for eating what you like to eat.

Johnny extends his palm to you. You won’t eat while he’s here but he’d like you to. Maybe you will continue if he asks you to share.

Wikipedia page smacks his brain immediately, reminding that fruit bats eat alone and are very protective of their food.

Bloody awesome, Johnny, you might’ve as well tried to wrestle fruits out of your grip.

But before his panic forces him to hide his palm away you carefully place a date in his palm, your darker claws cool and pointy. Soap doesn’t know why but he stares, eyes gluing to him.

“Can do damage with these, eh?”, he attempts at having conversation, trying not to smile too wide. Not to show off too much teeth.

You hum out “depends” and in demonstration poke a piece of orange, skewing it on a thin claw.

Soap feels his brows arch, leaning closer, unbidden “how many can you stack on ‘em?” leaving his mouth before he thinks.

To his absolute delight you snicker and pass him the bowl.

He spends the rest of the hour stacking pieces of fruit and skewing berries on your claws and watching as you practically inhale them once he’s done.

When you two finish up the bowl, you both are covered in juice and are grinning like mad idiots but Soap never felt lighter.

He watches you grin back at him — wide and toothy — and feels something shifting.

Maybe he’s not the pack hybrid like Ghost or doesn’t have Kyle’s easy charm or even John’s acute understanding of dynamics within the team. But he is him and it seems like that’s exactly what you need.

Few months later Soap finds himself with you nuzzled in his neck, Kyle plastered over you two like he’s a big blanket, Simon reading something in the quiet low voice of his and John already crawling into den you call bed.

It’s warm and he’s squished by people who like him from every side and he finally belongs.

Soap presses a kiss to the top of your head and smiles wide when you raise it, giving him a slow sleepy blink. His smiles are wide and toothy.

His smiles are always welcomed with his team.

And so is he.