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uhdrienne · 3 months ago

Text

ᯓᡣ𐭩 the embodiment of grace and deviousness

⛓️ pairing: seungcheol x f!reader ⛓️ genre: sfw, fluff, angst, mafia au, soulmate au ⛓️ word count: ~8k ⛓️ warnings: mentions of violence, weapons, open wounds. do not interact if it can be triggering! there's going to be cursing too because seungcheol is a grumpy one :") ⛓️ summary: as an author, it's almost poetic that your soulmate tattoo would be a flower. actually... half a flower. a snapdragon, to be exact. the petals on your arm, the vines on seungcheol's. it's even more cliche when you meet him on valentine's day. to you it means grace, but for seungcheol, he still has zero idea on what flower his tattoo is. he'd be lying if he said he wasn't curious at all, but during this season of love, you're about to figure out exactly what this all means for you and him, the leader of the city's most dangerous mafia.

author's note: suuurprise! to commemorate my first valentines' on this platform, here is a fic, part of @ddeonghwa-s Secret Cupid Event 💌 thank you so much to @ddeonghwa-s for putting this event together, and of course to the wonderful @kpopflowerfield for giving me this opportunity to write for you, i hope you like this as much as i did💘

here is the event masterlist! do support the works of all other authors too, all of them are so so amazing <3 happy valentines' day!!

depending on the POV, italics signify either the author's writing or Seungcheol's thoughts <3

"Territory 13 is acting up again, sir."

"Are they?"

"They're giving trouble. Threatening to cut off our chain supply in the north."

“Hm.”

“We’ve lost a few men fighting them for the past few days. The situation doesn’t seem to be de-escalating, so we reported to you.”

“Nowhere else we can push to weaken them?”

“They seem to have it figured out, sir. They outnumber us at every turn.”

"Well, we can't have that, can we?"

"No, sir."

"You have three hours till dawn. Take the men you need and get it settled. It won't be pretty if I don't get better news by then."

"Yes, sir."

"Go."

He swings his chair around to the fading sky of the night, nursing his glass of amber. He looks down to his full sleeve of black, red, and blue ink. Zinnias, dahlias, rhododendrons, and in the centre, like the highlight of a Naturalism painting, a whorl of vines and small, green leaves, linked to the vines of other flowers. He has no idea what it means, has had no idea since the day he got it. Ever since, all he's focused on is getting it covered, blended in with other flowers on his skin.

What is the point of such a mark on his skin, he wonders for the umpteenth time as he runs his hands over the permanent imprint, if the universe won't show me what it means?

He glances at the corner of his screen. 1:30am. 14 February. Hm.

He looks away.

"I'm sorry, I don't think we can proceed with cover design and vetting for you, ma'am."

"Oh... Not possible? At all?"

"I'm afraid not, ma'am. Your drafts weren’t given the green light from our Head of Publishing, and our team can't exactly spare the manpower to help you right now."

"...I see. And there’s no one else I can look for? Or….. any contacts you may have?”

“We can try, ma’am, but we can’t promise anything. It’s busy period for us publishers at the moment.”

“Ah. Well, thank you anyway. I hope we can work together in the future."

You put your phone down and sink back into your chair, covering your face with your hands. Your most recent creative co-director pulled out two days ago, another graphic design deal fell through, and now this publishing company. At this rate, you don't know if your book will even ever reach the local bookstore across the street.

You blow out a breath, look down at the only black ink on unblemished skin, the one that's been there since the day you turned 20 years old.... the petals of a snapdragon.

Your phone lights up with a text from a friend, and as you unlock it, the date catches your attention.

14 February. Happy Valentines' Day to you.

Your final straw comes when you're walking home from your office the next night. You rub your tattoo, which has been irritated the whole of today. You have no idea what it means, just that it can't be good for your soulmate bond. But you've never been concerned for him, not the slightest bit, since the day you got the tattoo. Because he's not something you're looking for right now.

Then you hear scuffling, a familiar thing here in the rougher area of town where you live. Your only intention is to walk past and ignore everything. From prior experience, that's the best survival tactic you have: Don't go looking for trouble, and it won't find you.

A man appears on the sidewalk and walks towards you. You walk faster, calculating the distance it takes. Two hundred metres and you'll be under the safety of the street lights. One hundred and fifty. One hundred. The man seems to be getting closer.

You hear a thud. Fuck. What was that?

You squeeze your eyes together and turn around. It sounds stupid, but you'd like to at least see the face of your captor before you see darkness. You read novels about this. When a character gets out of a captor's grasp, they can never tell the police what the kidnappers look like. If now is your time, you won't go down making the same mistake.

Except there isn't a captor nor a body bag. It's just another man, hands in pockets, bending down to survey the unconscious lump on the concrete ground just behind you. He looks at you, the exact moment that you too meet his eyes. And you feel it. At the worst possible time in your life, ever, for crying out loud.

Hundreds, maybe thousands of volts of electricity. A rising and a pop in your head, a sizzling burn on your forearm. Who knew a soulmate bond snapping into place could be this painful? You choke out a gasp as the pain sears, brands itself into your arm. The outline of the flower appears in full glory, the vines entwining itself around your arm as it links with the petals. It's beautiful and horrifying, and you watch as the flower you've been waiting for finally, finally blooms.

Before long, the bloom appears on your forearm. A snapdragon.

The man seems to feel the same thing, as he doubles over in pain, pupils dilated in shock and clutching his arm. His face is covered by his hood so you can't see what he looks like, but he turns and runs, and before long he's disappeared into the darkness.

A few minutes pass before the pain finally subsides, and in its place comes a wave of exhaustion. You sink on the concrete, careful not to stir your unconscious stalker, who's still lying on the ground motionless.

You've found your soulmate. On the day of love.

You touch your mouth when you feel a smile creeping up your face.

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

Seungcheol opens his door, barks an order to his guard outside not to disturb him unless "someone is bloody dead", sinks down on a couch and grabs a whisky. He downs it, the burn of the alcohol close to nothing as compared to that of the flower sitting oh-so-innocently on his forearm. He'll never forget the way the snapdragon petals appeared, as if they were burnt into his skin.

He stares at it, remembers the girl who gasped in pain just as he did. He never meant for this to happen. He was only passing by and saw a man from one of the local, problematic gangs sneaking up on you. He only meant to get the man away as he usually would for anyone else, because his principles, despite his rough line of work, never permitted him to disrespect women. He only meant to do one thing and go on his way. He only felt his arm burning right before he turned onto that damn street.

He glares at his arm, like the ordeal is its fault. His hand is shaking. It never shakes.

He didn't mean to feel his bond snap into place, never meant to meet you. He takes another long swig. This is the worst timing ever, he thinks darkly.

Meeting your soulmate on Valentines' Day can't be pure coincidence. If there wasn't a sign before that this was your chance, there very well was now. The next day you come up with a mission plan.

Find the man who is apparently my soulmate

...........

And that's when you sit down and have a good think. What are you even going to do when you do find him, anyway? Get together with him purely because he's meant for you, as the universe dictated? What if he's a rude jerk? What if he's ugly? What if... oh god, what if his breath stinks?

What if... he doesn't like you?

You continue writing on your notepad, absently, mindlessly writing sentences and paragraphs like word-vomit. Before long, you look down on the page to see almost a full journal entry, like you always do when you're anxious or stressed.

"Great," You mutter. "May as well write a book about this."

You enter the bookstore, waving at the little old lady who runs it.

"Good morning," She hums. "What are you looking for?"

You smile, thumbing through the different books on the shelf. "Morning. Something about flowers, maybe? I'm doing research... for a book I'm writing."

She nods. "Perhaps a book that explains the flower on your arm?"

You chuckle. Nothing could ever get past her eyes. "You caught me."

The lady laughs in return. "That," she says, hobbling out from the counter to rummage her inventory, "is a snapdragon. Yours is lovely -- a nice shade of red."

You smile. "Does its colour represent something, too?"

The old lady pulls down a thick book, flips through it and sweeps off the dust on the cover. "Every colour has its representation, but it's also your choice to decide what it means to you." She passes you the book. "In Chinese culture, it means prosperity. It's a lucky colour. For others, it could mean passion and love. It could also mean danger, perhaps courage..."

"Wow," You mumble, flipping through the book. "One colour and thousands of meanings?"

The old lady shrugs. "Colours and nature existed way before we did," She takes the book from you and goes to wrap it up in construction paper. "Is that the tattoo that brings you to your other half?"

"So the world says," You shrug, as you pay for the book. "I had the petals first, so the stem and leaves appeared when I met him, but I don't know where he is... or even what he looks like."

The lady nods in understanding. "I wouldn't worry. You'll find your way back to each other. I'd think that's what the tattoo's for."

"Do you know about them? What do they do?"

"Some stories say they help soulmates detect when one is in danger. Other stories say the closer you are, the warmer it feels... I've never tried."

Huh. You nod. "Thank you. So very much."

There is a soft shimmer of fascination in the old lady's eyes as she waves you goodbye. "I have faith that what's meant for you will come to you in due course, dear. Have a good day now."

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

Seungcheol hasn't stopped glowering at his tattoo all day. It looks... out of place. The petals aren't supposed to be there. It looks like an outsider, a strange feeling he can't place. If this is the bond acting up, he surmises, it fucking sucks.

He needs coffee to cure the pounding headache building up.

He orders someone to get his coffee, and as he sits to wait, he taps at his keyboard impatiently, trying to figure out how the tattoo had built up.

The petals came later, he thinks. Is that supposed to mean something?

When his right-hand man, a freckled, tan man comes in with the coffee, Seungcheol is still none the wiser on the phenomenon. So he lowers his guard (for once, he thinks bitterly, for a soulmate bond of all things), and asks the man who's currently laying his coffee cup down. "Lee."

Lee looks up. "Yes, sir?"

"What do you know about soulmate bond tattoos?"

Lee looks visibly excited. "Did you get yours, sir?"

"Asking for a friend," Seungcheol deflects immediately. "So, what do you know about it?"

"I have one, sir," Lee says, and rolls up his sleeve to reveal a... half-faded anchor tattoo. "I was so.... it felt so strange to meet my other half."

"Strange. What was it like?"

Lee shrugs as he sets down a serviette. "Can I speak freely?"

Seungcheol waves at him to go ahead. He's usually the man who acts like he has a stick up his ass, but this time, he wants to find out everything he can about having a soulmate. Just so I don't drag the poor girl down with me for no good reason, he reasons to himself.

"It wasn't all good feelings," Lee explains thoughtfully, hands pausing mid-air. "My soulmate... he was an underground weapons dealer. And you know people in our circle, we don't do feelings. They're liabilities, it's another thing enemies can use against us." He chuckles bitterly. "That was one of the only things we had in common."

Seungcheol doesn't miss the way he's speaking in past tense. "You don't have to explain yourself," He says cautiously.

"No, that's okay," Lee says. "It was a while back. See, I have fading scars to prove that."

"What did it... feel like?"

"It started fading and it hurt so much, I knew something was wrong." Lee shows his arm again.

"What happened?"

Lee shrugs. "He died in an underground turf war. One of those."

Seungcheol makes eye contact. "Did you at least have good days with him?"

Lee looks at him, then looks away. "We did. Almost left the circle for each other, but..." He shrugs again. "Time just wasn't on our side."

"No," Seungcheol agrees. "It wasn't."

His fists clench. So this is what could happen to both parties who were in the circle, nevermind a civilian. He nods. "Thank you for telling me."

Lee gives him a half-smile. "So is this about your tattoo?"

"Y- No, for my friend," Seungcheol replies, cursing himself at the slip-up.

"I see," Lee says, the mischievous glint in his eyes returning. Seungcheol knows Lee doesn't believe him. As his right-hand man for years, how could he not see through Seungcheol? He starts walking towards the door. "Well, tell your friend that if there's anything I learnt, it's that time is a bitch. There's going to be a lot of fear, and it won't be pretty. But... take it from me," He smiles sadly. "It's going to feel worse when you don't treasure time and lose them. After all...." He opens the door. "I lived to tell the tale."

When the door closes behind him, Seungcheol leans back into his chair and rubs his temples.

"Some soulmates you find in the lecture hall of your school. Some you find along the way of life. Some... are pre-ordained by the universe, in the form of a snapdragon tattoo.

But are these... pre-meditated, pre-planned people meant to stay?"

You put down your pen.

You're curious. At the world, for giving you a person. How that system came about. About your soulmate. What he's like, what he looks like.

But there's no straightforward way to find him. No instruction manual that tells you where to go and what to do.

You decide to take a walk that evening. No distance limit. Just wherever your feet takes you.

And it brings you to this cafe on a street you've never been, with soft music and oak furniture, and a smiley, freckled and tan man behind the counter grins at you. "Welcome to Choi's."

"Hello," You say, smiling a bit. "Could I get a latte, and... that croissant? It looks amazing."

"Of course," He says, before turning to another burly staff that just appeared. "Get her a latte, will you?"

The staff nods, and disappears behind the coffee machine.

You take a seat, and hum as you wait. When the pastry and drink appear on your table, you thank the staff and look down to see the milk foam in the shape of a heart. Mmm. You take a sip, already feeling a lot better.

The bell jingles, and a man steps in, hands in his pockets. and heads for the counter. By force of habit, you look up and send him a cursory glance. And then you freeze. The man has rolled up his sleeves as he speaks to the staff, as if they already know each other, and on his arms....

A full tattoo sleeve of flowers. Zinnias, dahlias, rhododendrons, and in the centre, a whorl of vines leading to the most prominent flower. It looks fresh, like it was inked in a mere five minutes earlier.... in a shade of brilliant red... a snapdragon.

It's him.

The man must have excellent situational awareness because he acutely notices someone staring at him and he turns to you. Your shell-shocked face, your trembling hands... and his eyes fall on your forearm.

Choi Seungcheol had never felt this thunderstruck, not even when he found out half his men had been bought over by rivals years ago. He knows he'll never forget this feeling.

So he does the next best thing. He excuses himself from his staff and leaves.

So you get up and run after him.

Seungcheol's in the middle of cursing himself and the world out when he hears your voice calling for him.

"Sir...?"

He can pretend he doesn't know you're calling him. Sure. He can do that. Keep on walking, Seungcheol.

Until he hears running, and a tap on his shoulder. Ah.

He swallows, closes his eyes, and turns around. "Yes?" He asks coldly.

Ah. So he's not in the habit of making conversation, you think. "I'm really sorry about this, but can I...."

"Can you what?" Seungcheol replies, even though he already knows what you're going to say.

"Can I see your arm? For a second? I just wanted to make sure I wasn't seeing wrongly."

"No, you may not."

You cringe. Silence dwindles between both of you. "Uh... right."

Seungcheol reaches for his car key. "Why do you want to see my arm, love?" He casts a cursory glance at your arm. "To see if I'm your soulmate?"

You look down, then at him. "...Yeah. I got this tattoo, and I don't know what my soulmate looks like, so..."

"So you're trying to find him in me, huh?" Seungcheol doesn't mean to be rude, but this is the only way to get you off his back, at least until he knows how to move forward. The least he can do is to warn you. "News flash, love. I'm just a man who enjoys flowers. But me as your soulmate?" He chuckles and presses a button. From a distance, his car makes a beeping sound and unlocks. "I highly doubt it. You'll need to know who we are before you enter our world."

"And who are you?" The words come out before you can stop them.

Seungcheol supposes it doesn't hurt to establish who he is, just so you'll have enough sense to stay away.

"The mafia, love," He says softly, as he walks towards his car. "I'm the leader, here. I'd advise you to stay away from me, soulmate or otherwise."

When his car pulls away, you sigh and look at your tattoo.

The biggest joke the universe could have pulled on you. Making a mafia leader, out of 8 billion other people, your soulmate.

When he reaches home, Seungcheol reaches for his phone. When Lee answers, Seungcheol gives him a long list of things to do, for the cafe and for the mafia.

"Has anyone caught on the cafe yet?" He asks.

"Nope," Lee answers. "It was a good front to keep track of the public, but it seems like a normal cafe to them. So I'd say everything's fine, boss."

"Good."

"Anything else?" Lee says.

"....One more thing." Seungcheol says, sighing through his nose. "A girl came to the cafe tonight."

"...Uh-huh."

"The girl in the white cardigan and jeans."

"Right."

"Warn her not to divulge who we are and what the cafe really is. With any luck, she'll figure out that the cafe is protecting us."

"Protecting us..." Lee gasps. "Sir, you told her who you are? Why?"

"To get her to leave me alone," Seungcheol mutters. "Anyway, just tell her to zip her mouth. I don't care how you do it."

He regrets the words once they exit his mouth. "Just don't hit her or anything. We're not in that business."

A soft laugh comes over the phone. "She your soulmate or something, boss?"

Seungcheol pinches his nose. "So she thinks. Just because we have a matching..."

An idea hits him. "Do me another favour."

"Name it, boss."

"Find out where she was last night. Just to make clear something for me."

"You got it."

A knock on your door sounds in the middle of the night. When you open the door, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, you flinch when two burly guys flanking the same freckled, tan man from the cafe last night step in your doorway.

"Uh...you're from the cafe, aren't you?"

"I thought a familiar face might help matters," The freckled man says. "My name's Lee. And you?"

You introduce yourself cautiously, but you look at the two men. "So... what the man said yesterday was true? You're not really a cafe, are you?"

Lee shrugs. "Nothing you need to concern yourself with, anyway." He nods to the men. "We just came here to give a little warning."

You have a feeling you already know. "What warning?"

"Don't pry, and don't tell," Lee says, still smiling, but you sense the underlying threat within. "I don't know what business you have with us, but it should end now." He nods at you. "For both yours and our good."

The burly man on the left makes a point of nodding towards your home. "We know where you live, and we can find you no matter where you go. Don't complicate things for yourself. You won't like what comes next."

And they leave, leaving you shaking in the doorway. Anger courses through you. Your soulmate sent people after you to push you away.

You don't know everything about soulmate bonds, but what you do know is that soulmates are drawn to each other: to protect, and to take care of. Either your soulmate is very, very clueless; or he just doesn't want anything to do with you. You have to find out which answer it is before you decide whether to let go of him or not.

Alright, Mr. Mafia Boss, you clench your teeth. I don't have to deal with your mafia directly to get an audience with you. Let's see how far this game can go.

Moonlight slants through his ceiling-to-floor windows. Seungcheol grits his teeth as he watches the surveillance that Lee found for him. You, walking home the night of 14 February, around 10pm, going faster and faster as that son-of-a-bitch followed you. His arms rest on his chair as he sees himself appear and knock the guy out cold.

He sighs. So it really was you. He'd recognise that face anywhere.

He looks at his tattoo once more, hating how perfectly it entwines with the rest of his tattoos. So much for covering it up. He turns his arm around again and again. It's exquisite, but it lies there like a burden.

And it picks the perfect timing to start burning. Seungcheol grunts in pain, clutching his arm as it burns, sears with the same pain it did that night. He doesn't know how the system came about, but what he knows is this: You're in danger. And as annoyed as he is about this whole situation, he has to find you. If only to make the pain stop.

He reaches for his telephone, and when the other line picks up he hisses: "Find her. Now. Scour all the surveillance in the city. I don't care what you have to do, but find her."

He can hear his man barking out orders in the background, and he shakily puts the phone down. Lee comes bursting into the room, grabs Seungcheol's arm to check on him. Normally, Seungcheol would have the head of anyone who dared to touch him without permission, but given Lee's position in this predicament, he allows him to.

"Is it supposed to be like this?" Seungcheol groans out. "It hurts like hell."

"Yup," Lee mutters. "It is. Looks and seems exactly like mine whenever Bri got into danger."

"Danger--" Seungcheol scowls and tries getting up. "You mean she's injured?"

Lee shrugs. "I don't know if it extends to normal minor situations, but whenever Bri got into a fight, I'd feel my arm burning."

"Her, fight. Don't make me laugh," Seungcheol scoffs, then grunts again as another wave of pain hits him. "She looks like she couldn't hurt a fly."

"We've located her, boss," Another man comes into the room, holding a laptop towards him.

"Where?"

When silence answers him, he hisses. "I didn't ask you this question for you to not fucking reply. I asked where?"

"The border of Territory 7, sir."

"What the hell is she doing there? Is she an underworld member, too?" Lee wonders out loud.

Seungcheol pushes himself up off his seat, wincing as his arm throbs slightly. "Fuck if I know. But I guess I have to find her if I want this pain to stop."

"I'll get men and go with you," Lee starts, but Seungcheol waves him off. "No need. We don't need to stir up a fuss, not when the territories are already misbehaving these few weeks. I'll get her, and... figure it out later."

You're tapping your foot as you wander the edges of the city's largest turf. It's well-known that civilians shouldn't pass by here if they want to get home alive and well, but with the recent news of unrest stirring in such turfs, you figure that it's the best way to seek Seungcheol out. It's stupid, but it's your best bet. Plus, you figure that the nearer you are to

You must be near a group of militants on patrol duty, because you can hear hushed orders and boots crunching. You sigh and look at your watch.

"Are you actually stupid?"

You raise your head. "So it worked. So nice of you to join me this evening."

Seungcheol storms towards you. "So you tricked me?"

"Wasn't a trick." You mutter. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"You are a nutcase," He seethes, as he grabs your arm and starts dragging you away. "Do you have any idea what would happen if anyone caught you? These few places are red-light districts now. You're not supposed to be here."

"I wouldn't know. You came anyway."

Seungcheol lets you go and huffs at you. "Go home, and don't get any more stupid ideas. Yes, I'm your soulmate. Yes, my tattoo is also a snapdragon, and I guess I can sense when you're in places you shouldn't be because my arm fucking burns, okay? Got your answer?"

"No," You say defiantly. "I haven't found out one thing. Why were you so desperate to deny that you weren't my soulmate? But you still came running anyway."

"This," He hisses, stepping closer to you, "is a pain in my ass. I can't work if my tattoo's going to start hurting every half hour. So for god's sake, please stay out of anything that doesn't concern you. Do not run into a lion's den to get an audience with me."

"So you're going to give me a way to contact you?" You shrug. "Sure, if that will keep me from making rash decisions."

Seungcheol furrows his brows. "What gave you that idea?"

"Well, you can't think I'm going to let you go after all of this, do you?"

What??

"Did I not make myself clear en-"

"Oh, you did," You say. "Like you said, you came running because you could sense I was somewhere I shouldn't be. So you can't stay away no matter how much I piss you off, can you?"

"I nev-"

"That's how soulmates work, Mr. Mafia Boss." You say smugly. "We can't stay away from each other, like a moth can't stray from the light."

Seungcheol scowls at you and then proceeds to maintain a ten-second glaring competition until he blows out a breath.

"Ten more reasons why I hate this bond so much," He mutters, before pulling out a business card and shoving it into your hands. "I've got ground rules. Don't call me for stupid reasons. Do not call to ask me out privately. Do not give my number to anyone for any reason. No exceptions, unless you want a bullet through your brain."

"Did you just threaten to shoot me...." You peruse the business card. "Choi Seungcheol?"

"Yes, and what about it?"

"You know nothing about being a gentleman."

"Never said I was one. Get in the car."

"You''re going to shoot me in there? With the expensive leather?"

"I will if you don't keep your mouth shut and start moving."

You zip it and follow him.

Success. You've met your soulmate. (You're sitting in his car, too.)

He said you couldn't call. But texting exists, so.... You're determined to bug him until he takes notice.

"It's me."

He leaves you on read.

The next day you add another message. "I guess I'll write to an empty chatroom. I'm doing good, I just had a sandwich for breakfast and I'm going to continue writing now."

5pm: "I'm done with my next chapter. Trying to find an illustrator for the cover. I'm craving soup."

11pm: "goodnight! hope your work or whatever's going well. You can't tell me anything about what you're doing?"

And so it continues, for a full three days, with silly texts about a sentence error you wrote, or a funny thing you ate, or asking him what he's doing at work, until you get a single response from him that has you rolling your eyes: "Be quiet."

You do not, to Seungcheol's chagrin, keep quiet.

He didn't think you could talk so much to someone who never replied. In a week he'd all but figured out your life pattern: wake up, eat, write (he had no idea what you were writing), find publishers and illustrators, take a walk maybe in the late afternoon, eat again, and write until it was time to sleep. You lead an awfully idyllic life compared to him, he thinks as he closes your text.

You also seem to have a love for soup, he realises. The weirdest fucking craving.

And croissants from his fake cafe. You sent him photos of it across the week, and he wonders how you never get tired of the damn thing. Your food cravings change from soup to something else every now and then, getting more bizarre with each one. (Pasta with pickles? Really?)

It was cute. (He cursed himself out after thinking about it.)

And so it goes for two more weeks until Seungcheol decides this has to stop. He texts you back for once, and you're elated as you read his text.

"Be ready Saturday night. Zip it for now, will you? I'm trying to work."

You're waiting outside your house when he pulls up. You already know that he knows exactly where you live, so you never bothered texting him your address. You get in once he stops the car, his grumpy face still on full display.

"Thanks for taking me out," You say, smiling at him, and he grunts as he pulls out and steps on the accelerator. "Isn't that exactly what you wanted?"

You shrug. "And you gave in. Is that a soulmate thing?"

"I will drop you off right this second if you say 'soulmate' one more time." He threatens.

He rubs the sleeve covering the skin on which his tattoo lies, and you frown. "Is it causing you trouble? I haven't gone anywhere weird recently, though."

"No. And you better not have."

He doesn't say much after that, simply drives about twenty minutes to a sleek, al fresco restaurant. The neon lights, warm-looking space draws you in, and when you read the menu outside while waiting for him to park...

"Soup? So you did read my texts!"

"You won't shut up about it. A little hard to miss it even if I wanted to."

You chuckle and flip through the menu. "So what're you getting?"

"You pick, you're the one craving soup of all things," He mutters absently. "Don't really care. Just came to get a message across."

"What is it?"

"Sit first before I tell you."

And so you do. He lets you get tomato soup and grilled cheese, pasta and a soda, and says absolutely nothing. He eats a little, rolling his eyes at the amount you inhale. Finally, you put down your fork. "So what did you want to tell me?"

He swallows his water before putting the glass down. "Just one thing."

You cock your head. "I'm listening."

"Why are you contacting me personally, so often? I'm sure I said not to do that."

"You said not to call," You reply, smiling. When he looks like he's about to protest, you smile again. "So I texted."

"You're fucking impossible," He mutters.

"Sorry, what was that?"

"Nothing. Anyway, stop that. I'm a busy man."

"I know. That's why I text, like, three times in a day. It's not a lot, is it?"

His hand comes down on the table, not loud enough to cause a scene but firm enough to catch your attention. "I don't have the time to entertain you, Miss Y/N. You know who I am, and that was my fault, and I think it would do you good to remember that."

"Pulling the mafia leader card on me, again?" You sigh and shake your head. "I don't know what you do, and you won't tell me. I write about people like you and mobsters. You're exactly what I write in my books."

"I am not one of your little book characters," Seungcheol hisses back. "I am not a work of fiction or something you pull out of your imagination and twist about like your plaything. I am real, and I am someone who can hurt you if I want to. And I don't owe you any information. Stop bothering me, got it?"

"Is that why you brought me here?" A surge of confidence and defiance grips you. He couldn't have taken you out to somewhere he knew you'd enjoy for no reason.

He scowls. “I can go wherever I want. Don’t read too much into it.”

You grin. “Sure.”

He nods.

“So can I continue messaging you?”

He groans. “Did you not get any of what I just said?”

You shrug. "Guess you’ll have to tell me a few more times.”

He sighs loudly, and his fingers drum the table as he seemingly goes deep into thought. The scowl is almost becoming a permanent fixture on his face, you think.

After a long moment, he groans and utters: “Next Sunday. 6pm.”

He takes you out two more times. The next Sunday, to a small restaurant you chose. This time he ate better, the consistent strain in his forehead almost easing as he bit into the lasagna.

He answered your questions, albeit grumpily, and when you got off his car that night, you thought, as you opened your journal up again, that he was finally, finally warming up to you.

But the next time he brings you out, he is visibly in a stormy mood, barely making conversation and stabbing his meat with his fork.

“Is there something wrong?” You ask.

“No.”

And there the conversation ends.

As dessert rolls in, you try one more time.

“So… how’s work lately?”

“Fine.”

“Ah.”

Please talk. Please.

“You know, I always wonder what a mafia boss does,” You pick up your spoon. “Like, order kills or something?”

Seungcheol picks up his glass. “I remember telling you not to ask about what I do.”

“And you don’t have to give me a full answer,” You shrug. “I’m just asking for a general idea. I thought it’d be nice if I got to know what you do.”

Seungcheol sits back in his seat. "Don't read too much into what I do, love." He takes another sip of water. "You can't honestly think I'm interested in you enough to reveal myself after a few meals. You said you're a writer. You shouldn't be this easy to lie to, you know that?"

Yeah, screw this.

Any confidence you had sizzles out. Easy to lie to. He thinks you're a gullible, small girl eating up every morsel of attention he deigns to give you when he feels like it. Red-hot, burning humiliation and shame rise in you.

After a long pause, you nod. "Alright. Fine. I get it. I apologise for occupying your time."

He surveys you for a second, then nods, like he just made a good business deal. "Just so we make things clear with each other."

"Crystal," You reply, no warmth in your words. "I think I finally got what you wanted to say. I thought you just weren't used to this... idea of having a soulmate, so I wanted to warm you up to it. But now I see you never wanted one in the first place."

Seungcheol furrows his brows just a fraction.

You push your chair back. You're careful not to look or seem angry, in part not to show him you're affected, and also to just... save face. He already embarrassed you. No need to do it again in public. "Take care, Mr. Choi. Thanks for putting up with me, anyway. It won't happen again. I’ll get the bill."

Soulmate, my ass.

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

It wasn't supposed to be like this. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

It wasn't supposed to turn out this way.

Glass meets the plaster of the wall. His tattoo lies there, barren, lacking its usual warmth even though nothing was taken away.

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

Ladies and gentlemen, this is perhaps how the story goes. He pushed her away, and she realised how the universe’s plan, this whole concept, had utterly failed. There were never meant to be pre-ordained people. People change, and oftentimes they disappoint…

The journal remains open, the last sentence discontinued.

T w o M o n t h s L a t e r

Soft, oozing vocals of Clara Bow fill your apartment as you pack your writing materials. You're done writing for the day.

You glance at the clock. Nine p.m. In time for a snack and TV before you head to bed.

When you turn on the TV, the news catches your attention. Another territory struggle, another turf battle for control. You shake your head and switch the channel. Typical.

As you settle down into the cushions with chips and a glass of white wine, sudden searing pain, hot and white and agonising, shoots down your arm. You gasp and grasp it in your other hand, almost keeling over at how painful it is.

Something is wrong. Very, very, wrong.

You sink to the floor, clutching your arm and sweat starting to bead your forehead. It hurts, your arm hurts, everything hurts.

Is Seungcheol in trouble?

His name card. Right. You can just find out for yourself, and if he asks, you could just say the tattoo's causing you a lot of pain. Yes. That's it.

You stagger to your drawers to find his card, messing everything up in the process. You fumble for your phone and dial his number, again and again and again, but all you’re greeted with is a beep and an automated voice instructing you to leave a message.

You don’t know what to do. No emergency contact, no one you can find… hell, you don’t even know where he is. As you’re standing, getting ready to run out and search, there's a pounding on your door.

You barely make it to the door and open it, and there stands the freckled, tan man whose name you never got. He looks awkward, eyes racing to your tattoo. "I'm sure you must be in a lot of pain," He says. "Mr. Choi ordered me to check on you."

"Check on me?" You almost wheeze. "What's going on that my arm hurts this badly?"

Lee shakes his head. "Not right now. We will talk in the van."

"Of course you can't say." You snap, patience wearing thin, temper as riled up as the pain in your arm. You're done with his secrets. "I can't know what he's doing, I can't know where he is, or if he's alive or dead, even if the pain he's causing may very well kill me too."

"You won't die," Lee says, a little more kindly. "If this comforts you, my soulmate's gone, and I'm still here."

Your anger evaporates a fraction. "I'm sorry about that."

"No need to be." Lee sighs, then reaches his own arm out. "Hold on to me, I won’t do anything weird. I'll take you to him. He's going to be a bitch when he sees you, but... I think it would be good for both of you. More often than not, distance breaks things apart."

"He's enough of a bitch even when I'm around," You mumble, but you take his arm anyway as he helps you out.

Without much effort, he gets you into the van he came in, and barks out an order to the curious men inside to drive into what he calls "The Heart".

"What's the Heart?" You ask, as he passes you a canteen of water to drink from.

"It's what it sounds like. The heart of our territory." Lee explains, eyes trained in front. "Mr. Choi's there when we... have scuffles, and that's usually the place where security is tightest, so he can be near to us to get updates and give orders, and still not get into danger."

"So he is a leader."

"He is, and one of those you wouldn't want to cross. He's quick with his work, and he can resort to getting his hands dirty if he has to. His network and connections are... frighteningly impressive, to say the least."

"Funny how I'm hearing it from you and not him," You huff as you lay your head back, trying not to think about the pain.

"He hasn't had the experience of telling people about his life, Miss," Lee chuckles. "But I figured you'll know eventually, so better sooner than later, right?"

"Sooner than later?"

"You're meant to stick around him, Miss. For the good and bad. You're his soulmate, after all."

"I don't know if we'll get there." You sigh, and close your eyes. "Is he badly hurt? Will me being there even help matters?"

Lee shrugs. "We'll find out."

Lee gets six men to flank you both as he walks you in. Up ahead, there's a building seemingly made of unforgiving steel, it's blank canvas looming in the dark red, streaked sky.

"That's the Heart?"

"That’s the one. Unpenetrable, Miss. Let's go in."

You pray for all your sakes it really is as Lee takes you up into the elevator. When he opens one of the (almost) hundreds of similar doors to lead to an empty, cell-like room, and inside sits Seungcheol, with a red fabric pressed---

"You're bleeding," You blurt. The pain in your arm subsides just a fraction, perhaps jarred by the sensation of finally, finally, meeting him.

He looks up, eyes twisting in furious shock as he glares at Lee, and then you (you don’t know why). "Exactly which part of my order did you not understand, Lee?"

Lee bows his head in apology. "I'll never take away a chance to meet your soulmate away, you know that, sir."

Seungcheol scowls hard, and you're almost afraid he's going to shoot Lee there and then.

"Get out."

Lee smiles, ushers you in and walks out. "I'll be back in half an hour to report. I'll call for the doctor again."

You bend and peel aside the fabric. Once white, it's now soaked red, it's warmth unsettling. There's blood, so much of it, and on his once unblemished skin now contains a mess of open flesh, blood, and a...

A bullet.

"A gun." You mumble.

"Try not to throw up." He replies, ever-so-gently nudging you away. "This is Armani."

"You jerk."

His face twists in surprise. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." The anger is returning. "You say all sorts of fucking nonsense to keep me away, and we meet again months later because you're shot. And that may be a normal day for you, Mr. Choi, but us civilians don't go about our day-to-day expecting a bullet hole to appear in our skin."

His hand clenches up.

"This is why I said everything I did," He snarls in return, putting more pressure on his wound. "I knew I would never want you to try to handle what I am!"

"You never let me try," You hiss. "You refused to tell me anything, to let me see what your life was like. No, you chose to shut me out! And don't you dare tell me what I can or can't handle."

He huffs. "I see no reason in dragging you, or anyone else, in when it isn't needed."

"Yet Lee brought me here tonight." You point out. "He knows something you clearly don't."

"Lee is a nosy fucker." He snaps.

"He's someone who's experienced it all. His soulmate is gone, Seungcheol."

"And look at the pain it caused him. At least if anything happens to me, it's no love lost for you."

"Shut up."

"What?"

"I said shut up. Sometimes people want to help you. Sometimes people wouldn't actually mind, I don't know, going into this Heart place to check on you. Sometimes, you need to get it into your thick skull that I actually want to be here, to make sure you don't die while this stupid snapdragon is burned into me!"

His eyes meet yours.

"But you won't get it!" You chuckle. "You send men to check on me when I’m in pain, but I doubt you have any intention of finding me after all this gets better."

"You think I wanted to?" He shoots back.

"And you think I had it all settled for me? That I was better off not knowing the person that was meant for me, this whole time?"

"I never wanted that." Seungcheol insists hotly. "Look at my world, it's a mess, a violent place, a--"

"And there has to be a reason I'm the one picked out!" You defend. "Do you have any idea what snapdragons stand for?"

When he doesn't reply, you continue. "It stands for grace and strength. I can handle all of this. I'm not meant to measure up with your headstrong personality anyway."

"Then what are you meant for?" He asks, tone now soft, dejected.

"To complement you," You reply. You've never been this sure in your life. "To make up for the traits you lack. I'm not supposed to be as strong, or as fierce as you are. I'm meant to... ground you. That's what soulmates are. To... allow each other's strengths to shine and make up for what they don't have yet."

Seungcheol goes quiet.

"And you?" He asks, after a long pause. "What do I complement you in?"

You survey him again. "That's something I can't discover yet, because you won't let me."

“So what do you suggest?” He continues.

“No more hiding. Show me who you are. No restraint, I don’t need you to keep anything secret.”

“What if you end up like Lee?”

“Then it would have been a life well spent, at least.”

Seungcheol grunts with effort as he leaves his seat and stumbles to you. "And if I obeyed, and let you in?"

You look at him square in the eye. "Then it would be my honour to stand with you... or in the shadows, or wherever you make me stand."

"This sounds a lot like an induction of one of my men," Seungcheol murmurs. "I don't want that."

"Then what do you want?" You ask softly.

Seungcheol looks down at you, emotions warring in his eyes. After a while, he slumps and turns away. “Fuck. I can’t do this to you.”

“Tell me what you want, Seungcheol,” You say quietly. “You order people around for a living. I’m telling you to be honest with me, too.”

"…You. With me. Wherever you, or I, want to be."

You shrug a little as he cups your face. "I can live with that."

"You better," Seungcheol mumbles, as his mouth finds yours at last, burning more than any wretched tattoo, warmth spreading to your fingertips. "After everything you just said... I don't imagine you're going anywhere for a while."

February 14, 2026

The doctor came to patch him up. His hand squeezed yours hard as the bullet was finally pried out of him.

It's honestly a blur to you now when you think about it, but all you remember is his eyes boring into yours, his unwavering, callused grip on your hand.

"The snapdragon symbolises strength and grace reflected in their tall, strong stems, blooms and resistance to colder temperatures. Others believe they also represent deception and deviousness.

She embodied grace. She was his missing piece, the trait he needed to complement his headstrong nature. But he also needed someone strong enough to stand with him, through every obstacle his work throws him in. And she... she needed his courage and unwavering will to stand with her through it all."

You put the pen down. Mmm. Not too bad for a closing chapter. You send a text to the new publishing house that you contacted two weeks ago. They had seen your draft, and they loved it. Two weeks from now, when everything is settled, you promise yourself, you will show Seungcheol. He'd been curious for a while now about what holed you up in your writing room.

"Love?"

You look up from biting into your croissant. "Well, look who's back from Sicily. How did the meetings go?"

Seungcheol smiles and opens his arms. "Not too bad. I suppose the love you share for novels, along with the Don's* wife, was a selling point. She was most keen on sending you," He cocks his head to the pile of books at his feet, "this. She said it'd make a good Valentines' gift, since I've been poor at accompanying you these few months."

"That sounds perfect. We're both suckers for romances."

As you sink into his embrace, the tattoo once again burns, but it's not the passionate, red-hot zealous heat. It's warm, comforting, like a hot chocolate in winter.

He sighs. "Happy Valentines', love. I'm going to lose my girl to a bunch of fictional mafia men again?"

"You know it."

"I still don't understand why. You have one right here, next to y-"

"Softer! Do you want the whole town to hear you?"

fin.

*Don = the highest role in an organised crime family

thank you for reading 💟

main masterlist

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dduane · 5 months ago

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Hi, Diane, I have a technical writing question for you: How do you decide how long a chapter is?

I've noticed a trend among mass market books of authors adopting the James Patterson style of chapters lasting a page & a half to three pages, but sometimes not even half a page. It's infuriating, especially when action on a single scene is split amongst them. I grew up learning that a chapter is an association of scenes, & that breaks were left for major scene and/or expository changes. If a book had 30 chapters, it'd be 400 pages long. Now I have 215-pages novels with 45 chapters!

You've always delivered a really good, fairly even, page & word per chapter count. So what's your thoughts on how it should be defined, & perhaps any on this metastasizing trend?

I haven't been entirely clear about what to do about this since I first started seeing this divergence of chapter lengths happening. (And bear in mind, this is a wide spectrum to be dealing with. There are books of Terry Pratchett's that have no clearly defined chapter breaks at all.)

My own take on it in the short term has varied depending on what book I was writing, and what rhythm the interactions among the characters were expressing. Sometimes written character business can happen very quickly, over a few pages: sometimes it has to happen more slowly, as it does among real people—a series of interactions, a pause, then further ripening developments and interactions.

Patterson is well known (I think) for having a house style... because I'm sure it'll have been a good while since he wrote anything but the high points of any given book himself. It wouldn't surprise me at all if the house style reinforces his own preferences, which would seem to be for very short interactions... that "short attention span" we've seen being discussed for so long, and getting shorter and shorter all the time.

I think it's safe to say I refuse to go that road. I want to allow readers time to sit in the characters' business (as it were) and think about what might happen next. I'm not afraid to allow the readership time to speculate about what might be about to occur before the next sequence of events sets in.

Is Patterson afraid to allow this? (sigh) I may have been a psych nurse, but I decline to attempt to read another writer's mind: that's a sure path to a headache. Is it possible that writers are as susceptible as their readers to that short-attention-span problem... and unwilling to attempt to slow it down for fear of being seen as somehow "behind the times?"

Damned if I know. Again, I decline to judge. But I sure as hell know how I'll behave on my own ground.

...Let me suggest a possibility to you, looking forward. Patterson's rhythms have all become the same because his (for certain values of "his") books have all become the same. ...And who's to blame for that? Readers are well known, in the industry, for wanting to read the same thing again and again, just a little bit different. That's not the readers' fault any more. They've been trained to it. And the market reflects their training.

You, meanwhile, get to set your own rhythms, and (ideally) allow the reader to settle into them, if they find other aspects of your voice congenial. Just because the Patterson modality seems to be all over the place at the moment, doesn't mean that it will continue to be. The market, gods help us, is all about the New. Someday (gasp) Patterson will be Old. And then what? Will slow slowly start to become cool? Tough to tell.

For myself, I write in a lot of different modes (gods help me, right now over on Bluesky we're discussing the possibility of a paranormal travel agency German [or maybe Swiss] Christmas market cozy murder mystery); and every single one of them requires a different rhythm according to the subject matter, the thought processes of the characters, the rhythm of the story itself and of the characters making their way through it, the way the action expresses itself throughout this story, etc etc. I can't imagine what doing it the same way all the time, regardless of the story's and the characters' imperatives, would feel like. Deadening, at the very least. And isn't writing about being, and becoming, more alive, not less??

If I've got a message, it's this: Let Patterson go his own way (for whatever values of "his"). None of us are going to be him, any time soon.*

I think you should write in the rhythm, and with the chapter breaks, that best suit the story you're telling. If some of your readers don't like those... fine. Others will. Whether they like to hear it or not—and some of them won't—like books, readers too are ephemera: they come and go. Your job is to be faithful to the story as you conceive it, and the rhythms and chapter breaks you feel it needs. The story has no one else to depend on.

So: get busy being God in your own creative universe, and ignore what other gods are doing in theirs.

HTH!

ETA: Historically I've had a tendency to use the "shopping list" method described over here for my outlining, and that's routinely determined chapter lengths to some extent. (i.e., if there were ten items on the list, and [thereafter] ten chapters in a 100K-word book, then that means 10K chapters.)

...Except when I feel a chapter needs to be subdivided, or combined with another one and then the whole thing chopped into three. Or when more entries get added to the master list. I look to see how a chapter "feels" when weighed in the hand of the mind: too long? too heavy? too short? too rushed?—and then adjust its length accordingly.

So briefly: my own basic rules are guidelines, to be broken when necessary. Yours should be, too. Only experience will teach you when this is necessary. But that's just another part of the Craft. "We learn by doing..." :)

*Though do we want to be?

#writing advice #chapters

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claramelooo · 3 months ago

Text

WOVEN FATES (3/20)

Hey, babes!! I'm so happy with the proportion that this story is taken! I really love the characters and their personalities, and I think I should take advantage of my lack of not having an older woman for myself and write about that ( and having two older woman hehehe 😈)

So, I fucking love this chapter, my favorite chapter (for now)

It's midnight over here! Good dawn, gays! and hold your hands to yourself.

Enjoy it <3

MINORS DO NOT MUST INTERACT

Pairing: AgathaRio x Fem Reader

Summary: Finally the women stop of pretending for themselves and understand you can be something bigger than they know.

Hey! Now I've a masterlist.

Lust

Rio Vidal’s life was a succession of extremes. When she created, it was as if the world around her ceased to exist—colors and textures consumed everything, and each brushstroke was as visceral a necessity as breathing. But when she wasn’t immersed in her art, the void swallowed her with equal intensity. She oscillated between creative fervor and suffocating stagnation, and lately, the latter seemed to be winning.

She would never admit it out loud—pride had always been her greatest virtue or, depending on whom you asked, her most fatal sin. Rio had achieved what she wanted. Exhibitions in Paris, auctions in New York, murals signed in cities she barely remembered visiting. She was a revolution in the art world—the woman who defied rules, who turned canvases into war, who imposed her aesthetics and made critics swallow their bitter opinions. And yet, it wasn’t enough.

It never was.

Her relationship with Agatha had settled into an odd calm. They still shared intense moments, passionate arguments, and glances that spoke more than words. Agatha was made of controlled tides, while Rio was a storm that never knew when to stop. They loved each other, and sometimes that was a problem. But somehow, the spark that used to set everything ablaze between them felt distant.

When Agatha announced she would start mentoring young artists at the university, Rio saw a light in her that she hadn’t seen in a long time. There was something about Agatha’s energy, the way she dedicated herself to new talents, that reminded Rio why she had fallen in love with her in the first place.

That was why, that morning, instead of sending someone to fetch Agatha’s coffee, she decided to go herself. Not because she liked the coffee shop—the place was small, unremarkable, nothing that stood out. But perhaps that was precisely what made it stand out. The ordinary had always fascinated Rio in a way she didn’t fully understand.

And then, she saw you.

It wasn’t like admiring a work of art. There was no perfect composition, no interplay of light that made the scene worthy of a painting. It was something else. An alluring imperfection. Your slightly loose uniform, your worn-out apron, the way you tried to appear confident as you asked what she wanted. Rio knew immediately.

You needed to be seen.

And at that moment, Rio decided she wanted to look.

When you adjusted your apron and asked what she wanted, your voice wasn’t firm. No, it wavered, full of hesitation. Rio should have ordered the coffee, taken it, and left. But instead, she let her gaze wander over you. Meticulous. Maybe even cruel.

Then it happened. The subtle tremor of your hands made the cup slip, the hot liquid spilling onto Rio’s pristine white blouse. The sting of the coffee on her skin didn’t even make her flinch. Physical pain was insignificant to someone like her. But your embarrassment, the hurried sound of apologies spilling from your lips—that was what truly caught her attention.

And then came the moment that marked her more than it should have. In the bathroom, as she removed her stained shirt, Rio realized that your nervousness had a different taste. It wasn’t the kind of fear she saw in young journalists or insecure subordinates. It was almost… innocent.

She stood before the mirror, observing her reflection and the coffee-stained blouse. Her expression was unreadable, but inside, something roared like a caged animal. An unsettling sensation, long forgotten, stirred within her, something that made her skin tingle, a familiar shiver running down her spine.

"I… I’m really sorry," you said, your voice hesitant as you pulled a clean shirt from your bag. "This was totally my fault. Here, please, you can wear this."

Rio turned slowly, accepting the garment with long, elegant fingers. When her fingertips brushed against yours, the air seemed to shift slightly. A subtle displacement, an imperceptible instant in which everything became sharper. Her gaze narrowed slightly, as if she could see something that wasn’t supposed to be there. A fleeting moment, and then everything returned to normal.

With deliberate movements, Rio began unbuttoning her blazer, then her stained shirt. Every gesture was calculated, almost theatrical. The fabric slipped from her shoulders, revealing the skin reddened by the coffee—a faintly pulsing mark, though perhaps it was just a trick of the light in the bathroom.

You looked away, flustered, but Rio sensed your hesitation, the way you held your breath. A nearly imperceptible smile curved her lips. This—this raw, vulnerable intensity—was what stirred something inside her. For years, Rio had believed that feeling was gone, but there it was, so close it felt within reach.

"Do you always get this nervous?" Rio asked, her voice low and rich, filling the tight space like a whispered secret. There was something in her words—a pull, a tension you didn’t know how to resist.

"I… Maybe," you murmured, averting your gaze as you handed her the clean shirt. But when Rio’s fingers touched the simple fabric, a light, natural scent reached her. It wasn’t artificial but something that evoked nature—wet earth, wildflowers, fresh air after the rain. Something alive. Almost primal.

Rio slipped the shirt on slowly, but her eyes never left yours. As she adjusted the collar, she felt a restlessness in her chest, as if something inside her was being pulled beyond her control.

The silence between you was thick, heavy with something unspoken. As she pulled the fabric over her head, she caught that same scent again—faint, familiar. Not perfume, but something purer. Wet earth. Wildflowers. The scent of an impending storm.

Vida.

It was dangerous.

She knew that.

But she couldn’t resist the impulse.

"You apologize too much," Rio commented, her tone enigmatic. "Especially when you don’t even know what for." Her words were a whisper laced with intention, an echo of something hidden between the lines.

She took a step forward, invading your space, watching as your eyes widened slightly, as the heat crept up your cheeks.

Before leaving, Rio pulled a black card from her pocket and handed it to you. "When the shirt is ready, bring it to this address." The words were simple, but they carried something deeper, like an invitation to an unknown fate.

When the door closed behind her, Rio took a deep breath, trying to quiet the silent tempest within. She could still feel that strange sensation lingering in the air, a trace of whatever had just happened.

But she chose to ignore it.

For now.

Agatha Harkness had been a force of nature since the day she took her first breath. What set her apart was not just her beauty and intelligence, but the intensity with which it pulsed inside her—wild and untamed.

Growing up under the watchful eye of Evanora, a rigid and cold matriarch, shaped Agatha in ways she would never admit. It was not a childhood of love, but of expectation. Every success was demanded, and every failure was punished.

There was no room left for innocence. From the very beginning, she walked alone, carrying the weight of her difference and the certainty that if the world wanted her to be a monster, then she would be the best of them.

In her youth, Agatha discovered the power of cinema—and it was Nosferatu that ignited something dangerous inside her. The vampire’s opaque eyes, his spectral presence, the way he stalked the young and innocent Ellen not just with hunger but with a visceral obsession, awakened an unsettling fascination in Agatha. He did not simply take—he corrupted. There was no gentle seduction or empty promises, only an inevitable fate.

She saw herself in that creature, in the way he moved through the shadows, always present, always in control. The scene of Count Orlok slowly ascending the stairs, his body distorted by expressionist lighting, seemed to echo something within her—a certainty that no matter how hard they tried to stop him, he had already won. That stayed with Agatha. The inevitability of power. The fear that precedes submission.

It was then she understood: true horror is not in the monsters, but in what they make people feel. In the terror that seeps in before the touch. In the eyes that never look away. In the slow, patient game of someone who already knows they will win.

Illusion, absolute control over a story, and the power to manipulate the emotions of millions—this had always been a part of her. She started with small independent projects, but soon her name became synonymous with brilliance and psychological terror.

Her works were disturbing, impactful. Each film seemed to unveil a dark fragment of the human psyche, something the audience could not ignore. It did not take long before her shelf was filled with awards: Oscars, Golden Globes, BAFTAs. But acclaim came at a cost. Every step in Agatha’s rise was marked by manipulation and control—traits she mastered both in life and in work. She built an empire but made few allies along the way.

Rio was different. Intense, passionate, with a fire that reminded Agatha of herself in her early years. They had distinct views on power and creation. Where Rio saw passion, Agatha saw strategy. And yet, something about Rio’s near-obsessive determination touched something deep inside her—a part Agatha tried to ignore: the need for connection.

Their marriage was a union of forces, but also a battlefield. Rio was the only one who dared to challenge Agatha, and even so, she loved her with an intensity that made Agatha hesitate. Loving Rio was easy; showing it was another story.

And when Agatha read your script, all of this seemed to resurface. She picked up the paper with long, precise fingers, as if it held something more than words—something she could manipulate, like the invisible strings of her influence. Her gaze traced the title, and something flickered in her eyes, though no one else in the room could see it. Something there called to her, pulling her like a distant echo.

As she read, the words on the page began to fade for Agatha, transforming into images of the past. Memories she preferred to bury. Her mother’s face appeared in her mind—rigid and severe—uttering words Agatha no longer wanted to remember.

The memories—everything returned like a torrent of shadows Agatha had long learned to carry. She knew darkness was her fate, not because she chose it, but because something in her had always led her down that path. There was no redemption for someone like her. There never had been.

And yet, something in you seemed to defy that. Your energy—so young and vibrant—seemed to radiate from the page you handed her, as if each word you wrote carried a fragment of something impossible to ignore. Agatha felt it. A warmth, almost uncomfortable, that seemed to contradict everything she knew—everything she was.

She pressed her lips together, holding the page with firm fingers, and murmured, almost inaudibly, “Interesting.” Her voice was neutral, but inside, a storm of ideas was already forming. It was not just the text that captured her.

It was you.

Agatha watched you closely. Every small gesture, every restrained breath, seemed to confirm her suspicions. Your energy was rare—pure, yet untouched by the corruption of the world or the ambition that had consumed so many within that glamorous universe. You were something she had not seen in a long time: a fragment of purity, something that could be harnessed.

Shaped in scorching fire. Like a raw and precious gem.

And yet, you did not hate. Not your mother, not your past. That unsettled her. How could someone not hate after being abandoned? To Agatha, hatred was inevitable—a natural consequence of pain. She could not comprehend your choice, your resilience, and perhaps that was exactly what drew her in.

“This is… rare,” she said, more to herself than to you. The word sounded like a riddle, but also like a verdict. Agatha felt the weight of that realization solidify inside her.

There was something about you that could not be ignored.

[...]

The kitchen was bathed in the twilight gloom when Agatha heard the door open. The golden light of the setting sun slipped through the closed blinds in slivers, streaking the marble countertop like scars.

She held a glass of red wine, her pale fingers gripping the crystal with a force that threatened to shatter it. The sound of Rio’s footsteps echoed down the hallway—heavy, familiar, yet carrying a hesitation that made Agatha’s heart beat faster. Something was wrong.

Rio entered the kitchen like an uneasy shadow in her own home. The scent filled the space before Agatha even turned around: melted caramel, bitter coffee, and lemongrass. A sweet, unfamiliar aroma that did not belong to the wife she knew. It wasn’t Rio’s scent—amber and smoke, like incense burning in secret.

No.

This was intrusive.

Feminine in a fragile way.

Agatha turned slowly, like a panther scenting blood. Her blue eyes, usually so calculating, gleamed with a coldness sharp enough to cut diamonds. Rio stood in the doorway, illuminated by the last light of the day spilling through the window. The blouse she wore was a faded shade of pink, too tight around the shoulders.

Rage rose like poison in Agatha’s throat.

“What the fuck is this?”

Her voice was a razor blade, slicing the air between them.

Rio frowned, but her fingers twitched involuntarily against the seams of the blouse, as if trying to conceal it.

“It was an accident. Someone spilled coffee on me at the studio. I borrowed a blouse.”

“Oh, of course.” Her voice came out low, almost gentle, which only made the threat more evident. “And the scent? That’s part of the accident too?”

Rio let out a heavy sigh, her tense shoulders making it clear she was too exhausted for an argument.

“Whose blouse is that, Rio?” Agatha pressed, each word a bullet.

“The waitress. She just wanted to help.”

Agatha laughed—a dry, hollow sound. “Oh, sure. Help.” She stepped closer, invading Rio’s space until the intrusive scent—sweet, cheap—made her wrinkle her nose. “You smell like a third-rate brothel.”

Rio stiffened, her jaw clenching. “For fuck’s sake, Agatha. Don’t do this.”

“Why not?” Agatha took another step, her wine nearly spilling over the rim of the glass. “You come home, reeking of someone else, wearing clothes that aren’t yours, and expect me not to ask questions?”

“I’m not hiding anything!” Rio raised her voice, but there was a crack in it, like she was too tired to defend herself. “It was just a blouse, Agatha. A borrowed blouse because I was drenched in coffee. Why are you making this bigger than it is?”

“Because it’s not just a blouse!” Agatha shouted, her voice echoing off the kitchen walls. “It’s the scent, it’s the way you’re looking at me right now, like I’m the crazy one!”

Rio stepped forward, a raw, burning anger swelling in her chest.

“I’m trying, Agatha. Trying to be better, trying to fix this—if there’s even anything left to fix. But you… you won’t let me. You keep searching for ghosts that aren’t there.”

Agatha glanced at her wine glass, as if the answer lay at the bottom. “Maybe ghosts are all we have left.”

The silence that followed was thick, laden with all the words left unspoken. Rio caught her own reflection in the glass door—her borrowed blouse itched against her skin—then turned back to Agatha. “Do you want me to take it off? Burn it? Swear I’ll never borrow anything again? Tell me what you want, and I’ll do it.”

Agatha didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes were locked onto Rio, but they seemed to see past her, as if they were living a lie—every lack of affection, every night they slept with their backs turned to each other.

“I want you to tell me the truth.” She finally said, her voice breaking. “The whole truth, no edits, no half-measures. Because I can’t keep living in this fog, Rio. I can’t keep wondering if you still love me or if you’re just waiting for the right moment to leave.”

Rio closed her eyes, as if Agatha’s words were physical blows. When she opened them again, they were filled with tears. “I love you, Agatha. So fucking much. But you never let me in, you never let me get close. You build walls and then complain that I’m on the other side.”

Agatha swallowed hard, her wine glass trembling in her grip. “I—” She started, her lips quivering, not even knowing what she was about to say. “Maybe this is just who I am.”

The brokenness in Agatha’s voice shattered something inside Rio.

“Agatha...” Rio reached out, hesitating, but the older woman straightened her shoulders, as if something inside her had shut down again.

The walls were back up.

“I’m sleeping in the other room. Goodnight.” Agatha’s tone was sharp, but her eyes betrayed something deeper. Something even she didn’t want to face.

She turned without waiting for a response, taking with her the scent of wine and the weight of everything left unsaid.

Rio stood there, unmoving, watching Agatha disappear down the hallway like a ghost. Like she had been leaving for a long time already.

So, when you’re in Rio’s living room, holding the bag in your hands, the older woman is surprised that you actually came—and so quickly.

She was in the living room, leaning over the canvas before her, hands stained with paint as she brushed colors onto the surface. But despite the painting demanding her attention, she knew you were there before even hearing your hesitant footsteps on the other side of the door.

When the door opened, revealing your shy silhouette clutching the carefully prepared bag, Rio felt an inexplicable tightness in her chest. Since the day of the spilled coffee, there had been something about you that unsettled her—a peculiar energy, a silent game between hiding and exposing yourself in the smallest gestures.

You.

Small, fragile, holding a paper bag as if it carried something sacred. Your wide eyes scanned the studio with a curiosity Rio hadn’t seen in years—not in critics, not in buyers, not in lovers. It was the purity of someone who still believed art could save.

“Oh. Look who decided to grace us with her presence. Butterfingers.” Rio’s voice was smoother than she had intended. Her smile was a trap, but something about the way you blushed—a warmth rising from your neck to your cheeks—made her own pulse quicken.

You extended the bag, hands trembling. “I-I came to bring your blouse. And… again, I’m sorry.”

Rio took the bag with calculated indifference, but her fingers betrayed a sudden interest at the weight of the fabric. The blouse was pristine, folded with military precision, infused with lavender—a scent that didn’t belong in her world of amber and woody.

You washed it. You ironed it. You cared.

“Lavender?” Rio held the blouse against the light, pretending to examine the seams, but really, she was studying you.

You shook your head silently, lips parted slightly, like a child waiting for approval.

Something inside Rio tightened.

Innocent. So innocent.

"You’re so attentive, aren’t you?" The teasing in her voice was automatic, a reflex to keep her distance. But when you blushed again, lowering your gaze, Rio felt a pang of guilt. The bag was set aside, but her attention wasn’t.

And then you looked at the canvases.

Rio watched, fascinated, as your eyes scanned each piece. You didn’t hide your reactions—tilting your head, furrowing your brows, smiling unconsciously at a particularly wild brushstroke. It was like watching someone decode a language even they didn’t fully understand.

"What do you think of my work?" The question came out softer than Rio had intended.

"They’re… impressive."

Impressive. A hollow word, used by lazy critics. But from your lips, it sounded like a genuine compliment. Rio almost laughed. Almost.

Then you pointed at the darkest painting in the studio—the one no one dared to mention. The one that bled green and brown, chaos and stillness, desire and fear.

"I really like that one."

Rio stepped closer to the painting, her fingers grazing the frame as if stroking a dangerous animal. "This piece is about desire," she explained, her voice lower, as if sharing a secret. "The line between control and surrender."

You stood still, but your eyes—your eyes—shone with an understanding Rio hadn’t expected. As if you saw beyond the paint, beyond the layers, straight into the raw heart of it.

The artwork was an open wound on canvas. Shades of green—the green of trampled leaves, of hope rotting—fought against the brown of damp earth, as if the painting were devouring itself. Brutal strokes tore across the surface, but in the corners, almost hidden, were delicate details: wilted flowers painted with surgical precision, gold threads sutured into the darkness. It was violence and vulnerability in a perverse balance, and you felt, deep in your stomach, that it was a mirror.

"It’s about the moment before surrender. The hesitation before the inevitable." She stepped closer to you, her eyes locked onto your face. "I like that stage. Where everything is anticipation."

Her gaze held you, and there were no more masks. There was hunger there. The hunger of someone who sees a pristine porcelain vase and wonders how high it can fall before it shatters.

Rio’s hand touched your wrist, her fingers wrapping around it with a pressure that was neither gentle nor threatening—it was an experiment.

Your breath hitched. The air smelled of paint and something else—Rio’s woody perfume, now tinged with sweat. You tried to step back, but your body didn’t obey. You were paralyzed, not by fear, but by the morbid curiosity of seeing how far this would go.

Agatha Harkness didn’t believe in coincidences. To her, life was a series of calculated moves, like chess played in slow motion. But when she stopped at the studio’s doorway and saw you—so young, so awkward—with Rio’s fingers wrapped around your wrist, she felt something rare: surprise.

The scene was almost comical. Rio, always so composed, leaning over you like a vulture over fresh prey. You, frozen, wide-eyed, uncertain whether to run or surrender. And the smell… God, the smell. Cheap lemongrass perfume mixed with the scent of coffee and nervous sweat. Agatha almost laughed.

"I hope I’m not interrupting… anything intimate," she said, her voice as sharp as the heel that echoed against the wooden floor as she stepped inside.

You turned, and Agatha saw the exact moment your heart stopped. "P–Professor Harkness?" The stutter was delicious. Raw innocence. She studied your flushed face, your parted lips, your trembling hands still holding the hem of your dress as if it were an object of comfort. A speck of dust in her immaculate world. And yet…

Why do you shine so brightly?

Rio stepped in between, as she always did, but Agatha didn’t look at her. Her blue eyes remained fixed on you, analyzing every microexpression. The way your fingers clenched your fabric, the slight tremor on your lips, your short breath and too deep for it to be just fear.

Excitement. You were excited—like a puppy wagging its tail after being praised. And Rio, of course, knew.

"So you…" Agatha tilted her head, her sharp smile that of someone who had already foreseen checkmate before even making a move. "Are responsible for the coffee stain that ruined her favorite blouse?"

You were no threat. Not yet. But there was something there… But there was something there… Something that made her own fingers itch to pick up a pen and rewrite you. Her way.

"Interesting," she murmured, crossing her arms. The fabric of her purple suit whispered with the movement, reminding her that she was always dressed for war. Her gaze traced your figure— a blue dress made of cheap fabric, sleeveless, the fit went to your knees and your white sneakers, but with worn soles, gave you a refreshing look. Jovial. A student. A nobody. And yet, Rio looked at you as if you were the last unfinished masterpiece of a master.

What is it about you?

Agatha stepped closer, ignoring Rio. Her perfume— white jasmine—wrapped around you like a veil. "Well, gem," she whispered, the syllable rolling off her tongue like poisoned candy, "I hope your disastrous talents are compensated later, hmm? After all, you’re supposed to impress me today, aren’t you?"

The threat was disguised as teasing, but you understood. She saw the shiver run down your spine, the way your throat contracted as you swallowed.

Good girl.

When you fled, Agatha didn’t move. She listened to your hurried footsteps in the hallway, the silence that settled like smoke after a fire. Then, she turned to Rio.

"Who is she?" Rio cut her off before she could say anything else.

Agatha was still staring at Rio when she smirked. "One of the students in the project. A nobody. But she has the potential to be something."

Rio felt a shiver run up her spine at Agatha’s words. A nobody. She knew that tone. Detached on the surface, but brimming with submerged possibilities.

And the worst part was that she understood.

She understood because her own blood was still running hot from the moment your eyes met hers in the studio. From the instant she saw that glimmer—the curiosity, the hesitation, the desire disguised as innocence.

"Potential, huh?" Rio twirled the brush between her fingers, a lazy smile on her lips, but her eyes were sharp, noticing how Agatha now gripped the strap of her bag. The slight tremor, the way the older woman avoided her gaze a second longer than necessary.

"You saw it too, didn’t you?" The question hung in the air, its tone almost condescending, mysterious, carrying more meanings than either of them could express.

Agatha remained silent.

But Rio didn’t need a verbal answer.

Because she saw it.

She saw how Agatha looked at you—sideways, feigning disinterest, yet registering every detail. The way your mouth parted when you were nervous, the way your hands hesitated before touching anything, as if asking the world for permission.

Whatever that spark was, that unsettling warmth that arose whenever you were around, it didn’t belong to Rio alone.

"Funny..." Rio drawled, savoring each syllable, "you always say you don’t like children."

Agatha narrowed her eyes. "And I hate them."

"Then tell me," Rio stepped forward, leaning against the counter, "what happened here, Agatha?"

The older woman inhaled slowly. "Nothing happened."

"That’s not what I asked."

Agatha closed her eyes for a second—perhaps searching for patience, perhaps trying to silence something within herself. But Rio saw. She saw it in the way Agatha’s fingers tightened around the strap of her bag, in the way her breathing became imperceptibly deeper. She felt the weight of the moment—the weight of a name, a face, the memory of your presence in the studio.

"She has something, doesn't she?" Rio murmured, her voice dropping a tone lower.

Agatha opened her eyes, a crease forming between her brows. "What are you talking about?"

Rio chuckled, the sound rough, almost amused. "Her energy."

And then something shifted.

The way Agatha’s shoulders stiffened. The way her breath faltered for a minuscule, almost imperceptible moment. As if Rio had touched exactly where she shouldn’t.

"She has this... purity." Rio continued, unhurried. "But not that naive, childish purity kids have. No. It’s different. It’s as if she hasn’t been shaped yet, as if she can still be twisted and bent until she takes a form even she doesn’t understand."

Agatha remained silent, but Rio saw.

She saw it in the way her jaw clenched. In the way her fingers adjusted her perfectly positioned glasses, as if that alone could keep her in control.

Rio stepped closer, almost touching Agatha, almost whispering against the edge of her mind. "And it gets to you, doesn’t it?"

With a laugh—trembling, incredulous—Agatha tried to regain control.

"You’re being insane." She laughed, running her tongue along the inside of her cheek.

Rio savored the moment. Agatha’s hesitation was rare, precious, like a glimpse of the sun on a stormy day. She watched as Agatha ran a hand through her hair, her long fingers moving too fast through the strands, an almost impatient motion.

"Insane?" Rio murmured, tilting her head. "Or just right?"

The provocation was delivered with surgical precision. Rio didn’t need a direct answer—the silence spoke for itself.

Agatha scoffed, looking away for an instant, but Rio was too close for her to truly escape. And when Agatha’s eyes returned, there was something there. Something dark and pulsing, like a veiled threat.

"You think you know me that well, Vidal?"

Rio smiled, her lips curling slowly, as if tasting the name in her mouth. "I’ve watched you for so many years, Agatha. Every detail. Every reaction." She stepped close enough to feel her wife’s unsteady breath. "For longer than you can imagine."

The tension was unbearable, and Agatha couldn’t take it. She took a step back, her legs blindly searching for something to lean on.

Agatha’s jaw tightened. "You’ve always been arrogant."

"I don’t see you contradicting me."

And then came that heavy silence—dense, electric. A silence that was not just the absence of words, but an invisible current between them, a battle waged on a level neither dared to name.

Rio took advantage of it.

"You feel it." She said, her voice low, drawn out. "Even if you don’t want to. Even if you hate it. You feel it."

Agatha squeezed her eyes shut, as if she could push away what was taking root there. "She’s just a fucking girl! I’m old enough to be her mother."

Agatha felt the weight of confusion in her bones, a tension that wouldn’t dissolve no matter how much she tried to suffocate it. There was something in her that repelled—and at the same time, gravitated toward—you. A magnet, a force that refused to be denied.

Her body knew before her mind did. The way her fingers involuntarily clenched around the edge of the counter, as if she needed something to hold onto. The heat rising beneath her skin, a latent discomfort that refused to dissipate. The way her breathing wavered, as if her very existence was being challenged by something as simple as your presence.

It was ridiculous.

You were young. So young. Not in the superficial sense—not just in years—but in the purity within you that made her shudder. It wasn’t blind innocence, it wasn’t ignorance. It was malleability. It was the absence of cynicism, the freshness of someone who still believed. You were not like them. You were not corrupted.

And that’s what destroyed her.

Because if Agatha were another woman, if she were like Rio—so free to embrace her own desires, so fearless in her provocations—perhaps she would have already given in. But within her, there was something fiercer, something more deeply ingrained, fighting against it.

It was unacceptable.

Every time her gaze met yours, every time she noticed your sincere curiosity, your wonder at things she had long considered gray and worn-out, something in Agatha wavered.

And it infuriated her.

Because she shouldn’t waver. She shouldn’t feel this hunger. She shouldn’t be sinking into this abyss from which she wouldn’t escape unscathed.

Rio tilted her head, her eyes alight with something between fascination and triumph. Ah, so that was it. The truth had slipped out in a moment of weakness, a lapse Agatha would never have allowed if she had been in control. But there she was, exposed, fragile in just the right places.

But Rio laughed—a low, intimate sound that made Agatha’s stomach twist. Her fingers traced an imaginary line in the air, between Agatha’s chest and the door through which you had fled. "That’s just a number, darling. And you know that’s not what this is about."

Agatha felt anger mix with desire—a dangerous combination that was driving her insane. Her body betrayed her: the weight of her breasts beneath the impeccable fabric of her suit, the dampness between her legs, the tingling in her fingertips with the need to touch, to grasp, to possess. It was unbearable.

Agatha let out a dry laugh, a bitter sound that died too quickly. She tried to mask the tension, but Rio saw. Saw it in the way her fingers gripped the counter behind her, as if she needed something solid to anchor her.

"This is so fucking pathetic."

Agatha’s body trembled in uncontrollable spasms.

Rio smiled—a wicked, confident smile. She knew Agatha better than anyone. She knew the woman was off-balance, vulnerable, no matter how much she tried to hide it.

Rio tilted her head, her dark eyes gleaming with challenge. Suddenly, she closed the distance between them, her hands pressing into the marble on either side of Agatha’s body, trapping her. "Let me tell you a secret, Aggie." The nickname came like a sweet stab. "Nothing is more pathetic than denying what makes you feel alive."

Rio leaned in, her hand slowly rising to Agatha’s face, tracing the curve of her jaw with cold fingers. "Want to know what I think?" she whispered, her lips brushing the shell of Agatha’s ear. "You want to use her. You want to mold your little gem."

Agatha swallowed hard. It was the truth. Every word. She could lie to the world, but not to herself—not here, not with Rio’s fingers now twisting into her hair, tugging hard enough to hurt.

Agatha closed her eyes, a trembling sigh slipping from her lips. Her head fell back, her rigid posture finally dissolving.

"Fuck…" she murmured, feeling a wave of heat rush through her body, her nipples hardening beneath the linen blouse.

"And what do you want?" Agatha countered, her voice a rough whisper. "To watch me fall? To destroy my fucking reputation over a girl?

Rio smiled, her white teeth gleaming under the dim studio light. "I want to see you and that proud stance of yours fall. I want to see you burn with desire for this."

The kiss was inevitable.

Violent. Chaotic. A disaster of teeth and tongue and pent-up rage. Agatha grabbed Rio’s collar, her fingers twisting the fabric, while the other hand buried itself in the dark hair, pulling until a rough moan escaped between them. It had been so long since this fire, since they touched. It was delicious. It was all wrong—the taste of Rio was coffee, caramel, and defiance, and Agatha hated how much she drowned in it.

When they pulled apart, Agatha’s red lipstick was smeared on both their lips, like fresh blood.

"Why gem?" Rio asked, her voice laced with malice as her hand snaked around Agatha’s waist, sliding down until pressing firmly between her legs, the expensive fabric of her skirt nothing but an obstacle.

“B–because it's precious. Raw.” Agatha gasped, her voice rough and hesitant. “And it needs to be shaped.”

Rio smirked, her eyes flashing with predatory desire as she felt Agatha's arousal growing under her touch. “And you want that, don’t you? To control everything about her until she’s nothing but yours?”

Rio’s touch intensified, her movements skilled and meticulously calculated to elicit more reactions from the woman who was always in control. Agatha couldn't stop the low moan that escaped her lips, heat building in waves that almost made her lose balance.

The control she so cherished seemed to be dissolving under Rio’s touch. But somewhere in her mind, the image of you remained, flickering like a beacon Agatha couldn’t ignore.

Rio noticed the exact moment Agatha gave in. The subtle tremor in her tense shoulders, the ragged breathing, the way her hips shifted—almost imperceptibly—in response to the touch. It was rare to see the mighty Agatha, a woman so powerful, unravel like this.

And Rio loved every second of it.

"Hmmm… You’re so quiet," Rio teased, her voice low and thick with desire as she increased the pressure between Agatha’s thighs. "What happened to that dominant stance? Not going to tell me how irritating I am? Or are you going to admit that I’m right?"

Agatha opened her eyes, her icy blues darkening into stormy depths, desire sparking in her irises. She hated herself for being so vulnerable, but there was something hypnotic about the control Rio wielded over her.

Rio’s touch wasn’t just physical; there was power in it, the kind that stole her breath. Agatha tried to respond, but the words caught in her throat, replaced by a muffled moan.

Rio chuckled softly, her mouth finding Agatha’s neck, kissing and nibbling at the sensitive skin as the other arched into her. "Ah, so that’s it," she murmured, her voice vibrating against Agatha’s skin. "The great filmmaker, the queen of West Hollywood who manipulates everything and everyone... is at my mercy."

"Shut fuck up!" Agatha finally managed to say, but her voice was weak, failing to carry any authority.

"Shut up?" Rio repeated, feigning offense as her free hand slid up Agatha’s torso, finding her breasts beneath the thin blouse. Her fingers squeezed gently, earning a shaky sigh. "You know you love it when I talk. When I tell you exactly what I want to do to you. And to her."

The name wasn’t spoken, but it lingered in the air like a forbidden promise.

You.

Always you.

Even in that moment, between desire and surrender, the image of your innocent expression, the purity that seemed to radiate from you, invaded Agatha’s mind.

"She has nothing to do with this." Agatha whispered, but it sounded more like a desperate attempt to convince herself than Rio.

"Oh." Rio laughed, the sound low and deliciously dangerous. "She has everything to do with this. You feel it too, don’t you? That raw energy, almost untouched. It’s like a magnet, pulling you in, making you want..."

"Enough!" Agatha cut her off, but her body betrayed her when she pressed herself even closer to Rio’s hand.

Rio smirked, triumphant, as her lips found Agatha’s in another kiss, one filled with all the emotions neither dared to name. The control Agatha always possessed seemed to have vanished completely.

In that instant, she wasn’t a renowned filmmaker. She was just a woman consumed by desire, surrendering to the touch of someone who knew exactly how to disarm her.

The kiss between them was fierce, a battlefield where all the emotions they refused to name clashed and intertwined. Rio held Agatha tightly, as if needing to anchor her in the moment, while their lips met in a dance of control and surrender. It was impossible to tell who was leading and who was yielding; there was only the burning heat consuming them both.

When they finally pulled apart, the air felt heavier, thick with the tension still lingering. Agatha ran a hand through her hair, trying to regain her composure.

"I need to get back to work." She murmured, adjusting the collar of her blouse. Her fingers hesitated at the top button, which she unfastened in a quick motion. Her body was hot, almost feverish, and she hated the loss of control she felt.

Rio tilted her head, watching her with a lazy smile, but her eyes burned with something more intense. "Of course you do." She replied, her voice low, a purring provocation. She stepped closer, her presence overwhelming. "But this isn’t over."

Agatha shot her a sharp look but didn’t respond. She knew Rio was right—this was far from over. Without another word, she walked away, the sound of her heels echoing through the room.

Rio stood still for a moment, the smile gradually fading as her thoughts wandered. The empty space Agatha left behind felt unbearable. It wasn’t just about Agatha—it was about you.

She tried to refocus on her work, sitting at the table, but her eyes couldn’t stay on the words in the report she held. Her mind drifted to you, to the brief touch of your hands, the nervous way you spoke, the wide, bright eyes that seemed to overflow with a purity Rio hadn’t seen in a long time.

Too innocent. Too pure. That was exactly what fascinated her—and tormented her.

Rio abruptly stood, pacing like a caged predator. Her mind painted scenarios of what it would be like to hear you laugh, to breathe in the scent that still lingered on the bag you had brought, to taste the vulnerability in you and explore it to its limits.

She shook her head, trying to push the thoughts away, but it was impossible. The restlessness grew, turning into something unbearable.

Then, Rio decided.

If you wouldn’t leave her mind, she would go to you.

Grabbing her coat, she left the apartment without even checking the time. The thought of seeing you again ignited every fiber of her being. Driving through the busy streets only fed her anticipation, as if the destination was something far beyond the address she knew by heart.

You were there, behind the counter, serving someone with a shy smile—the same smile that had captured her attention the first time.

When Rio finally arrived at the café where you worked, she paused outside for a moment. The glass allowed her to see inside, the warm lights, the customers coming and going, and then—there you were.

Rio smiled, slow and triumphant, as she placed her hand on the door and pushed it open. She finally had you within her reach again.

When Rio stepped into the café, it was as if she could finally breathe for real. The aroma of fresh coffee mixed with a scent that seemed to emanate from you—something she couldn't quite name. Innocence, maybe, with a hint of sweetness that made her feel both restless and strangely at peace.

Her eyes found you immediately. She noticed you standing behind the counter, your rehearsed smile lighting up your face. Rio caught the small crease in your cheeks when you smiled, the dimples that appeared briefly before vanishing. It was almost disarming.

And that was what unsettled her. There was something about you that threw her off balance. Your purity, your naivety—something she couldn't quite name, but that made her want to stay close, to watch, to test the limits of everything you represented.

Rio felt a tightening in her stomach as you approached. Your presence seemed to fill the space between you in a way she wasn’t prepared to handle. She watched the shape of your lips as you spoke, the slight flush in your cheeks when your eyes met hers. Every small detail of you pulled her into an abyss she wasn’t sure she wanted to escape.

Sitting there, the ignored menu in front of her, Rio tried to regain control. But her mind kept drifting, back to the images that had haunted her the night before—memories of Agatha in her arms, whispering words of desire, both of them knowing exactly who was truly between them.

Her heart pounded as she thought about what she could do. The possibilities were endless, and each one of them wrapped around her like a suffocating heat. She could feel the contrast between the sweetness of the setting and the intensity of her own thoughts, like a slow-burning fire beneath the surface.

Rio drummed her fingers on the table, her body restless, unable to ignore the ideas forming in her mind. Her thoughts created scenarios—accidental touches, encounters that could seem casual but were planned down to the finest detail. She wanted to test the limits of your innocence, to see how you would react to each provocation.

When you returned to the table, balancing the tray with precision, Rio barely managed to suppress the smile that threatened to curl her lips. Just watching you move was hypnotizing. Everything about you seemed designed to captivate—even though, judging by the look in your eyes, you had no idea of the effect you had.

There was a slight tension in the air as you walked away again, and Rio leaned back, crossing her arms. She knew she was being consumed by something she shouldn’t feel, but the desire was growing like a wave, uncontrollable. The idea of you was sweet and tempting, and no matter how hard she fought it, Rio couldn’t look away.

A palpable tension lingered as Rio watched you, a faint smile curving her lips. She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed in a relaxed gesture, but her eyes betrayed her apparent calm. Internally, Rio felt the discomfort of an internal battle—something about you awakened emotions in her that should have remained buried. She knew she shouldn’t allow herself to feel this, but the desire was growing, irresistible and relentless.

You were a mystery, something sweet and tempting, and Rio was losing control. The contrast between your vulnerability and your obvious effort to maintain composure fascinated her. Every movement of yours seemed laced with a hesitation that only heightened the intensity of the moment. Rio studied every detail, from the shy flush creeping up your cheeks to the way your hands clenched the cleaning cloth, as if controlling them could help control what you were feeling.

When Rio called you little gem, it was almost a test—a deliberate provocation. She saw the immediate impact of the words, the flicker in your eyes betraying the confusion and nervousness you tried to hide. Something about how the nickname unsettled you left her deeply satisfied, almost as if she had found a key to understanding you—or perhaps to controlling you.

When you mentioned that Agatha also used the nickname, Rio felt something ignite inside her. It wasn’t jealousy, but something darker, more possessive. Her smile deepened, her gaze taking on a sharp, almost predatory glint. I know, she thought, and in that instant, she realized she saw you as a rare gem—precious, but still unpolished. Someone who needed to be shaped.

The thought was dangerous but irresistible. There was a dark satisfaction in the idea of being the one to mold you, to be the one who transformed you into something even brighter and more valuable. And yet, no matter how much she wanted it, Rio knew she was treading on dangerous ground. She was crossing a line, but she couldn’t—or perhaps didn’t want to—stop.

[...]

"This is our new intern," one of the subordinates said, pointing in your direction.

And when Agatha saw you, she was struck by an unexpected sensation. It wasn’t just attraction; it was something deeper, more unsettling. There was something about you, in your nervous and almost submissive presence, that intrigued her in a way she couldn’t rationalize.

She, who had always maintained total control over her emotions, felt momentarily unsteady. That irritated her deeply. She couldn’t allow a mere intern to have such an effect on her, especially in her workplace—her territory, her kingdom.

So, like a queen on her throne, she maintained the flawless façade of authority and distance, even as her mind kept searching for answers about what it was in you that had thrown her so off balance.

When Agatha saw you waiting for the bus, something inside her hesitated. She wasn’t the kind of person who cared about other people’s conveniences, but at that moment, the idea of leaving you there felt absurd. She needed an excuse to watch you more closely, to understand the strange pull you had over her.

As she let you into the car, she felt the tension in the air thicken, fueled by her own need for control and the evident vulnerability you exuded.

Agatha felt a quiet satisfaction as she observed every one of your reactions. Behind the cold smile and the casual posture, her mind was a controlled storm.

There was something fascinating about the way you tried to maintain your composure but failed, betraying yourself in nervous gestures and trembling words. She noticed every detail—the slight tremor in your voice, the flush in your cheeks, the way you hesitated before answering. It was as if you were an open book, and Agatha had all the patience in the world to explore each page.

When she heard your awkward attempt to justify your concern, a spark of cruel amusement passed through her. It wasn’t just the uncertainty in your words, but the way you seemed to struggle against yourself – between wanting to please her and keeping a safe distance. Agatha savored this internal battle like a game she already knew she would win.

When she parked in front of your building, Agatha felt a pang of discomfort seeing the place. It was simple, without the grandeur she was used to. Yet, this simplicity seemed like an extension of herself, something she couldn’t help but notice with growing curiosity. Agatha had always despised ordinary things, but there was something intriguing about you, something that made her want to explore a more raw and honest side of the world.

The leather of the steering wheel was cold under her fingers, but Agatha didn’t feel the chill. Everything in her body was on fire — a silent blaze, consuming her from within. She watched you, sitting beside her in the car, with the same intensity with which she studied an ambiguous piece of art. Innocent. Fragile. And yet…

When she asked about your "boyfriend," the word came out acidic, disguised in a casual tone. Her blue eyes fixed on you, capturing every microexpression: the blush on your cheeks, the tremble in your hands, your wavering voice. You were an open book, and she hated how much she longed to read every page.

"I don’t like these. Men, I mean."

The answer hit her like a shock. Agatha slowly turned her face, her lips curving into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Ah. The syllable escaped like a poisoned sigh. It wasn’t surprise. It was recognition. You were confessing something she already knew, something your body had been screaming since day one: you were like her. Like them.

But you didn’t have their malice. You didn’t have their scars.

The silence that followed was a battlefield. Agatha felt your gaze like a knife peeling away her layers — the jasmine perfume she wore to mask the emptiness, the pendant she wore as armor, the control she kept like a religion. You saw her. Too much.

And maybe she wanted to strangle you for it.

Your answer exposed you, and Agatha realized it immediately. She could have explored more, could have pressed until you admitted things you might not even know about yourself, but instead, she decided to prolong the game. The enigmatic smile that formed on her lips was more than just a gesture of amusement; it was a veiled promise that this wouldn’t end there.

"And what do you like, then?"

The question was a sharp thread of silk. She already knew the answer. She wanted to hear you groan. She wanted to see you struggle with the words, with the desire that made you tremble.

"Women who are... powerful."

Agatha tilted her head, her fingers tightening on the steering wheel until the knuckles turned white. Powerful. The word echoed in her skull like a profane verse, and it carried a meaning greater than you could imagine. You looked at her as if she were a deity — not of goodness, but of fire. And she wanted to burn you until only ashes remained in her hands.

"Did I… impress you today?"

Your voice came out like a thread of silk about to snap — hesitant, trembling, full of a vulnerability that made Agatha’s chest tighten involuntarily. The question was so fragile, so childlike, that for a moment, Agatha felt like a predator facing prey that didn’t even know it was being hunted.

She looked at you, her blue eyes scanning every detail: the parted lips, the hands twisting the fabric of your dress, the blush rising from your neck to your cheeks. You were a paradox — a lost child in a woman’s body, seeking approval as if it were a sweet to be won.

Pathetic.

The word echoed in her mind, but it didn’t come out with the force it should have. Instead, Agatha felt something strange gnawing in her stomach, something she wouldn’t admit. It was like watching a flower bloom under a storm — fragile, yet stubborn in its beauty.

And she hated how much it fascinated her.

"Maybe you should try a little harder, little gem," she replied, her voice as smooth as a sharp blade. The nickname came naturally, as if it already belonged to you. Little gem.

Fragile. Valuable. Hers.

She saw you swallow hard, your eyes wide, and felt a perverse triumph. You wanted to please her. You wanted to be worthy. And she wanted to rub your nose in that submission until you begged for more.

But there was something else there, something that disturbed her. The way you looked at her — not with fear, but with an admiration that bordered on devotion — made something inside her twist. It was as if you saw her not for what she was, but for what she could be.

And that was dangerous.

"Good girl." She said, her voice laced with approval, but also with a veiled threat. There was something in that compliment that made you feel small and, at the same time, powerful.

The scent of your shampoo — something sweet, innocent, like ripe strawberries — invaded her nostrils. Agatha imagined burying her face in your neck, biting the skin until it marked, until you knew exactly who you belonged to. Her heart raced, not with desire, but with hatred. Hatred for how her body responded. Hatred for how you made her feel…

Human.

The words came out before Agatha could stop them.

"You have potential. But potential is nothing without direction. Without… control."

She felt the sentence slip from her lips like an involuntary sigh, and immediately wanted to take it back, swallow it. It was a sentence that hadn’t been calculated, hadn’t been measured or polished for the desired effect. It was raw, direct, and — worse — sincere.

Agatha always calculated. Every word, every gesture, every glance was carefully planned to maintain control, to keep the world at a distance. But there, in that moment, with you so close she could feel the warmth of your body and the sweet scent of your shampoo, something inside her gave way.

She leaned in, her fingers trembling slightly by her side, as if fighting the impulse to touch you. Her blue eyes, usually so cold and calculating, shone with an intensity she couldn’t disguise. It was like a part of her — a part she kept locked away — had slipped out, even if just for a moment.

Potential. The word echoed in her mind, heavy with meaning. You had something she hadn’t seen in years: a flame that hadn’t been extinguished by the world’s cynicism. And that drew her like a moth to the light, even knowing it might burn her wings.

But Agatha wasn’t a moth. She was the storm. And storms don’t surrender to fragile lights.

Still, in that moment, she let herself fall. Moved closer, the scent of jasmine wrapping around you like a veil, and felt the thin air between you. Control. The word was a mantra, a reminder of what she was, what she needed to be. But there, with you so close, it seemed so distant.

"And what do you want me to do?" The question sounded weak, your doe eyes showing her how needy you were for it.

For her attention.

Agatha felt the air leave her lungs in a subtle but brutal way. A small death. As if something inside her had silently collapsed, without witnesses, without glory. Just the internal chaos of someone who shouldn't feel what she felt.

You.

You said it as if you didn't know what you were doing, as if the question was innocent, as if you weren't holding a match over a wick soaked with desire.

But Agatha knew. She knew that, even without fully understanding, there was something inside you that picked up on the tension, that responded to it instinctively, like an animal sniffing out a danger it also longed for.

Her body responded before her mind did. The heat accumulating in her abdomen, an uncomfortable pulse between her thighs, an imperceptible flush burning beneath her pale chest. She shifted in the leather seat, adjusting herself as if escaping the sensation was possible, as if physical discomfort could calm the storm raging inside her.

There was something sick about the way she wanted to test how far you could go. How much she could mold you, bend you. There was something terrifying about the way her body tightened at the sight of your slightly parted lips, your hesitant breath, your gaze locked on hers as if searching for something—a guide, a permission, a ruin.

She couldn't answer. She couldn't even think about it.

When you finally got out of the car, Agatha stayed still for a moment, her fingers still gripping the wheel. The scent of your shampoo still lingered in the air, and she felt a pang of something she didn't want to name.

But it was too late. And Agatha was hungry.

[...]

The door clicked shut softly, and Rio sighed deeply, the weight of the long, exhausting shift still heavy on her shoulders. She dropped her bag on the floor, massaging the back of her neck as she walked through the silent house. But when she reached the living room, she stopped instantly.

Agatha was there, sitting in the leather armchair with a glass of red wine in her hand, the dark liquid reflecting the soft light of the lamp beside her. Her blue eyes were fixed on Rio, piercing, almost glowing. There was no sign of fatigue in her, only something voracious and dangerous that made Rio feel a shiver run down her spine.

"Are you awake?" Rio asked, trying to hide the surprise in her voice. It was rare for Agatha to wait for her this late, especially like this, with a look that seemed ready to strip her soul bare.

Agatha didn't answer right away. Her fingers slid along the stem of the glass, her gaze never leaving Rio's face. Finally, she stood, slow and deliberate, every movement exuding control.

"How was the meeting?" she asked, her voice low, almost silky, but there was something dark in her tone, something that made Rio hesitate before answering.

"Tiring." Rio murmured, unsure of how to act. "You should be sleeping."

Agatha laughed, a short, dry sound. "Oh, darling, there are things that keep me awake."

Before Rio could ask what she meant, Agatha was in front of her, cold hands gripping the sides of her face. There was no warning, no chance to prepare for what came next: Agatha's lips met hers in a kiss that was neither gentle nor sweet, but possessive and violent.

Rio gasped, surprised, but soon found herself giving in, her hands instinctively gripping Agatha's waist, trying to make sense of what was happening. The kiss was like a storm, full of urgency and intensity, Agatha's teeth scraping Rio's lower lip as she pulled her body closer.

"You can't just show up like this and act like you're my mistress," Rio said, trying to catch her breath. Her voice, firm, wavered just enough to betray the turmoil inside her.

Agatha took a step forward, her presence dominating the space between them. "I don't need to act." she murmured, her voice low and laden with intent. "You know as well as I do that this is so much more than possession. It's... need."

Rio laughed, a short, nervous sound. "Need? You think that explains everything? That we can just—" Her sentence died as Agatha moved even closer, her cold fingers touching her jaw.

"Yes," Agatha interrupted, her voice now only a whisper, her lips dangerously close to Rio's. "Because that's what's eating at us. And you know it."

Rio didn't answer. She couldn't. Instead, her breath became even heavier, and in an impulsive gesture, she grabbed Agatha by the waist, pulling her against her with force. The shock of their bodies made them both exhale softly, and in seconds, their lips met again.

This time, there was no hesitation. The kiss was a fierce clash, a battle of wills and desires that neither seemed willing to lose. Rio's hands climbed up Agatha's back, feeling the fabric of her fine dress and the warm skin underneath, while Agatha tangled her fingers in Rio's hair, pulling it hard enough to elicit a moan.

"What happened?" Rio stared at the woman with hooded eyes.

Agatha ran her tongue over her lower lip, still damp from the intense kiss. She seemed as disbelieving as she was consumed by the memory that haunted her.

“She looked at me,” Agatha replied, her breathing uneven. She closed her eyes for a moment, as if trying to describe it was insufficient to convey what she had felt. “With eyes too innocent. Wanting attention... and not even realizing what she was asking for.”

The tension between Rio and Agatha was unbearable, a wild and furious electric current binding them together. Breathless, their foreheads still pressed together, they seemed on the edge of a dangerous precipice, unable to pull back.

“You completely lost it, didn’t you?” Rio whispered, her lips brushing Agatha’s in a gesture that wasn’t a kiss but a delicious threat. “Fuck, Agatha... Were you delirious for her? Tell me.” Rio groaned softly, pressing her forehead against Agatha’s.

Agatha took a deep breath, her lips parting as she tried to form words that simply wouldn’t come. It was useless to hide, not when Rio was this close, this relentless, forcing her to confront what she had been trying to deny.

“I—” Agatha stopped herself; she wasn’t going to admit it.

“I can imagine… her sitting in your car, those eyes begging you to ruin her. And you, Agatha… You got wet just thinking about how you’d make her scream.”

Agatha choked, her hips pressing involuntarily against Rio.

“Stop.” The command sounded fragile, broken.

“No.” Rio pulled her hair back, exposing her neck. “You wanted more. You wanted to shove your hand into that innocent mouth and force her to swallow every pathetic word. You wanted to see her squirm, beg…” A calculated pause, her fingers sliding down Agatha’s throat. “…just like you are now.”

Agatha let out a guttural moan, her nails digging into Rio’s back.

“I wanted to ruin her,” the words came out in a growl, her teeth clenched. “Until she couldn’t remember her own name. Until there was nothing left in her head but me.”

Rio laughed, low and wild, her hand sliding under Agatha’s dress.

“But who’s ruined here, Agatha?” Her fingers pressed, brutal, where the heat betrayed her. “You’re dripping because of a look. Because you know she’ll never give you what you really want…” A cruel nudge, her lips brushing Agatha’s ear. “…which is someone strong enough to break you.”

Agatha screamed, a raw, desperate sound, her legs giving out.

“Shut. Up.”

Rio traced Agatha’s jawline with her fingers, deliberately provocative. “You look beautiful like this, broken,” she murmured with a dangerous smile. “I bet she’d think so too.”

Agatha gasped, her eyes darkening. “Rio...”

“Don’t deny it.” Rio interrupted, her voice soft but firm. “You want her to see you like this, don’t you? You want her to know the power she has over you.”

Agatha closed her eyes, a shiver running through her body. “I want her to never find out.”

Rio leaned in, her lips brushing the corner of Agatha’s mouth, teasing. “Liar.” She whispered against the heated skin. “You want her to know. You want her to burn with us, until there’s nothing left but ashes.”

The air around them felt thicker, almost suffocating. The heat between their bodies hadn’t dissipated; if anything, it had only intensified.

“She’s not ready.” Agatha murmured, trying to cling to some shred of sanity in her mind, but there was hesitation there, a thin thread of doubt.

“And neither are we.” Rio replied honestly. “We’ll teach her. I know she’ll love it. She loves being good for us, doesn’t she?”

In a reckless move, Agatha pushed Rio against the wall with force, her body pressing completely against hers, as if she wanted to merge—while her hands roamed Rio’s body with the precision of someone who knew exactly where to touch.

Rio moaned, her eyes closing as her fingers gripped Agatha’s shoulders, holding her as if she were her only anchor. “Fuck, Agatha!” she murmured, but there was no conviction in her voice, only surrender.

They moved together, stumbling toward the bed, their mouths never parting for long. Each kiss was an explosion of need, a wordless declaration of everything they felt and couldn’t—or didn’t want to—control.

When they finally fell onto the bed, their bodies entwined, the tension became unbearable. Agatha was on top, her eyes burning as she looked down at Rio, who stared back with the same voracious desire.

“Damn you…” Rio whispered, her fingers slowly unbuttoning Agatha’s shirt, leaving a trail of kisses on the exposed skin. “You want her as much as I do.”

Agatha gasped, her body shivering against the touch. “I want... I want everything,” she replied, her hands gripping Rio’s waist, guiding her as the other continued her teasing, their control slipping away completely.

In that moment, there were no doubts, no barriers. Just two women consumed by a corrosive and overwhelming need, unable to stop until every trace of self-control was reduced to ashes.

Agatha leaned over Rio, her eyes blazing with the intensity of her desire, but there was something deeper behind that gaze—a hunger that went beyond the physical. She wasn’t just there for Rio, but for what they both felt for you, for the way your energy drew them in, almost like a curse.

Agatha murmured, her lips hovering over Rio’s neck before brushing lightly, sending shivers through her skin. “She’s between us. Even when she’s not here, she’s here.”

Rio gasped as Agatha’s teeth grazed her skin, a mix of pleasure and provocation. Rio’s hands slid up Agatha’s back, gripping her shoulders with almost desperate strength. “It’s like she’s in every thought,” Rio admitted, her voice hoarse, almost surrendered. “I see her in everything, Agatha. It’s unbearable.”

Sun down on the sorry day

By nightlights the children pray

I know you're prob'ly gettin' ready for bed

Beautiful girl, get out of my head

Agatha smiled against Rio’s skin, a smile that was more predatory than anything else. “She’s too pure for this,” she whispered, her fingers trailing down Rio’s body with torturous slowness. “And yet, that’s what makes her so... irresistible. You want to mold her, don’t you? Take the youthful life in her before the world corrupts her.”

I'm so tired of the same old crud

Rio closed her eyes, her body yielding to Agatha’s touch, but her words echoed in her mind like a challenge.

Agatha pressed her body against hers, hands gripping Rio's wrists and pinning them above her head, taking control. "Maybe I want this," she confessed, her voice tinged with something dark. "Actually, maybe I want everything. Her purity, her energy... I want to see her cry and beg for more. I want to control her until there's nothing left but what I desire."

Sweet baby, I need fresh blood

Rio gasped, not from Agatha's strength but from what those words ignited inside her. The corrosive desire was mutual, and they both knew it. "You're not the only one, Agatha." Rio murmured, her gaze burning with intensity. "I want it too. So much it scares me."

Agatha loosened her grip on Rio's wrists, but the closeness between them remained unchanged. Their eyes never wavered, the tension in the air growing thicker. "So what will we do, my love?" Agatha asked, almost in challenge. "Destroy ourselves for what we want from her? And... share?"

The proposal lingered between them like a forbidden secret, but no words were needed to confirm the answer. Rio leaned forward, her lips capturing Agatha's with wild intensity, her hands finally free to explore the woman's body above her.

"You've never wanted to share anything because you're a selfish fucking bitch." Rio murmured against Agatha's lips, her hands sliding lower, teasing. "But maybe this time... maybe for her... you'll make an exception, won't you?"

Agatha laughed—a low, dangerous sound—before leaning in again, capturing Rio's lips with a hunger that was nearly insatiable. "Careful, my love," she whispered, her voice hoarse and full of promises. "I always play to win."

And with that, the bed became a battlefield of desire, control, and surrender as both let their barriers fall, surrendering to the intensity of something they knew was as wrong as it was inevitable.

The moon shines in the autumn sky

Growin' cold, the leaves all die

I'm more alone than I've ever been

Help me out of the shape I'm in

Rio pulled Agatha closer, their lips colliding forcefully, the kiss anything but gentle. It was a battle of wills, full of teeth and tongues—a fierce confrontation that spoke more than any words could. Rio gripped Agatha's neck firmly, forcing her to lean further in, to submit to the moment. But Agatha never surrendered without a fight.

"You think you can control me?" Agatha whispered against her wife’s lips, her voice a hissed challenge. Her body was tense, the heat between them almost unbearable.

Rio laughed, a rough, low sound, as her hands slid along Agatha's waist, pulling her closer. "Control you? No," she answered, dark eyes gleaming. "But I know you're just as broken as I am."

The name neither of them dared to say hovered between them, a shadow darker than the desire they already shared. The confession in Agatha's gaze made Rio grip her hips tighter, pushing her down onto the bed.

Their bodies pressed together, slick and aching. Agatha, on top, massaged her own breasts, imagining you sucking on her until she came.

"You're no different from me," Agatha murmured, her face so close to Rio's that their breaths mingled. "You want to break her too."

After the fires, before the flood

My sweet baby, I need fresh blood

Agatha smiled—a crooked, dangerous smile—as her hands trailed down to knead her own breasts, hardened nipples under her fingers. "Then don't stop." She whispered, eyes locked on Rio, as if seeing directly into her. "Moan her name for me. I want to hear you say it."

Rio hesitated for a moment, eyes closing as if trying to shield herself from the confession. But then, as if torn from her, the name slipped from her lips in a pained whisper.

"Y/n..."

The sound echoed through the room, charged with an intensity that made Agatha shudder. Rio repeated it, louder this time, voice broken by desire. "Y/n, make mommy come. Be good for her."

Agatha froze, her body still throbbing with pleasure, but her mind spiraled into a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. The word "mommy" echoed in her head like thunder, awakening something primal and uncontrollable within her. It was both delicious and cruel, a blade twisting in her mind.

"Rio..." Agatha called, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and desire. But Rio was beyond restraint. Her body moved in perfect sync with Agatha's, seeking something deeper, more visceral.

Rio opened her eyes, wild and provocative. "Oh, don't play innocent, my lady." She responded, voice low and husky. "You want to hear those words... because deep down, you want to shape her into that for us. Someone who obeys us, who trusts us blindly. Someone who needs us."

Agatha choked, hips pressing involuntarily against Rio. "That's not..." she tried to protest, but the words died in her throat. Her mind, against her will, conjured images of you—your innocence, your vulnerability—and the contrast between that and what they wanted was like a drug, corrosive yet irresistible.

"I just want to use her." Agatha whispered against Rio's mouth, but her voice sounded fragile, as though trying to convince herself.

Rio laughed—a low, rough sound that made Agatha shudder. "Liar," she murmured, lips brushing Agatha's ear. "You want to possess her. You want her to be yours, to depend on you, to look at you like you're the center of her universe."

Agatha's blood boiled. Rio's words were sharp, cutting straight to truths she tried to bury. And yet, the heat in her core became unbearable, a living force demanding more.

Whatever trepidation you may feel

In your heart, you know it's not real

In a moment of clarity

Summon an act of charity

She leaned forward, lips capturing Rio's with a violence that felt more like warfare than a kiss. It was a declaration of power but also palpable desperation, as though trying to burn away the memory of what she'd just heard.

Agatha's mind—against her will—summoned images of you. The contrast between your innocence and what they desired was like a drug, corrosive yet irresistible.

Their movements became frenzied, almost brutal, the room filled with sounds that blended pleasure and raw need. Agatha's mind flickered, pulsing to the rhythm of desire she could no longer contain. Rio gripped her wife's hips tightly, tilting her head to bite Agatha's shoulder, drawing a sharp moan that nearly became a scream.

Agatha let out a rough moan upon hearing the name they both tried to avoid, now filling the air like an electric current. "That..." she whispered, voice heavy with almost animalistic desire. Her hips moved more intensely against Rio, the frantic rhythm reflecting the chaos within them. "Say it again. Tell me how you want her."

"Y/n..." Rio murmured, the name slipping from her lips like a forbidden confession. Her fingers dug into Agatha’s waist, guiding her wife’s movements with an urgency that burned them from the inside out. “I want her on her knees. Humiliated for us— Oh, fuck!”

Agatha lowered her head, biting Rio’s bottom lip before dragging her tongue along the curve of her neck, savoring every gasp that escaped.

“You're so pathetic.” Agatha taunted, her voice a wild whisper. “Just as desperate for her as I am.”

You gotta pull me out of this mud

Sweet baby, I need fresh blood

“Oh—FUCK! Agatha!”

The climax that seized them was like a storm—brutal and devastating. Their bodies arched together, muffled screams swallowed by intense kisses as their combined magic filled the room with an almost unbearable energy. When they finally collapsed onto the bed, their bodies still trembled, and the name that had bound their minds hovered in the air like a curse.

Agatha collapsed on top of Rio, breathless, their bodies still trembling from the wild, destructive wave of pleasure that had overtaken them.

Rio turned her head to the side, eyes half-closed, breath uneven as she ran her fingers through Agatha’s disheveled hair. Agatha rested her forehead on Rio's shoulder, her body still pressed against hers, a mix of sweat and desire radiating a near-intolerable heat.

The silence that followed was thick, heavy, laden with everything that couldn’t be spoken. Then, with a falsely casual tone, Agatha lifted her face, eyes gleaming with a dangerous mix of amusement and curiosity.

“So…” she began, voice lazy, lips curving into a mischievous smile. “‘Mommy,’ huh? What was that about?”

Rio squeezed her eyes shut, letting out an exasperated sigh, though she couldn’t stop the flush rising to her cheeks. “Shut up.”

“Oh no, my love,” Agatha countered, her hand sliding lazily over Rio’s torso in a possessive yet teasing touch. “You can’t just drop something like that in the heat of the moment and expect me to ignore it.”

Rio tried to sit up, but Agatha’s strength—both physical and emotional—kept her pinned. “It was just…” She hesitated, searching for the right words and failing miserably. “It was just what came to mind.”

Agatha arched an eyebrow, clearly entertained. “Just what came to mind?” Leaning closer, she nipped at Rio’s earlobe before whispering, “So you want her to call us that? 'Mommy Agatha.' 'Mommy Rio.' I have to admit—it does have a certain charm.”

Rio groaned, but this time it wasn’t from pleasure—it was pure frustration. “Agatha...”

“I’m kidding.” Agatha said, though the smile on her lips suggested otherwise. She slid to the side, lying beside Rio, her eyes fixed on the ceiling as her fingers traced lazy patterns across Rio’s exposed skin.

For a moment, silence reigned again, but this time it was lighter, more intimate. Agatha turned her head, watching Rio with a gaze that was both soft and penetrating.

“I really missed this.” She murmured, her voice low, almost vulnerable. Her lips found Rio’s shoulder in a tender kiss—a gesture starkly contrasting the intensity they’d just shared.

Rio turned to face her, eyes still hazy but now filled with a deeper emotion. “It’s been a while since we were like this.” She admitted softly, almost in a whisper. “Really connected.”

Agatha nodded slightly, her fingers still drawing circles on Rio’s skin.

Rio laughed softly, though a shadow of concern flickered in her eyes. “Maybe we should do something about that.” She suggested hesitantly, testing the waters.

Agatha remained silent for a moment, eyes fixed on the ceiling, but her hand found Rio’s, fingers naturally intertwining. “Maybe.” She agreed, her voice soft yet weighted with meaning.

Rio turned her face, brushing her nose against Agatha’s tangled hair. She wanted to respond, to say she felt the same, but words seemed inadequate. Instead, she simply tightened her arms around her wife, pulling her closer as if she could hold her there forever.

And maybe she could.

Maybe this was a new beginning.

Or perhaps it was the start of something even more dangerous.

Because deep down, both of them knew.

The reason that had brought them to this moment.

You.

~*~

911, what's your emergency?

Tag List <3

@vyvvycg @rosekjsses @3liyuh @trindad2k

@indentity0018 @beggingonmykneesforher

@idkwhatever580

@reginassecretlover @trying-to-do-good

@imjustvibingsworld @mbxoxo @jazzyxqzl @eternallyconfuzed @ctrlaltedits @sheriffhaughtearp

@lesbiansweet @i-luv-w1men @htinha157 @syssmin @wandasslut3000 @fuzzygiantlamphorse @imaginaryblogger01

@aboutcustardcreams @upsidedowndanvers @starbucks-06

@absolute-memegarbage

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tec-a0l · 2 months ago

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personality analysis, pt.2

a continuation of this post analyzing dylan’s personality.

stating this again beforehand that these analyses are based on accounts from their friends/families and primary source documents (journals, official reports, etc), and are purely speculative as i never met them personally. with that out of the way, i now present my analyses of dylan & eric!

⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡

part 2, eric:

eric’s personality is a little more tricky to place—he didn’t seem to have many close friends besides dylan, and his family never spoke out about him, so the information we have on him is much more sparse.

he moved around a lot, due to his father being in the military, and i think that was probably one of the biggest influences on his personality—he even stated in his diversion files after the van break-in that moving away from plattsburgh (where he lived prior to moving to littleton in 1993/7th grade) was one of the most traumatizing experiences in his life. for him, constantly being the new kid and having to leave friends behind made him feel outcasted and “othered” in a way.

he spoke about that feeling quite a bit in his journals, but the last proper entry he wrote is especially notable in my opinion:

“I hate you people for leaving me out of so many fun things, And no don’t fucking say “well that’s your fault” because it isn’t, you people had my phone #, and I asked and all, but no. no no no don’t let the weird looking Eric KID come along, ooh fucking nooo.” — eric’s journal, 4/3/99

part of what caught my attention about this entry is that it feels so honest. a lot of his journal (to me) reads like he’s writing for an audience, playing up this grandiose “godlike” persona that he wanted to be viewed as—but this specific portion just feels truthful and defeated, almost.

eric had a lot of insecurities, both physically (his pectus excavatum, having a “big head on a skinny body,” his height, etc), and socially (re: being the new kid, not having a ton of friends), which i believe also contributed to both his feelings of being “othered” and his resulting anger.

i do think his anger was two-sided, however: one side being genuine frustration with the feeling and unfairness of rejection, and the other being fronting—like if he makes himself seem tough and mean, then he can’t get hurt.

in a psych assessment found in his diversion files, he marked his frequency of feeling “mixed up or confused” as “all the time,” and while he didn’t elaborate on this feeling in the report, that answer is as clear of an indication one could get that he was experiencing a lot of turmoil within himself.

while reading interviews and testimonies of those who interacted with him, i noticed there were two main, yet conflicting, things said about him by his friends—or more precisely, dylan’s friends who he was also friends with, largely by association—and by his classmates:

1) eric was short-tempered and angry.

2) eric was polite and mostly kept to himself.

of course, these observations don’t necessarily negate each other, but they do show a clear dichotomy of the same sort of “inner/outer-self” like dylan had, though slightly more situation-dependent.

in my opinion, eric was influenced greatly by his environment—whether that be in the form of having to move around a lot, having a military-strict family, or getting outcasted and bullied at school—and everything combined into this perfect storm of turmoil he found himself in.

it’s unfortunate that there weren’t more people willing to speak on the positive aspects of who eric was. though, in a way, if there had been more people like that in his life, we very well may not have even known about him in the first place.

⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡

this is much longer than i was expecting it to be, and there’s still so much more i could say, but i’ll end it here for now lol

dylan’s analysis/part 1 is here.

#tec thoughtz #tc analysis #speculation #eric info #eric’s writings #source material #tcc tumblr #tccblr #eric columbine #dylan columbine #eric and dylan #tcc columbine #true cringe community #teeceecee

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thxtmarvelchick · 3 months ago

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JJ Valentine’s Fic Recs

in honour of Valentine’s Day (weekend bc i’m posting this late), here are my favourite fics of JJ Maybank that made the holiday a little less depressing <3 (this was originally supposed to be all obx characters but i got carried away but trust i have SO MANY MORE for the rest of the pogues (and more jj) so i’ll do a part 2 eventually)

only got the courage to post this because of @tinypinkrobot so this is for them <3

most if not all fics are x fem!reader and some are 18+ (therefore i would prefer minors not to interact with this post but i do not have the time nor the energy to check everyone’s acc), the authors are NOT responsible for your internet consumption (nor am i); be responsible, pay attention, and respect the authors boundaries! (all 18+ fics will be labelled! MINORS DNI)

Outerbanks

JJ Maybank

full length fics+series

His To Keep by @pankowperfection (18+)

smut, kinda dark JJ, oral (f receiving), branding

i first read this fic almost three months ago and i still think about it all the time (i have the link in my notes app im not kidding), this author is so talented go read all their fics tbh they kill it everytime, i go to their account and reread everything all the time

summer lovin’ by @murdockcastleslut (18+ blog)

ongoing series, kook!jj, pogue!reader, if jj was raised by larissa, rafe and reader have some history

look… i will eat up every kook!jj fic that is thrown my way. the way the author writes jj and the interactions between him and reader😩, the plot is so intriguing and im always so excited for every new chapter. ALSO reader is SO jj’s girl like he is so down bad, expect cute petnames (HE CALLS HER PRINCESS ICANYSIAKSKSOSIJWIDISJSKS and then he pulled out a “my darling angel” once and im pretty sure i passed out). honestly go read all of her works bc holy shit every single one of them is fantastic.

teach me please by @mrsriddlenott (18+)

smut, bsf!jj, innocent!reader, oral (m&f receiving), reader overhears someone talking badly ab them (indirect bullying), use of good girl🤭

this is another one i’ve had in my notes app since it was posted, since then the author has written a part two and both parts are so incredibly written. their dynamic and the way you can TELL they’ve been wanting each other for so long is EVERYTHING

love on the island by @papercranesandinkstains

ongoing series, love island!au

if you follow me and pay attention to my reposts you knew this was coming… i have said it once and will say it again this is my favourite SMAU (tied with rhythm&revelry) i’ve ever read and it’s not even finished yet. the amount of time and effort put into this fic truly pays off because WOW. the graphics are beautiful. interactive polls. BANTER. jj is fumbling over himself he is so into reader😭enough said go read it.

Rhythm & Revelry by @darlingchronicles

ongoing series, university au, SMAU

the creativity is simply insane, i can’t even imagine how long it takes the author to do these chapters because she’s truly created a whole world to the point where sometimes i forget it’s not actually an app and is actually a fanfic. the relationships between characters is so beautifully developed and it’s not all romance. you get really amazing insights into the friendships between the reader (nicknamed blue) and sarah, cleo and pope. honestly i can’t even explain in words how much i love this fic. definitely a comfort fic (and i LOVE making up theories in my head as to what happened in the past iykyk). this is a long one so great for passing time (or if you’re me, ignoring your responsibilities and binging the whole thing bc you’re simply too hooked)

Kildare University by @papercranesandinkstains

completed series, two different endings (JJ or Rafe endgame depending on your preference), university au, jj plays football, reader is in band, rafe is readers ex, SMAU

ok i couldn’t just put ONE of her fanfics on here let’s be real everything this author writes turns to gold. immaculate build up, amazing chemistry, the way you can choose who reader ends up with is everything to me bc i might’ve curled up in a ball and died if i didn’t see a jj endgame. BUT everyone can be happy (ADDITIONALLY if you’re a jj AND rafe person you get double chapters sooooo what’s not to love)

narcotic by @thebestjjenthusiast

completed series, SMAU, bsf!jj

you can tell the author has an elite sense of humor bc they have me cackling at 3am. also JJ is DOWN BAD for reader it’s so funny, like expect CONSTANT flirting… this man is practically begging reader to get with him and reader is OBLIVIOUS😭, the flirting has me blushing so hard i have to pause reading sometimes just to giggle into my pillow AND the ending is perfect

summer was my first love by @vampiriito (18+) pt.1 pt.2 pt.3 pt.4 pt.5 pt.6

ongoing series, shy! reader, reader has social anxiety, READER WEARS GLASSES (glasses girls rise), reader has secretly had a crush on jj for like ever but he’s always been “out of her reach”… or so she thought

the build-up. readers characterization and the depiction of her social anxiety are everything to me. jj is so soft for her and he doesn’t even fully know it or understand why at first. i’ve cried multiple times reading this series AND NOT EVEN BC ITS SAD just because i feel so seen and represented. this author genuinely writes so well i cannot wait for the next part🥹

Biker!JJ Oneshot by @highpope

biker!jj, motorbike stunt

this had me blushing and giggling i’m not kidding. jj is so soft with reader and reassures her when she gets scared. when he called her pretty girl i think i passed out. the flirting in this makes me flustered no matter how many times i read it😭

First Date Oneshot by @jjsloverre

bsf!jj, sweetheart!reader, fluff, mentions of sex but no smut

the dynamic between bsf!jj and sweetheart!reader is one of my favourites. they are honestly everything to me. he’s so sweet and caring towards her (but expect innuendos and cursing bc it’s jj we all know he can’t help it). additionally you have to check out their other bsf!jj and sweetheart!reader fics too!!!

Gossip Girl by @maybejj (18+)

ongoing series, SMAU, pay attention to the trigger warnings at the beginning of each chapter

DRAMAAAAAAAAAA. the plot will grasp your attention and not let go and next thing you know it’s 5am and you have class in 3 hours (not at all speaking from experience that’d be crazyyyy id never do that…🥲). JJ LOVES reader and would probably kill for them. readers friendship with kie, sarah and cleo is EVERYTHING, they are truly readers ride or dies.

secret admirer by @voidangxls

part two

kook!reader, pure fluff, jj is DOWN BAD, part of a valentines special

hands down THE CUTEST thing i’ve ever read on this app. jj gets teased by the pogues for not being able to talk to reader😭 the dual pov makes it so interesting bc you can see how in love jj is and wonder how the hell reader hasn’t noticed him staring them down 24/7😭😭 will be rereading everyday.

-blurbs/drabbles/texts (not gonna make notes on these ones but know i have every single one in my notes app and reread them CONSTANTLY, these authors are so incredibly talented <3)

Boy in Love by @everydaydreamer (18+ blog)

pure fluff, valentines blurb

texts with jj by @lillymmb

boyfriend!jj, fluff, jj LOVES reader

breeding kink concept by @moremaybank (18+)

implied but no smut, breeding kink (duh😭)

black cat!reader by @ervotica (18+)

black cat!reader, use of daddy, once again jj LOVES reader, reader is grumpy

texts with jj and desi!reader by @deadpcnned

desi!reader, jj in a kurta😩, established relationship, i just love this

boyfriend!jj by @lovelyjj

“wear whatever you want i can fight”😩, jj can throw a punch, fluff fluff fluff

passenger princess by @rubiehart (18+)

jj being fine, groping, use of “my girl”🤭

valentine’s day with jj by @seasprincess

established relationship, jj saves up to buy reader gifts, pure fluff

#jackie’s recs💗#jj maybank #obx #outer banks #jj maybank x reader #smau #jj maybank smau #outerbanks #jj maybank fic recs #fic rec #jj maybank fic #jj maybank fluff #jj maybank smut #favs

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lightlycareless · 2 months ago

Note

i have a headcanon that naoya loves slapping y/n ass 😭 poor girl

Hellooooo anoooon!!!! Thank you for waiting!!

Sometimes I get these very specific asks where I'm like "I haven't thought about it but am I glad this was brought up to my attention."

Thank you so much for sending this in, I really enjoy writing the perverted Naoya that kind of guides himself through his desires :) I really need to make him more debauched lol.

Anyways, here are the warnings: slight nsfw. just innuendos here and there, nothing explicit. but still, minors please don't interact.

Happy reading!!

Honestly, that is just one of his many fixations when it comes to your body, perhaps his focus solely depends on his mood that day. Sometimes it’s your chest, and sometimes your ass. But once he sets his mind into tormenting you there is no stopping him—it’s like it were physically impossible to not slap your butt. Naoya simply has to or he’ll go insane!

To which you… go along with. Most of the time, sometimes… though you enjoy the playful connotations behind his actions, you still get flustered for them! Naturally so if he always did them in front of others, even if he proclaimed to do so discreetly.

But that wasn’t the point of this at all! Far from it, actually. It all boiled down to a single question, every single time: was it really necessary for him to slap, pinch, squeeze, and fondle your ass, every minute of the day?!

For someone as debouched as Naoya, yes. And you’d do good, as everyone else, to accept this fact and move on if there was the slightest wish to accomplish anything at the estate.

Yet, as much as you loved Naoya and all his peculiarities, indulged them too as well, you’d soon reach the limit where you could no longer permit his excessive enjoyment to perturb you anymore.

Not when in the presence of innocent bystanders, and certainly not when it starts to hurt.

“Naoya!” you cry the moment his hand lands against your bottom once again, giving a loud smack that made everyone around red, quick to look away less they wished to suffer Naoya’s irrational jealousy, or your shocking frustration at the now shattered pieces of your favorite tea set. “That was—”

“Oh, oops.” He sheepishly apologizes, and if that wasn’t clear enough to prove his indifference at the whole situation, his following words did. “But I can always get you a new one.”

“That was—what is wrong with you?! That was my favorite set!! A gift from my sister!”

“Y/N, it’s just a matter of reaching out to her and asking—”

“No, you’re not going to buy your way out of this!” you interject, with a loud, clear voice that rattles Naoya for a moment, never seen you this agitated before…

“My love, truly, it was just an accident—"

“It’s not an accident if it happens all the time!”

“All the time? Just how many teapots do you think I’ve broken??”

“That’s not—You know I’m not talking about that!”

“Is that so? Well, whatever it is, you never seemed to have a problem with it before… I don’t know why it’s suddenly such a nuisance.”

“… you know what? I need some air.” And without anything else to add, you motion the nearby staff to help you clean up his mess before leaving the kitchen.

Leaving behind a distraught Naoya who didn’t take much longer than just a few seconds of analyzing your stern, disappointed tone to know he had direly messed up and subsequently, chase after you.

“Wait, Y/N—”

However, you were (surprisingly) faster to outwit him, at least until you were able to arrive to a secluded garden where you’d be able to deal with the humiliation of not only being exposed through his lewd act, but also the dismissal of your feelings.

The importance of the lovely gift your sister gave you to commemorate your marriage, relegated to a simple, playful “apology” simply because Naoya was too stubborn to admit his faults. To deal with the consequences of his actions, instead of you!

…A part of you knew this was almost silly to stress about, for you were well acquainted with this side of Naoya when you got together with him—so to suddenly proclaim otherwise would only prove foolish.

Still, it didn’t hurt any less. And at the notion of him possibly coming to insist you on how there wasn’t nothing wrong with his behavior, simply an exaggeration on your part, makes you consider spending some time apart; at least until you cool down.

But surely you weren’t expecting him to actually allow that, were you?

“Y/N, you can’t just leave like that.” Naoya says once he finally reaches you, but you do little as raise your gaze to him, still focused on the flowers before you. He insists. “Y/N—"

“Are you here to make fun of me again? Was that not enough?” you murmur, he presses his lips.

“I’m just playing, you should know that by now, princess.” He persists, followed by the feeble attempt of reaching out to you, taking a seat by your side just at the edge of the engawa… Only for you to inch away when he does.

If your sudden disappearance moments ago wasn’t enough proof of your animosity, then this heart wrenching disapproval is.

“Y/N…”

“What do you want, Naoya? How else could I probably entertain you into leaving me alone?”

“Why would you want me to leave?” He asks. “Is that not why we married? To never be apart?”

“…I recall making a vow to support one another, not ridicule. Or hurt.”

“Hurt?” Naoya repeats almost incredulously, blinking as his mind desperately attempts to recall a moment where he’d done the very same thing he swore to never do again. “When have I… I wouldn’t, Y/N.”

But you remain silent at his response, briefly giving him a look that denotes your retaliation to said announcement, your skepticism behind his confidence, before looking away once more.

You had no reason to lie about such serious matters, after all.

“… Is it because of the tea cups set?” Naturally, amongst other things. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you into dropping them; I just… well, I guess I just wanted to brighten your mood, you seemed pretty… tense.”

“Were there no other ways to do so?” you quietly add. “Must you… make me look like a fool?”

“I doubt anyone thought that of you, my love. The whole estate adores you.” Naoya admits. “If anything, I’d be the one they abhor above all… and within reason.”

“Not everyone hates you, Naoya.” You look at him, gaze softening at the face of his insecurities.

If there’s one thing you dislike more than how impetuous your husband can be from time to time… it’s his sadness. His solitude.

No one is deserving of such doubts, certainly not your loved ones.

“I don’t hate you.” You say. “Even if we disagree in some things… my love will never dwindle.”

“I shouldn’t have made you angry; the reason why I married you was to strengthen my commitment of making you happy, not the other way around.”

“It’s bound to happen, we’re both human after all.” You chuckle. “But… I guess I let my emotions get the best of me because… well, I’m… hurt.”

“Hurt?” Naoya frowns. “What do you mean hurt? Who did it? Is he still here?? I’ll make sure they—”

“No, Naoya, don’t—it’s not like that.” You shyly explain, heat slowly starting to settle in your cheeks and ears. “I… Let’s say I’m not very comfortable sitting down.”

“Sitting down?? What are you—”

…

Oh.

It’s Naoya’s moment to turn bright red at the quick flash of last night’s endeavors.

Had he truly been that careless with his desire, that he didn’t measure the intensity of his acts?

But he thought…

“Ye—yeah; you were a bit too… rough last night.” You follow. “I don’t usually mind but I guess… I wasn’t that prepared this time around.”

“O—Oh, Y/N… I… I’m sorry.” He stammers, taking your hands and gently pressing them. “I should’ve known.”

“It’s ok, I know.” You reassure him. “I… I think we just went a bit too crazy last night and didn’t deal with the aftermath properly.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve done more.”

“Because it was… embarrassing for me.” You admit. “How do you tell your husband that your… butt hurts because he spanked it too much?”

“Just like that.” Naoya chuckles, releasing a bit of the tension settling on your shoulders “I do suppose this means I have to improve in our aftercare—guess it’s more than just warm baths and cuddles.”

“I guess it does.” You say. “Or maybe I’ve grown too old now…?”

“Old? Since when being in your 20’s is considered old?”

“A lot would say otherwise…”

“Ah, either way I’m not interested in such trivialities. All that I care about is making your butt feel better.”

“It sounds wrong when you say it like that.” You pout, he laughs.

“It’s the truth.” Naoya shrugs. “Do you think kissing it better will help?”

“Oh, no, it’s off limits until I feel better!” you fervently shake your head at this scandalous proposal. “And that includes sex!”

“…Fine, I can live with that.” Naoya dejectedly admits, because to the always handsy husband, this might as well be a life sentence, as ridiculous as that sounded. “Anything for my mochi, I suppose…”

“…But I guess I can make exceptions if you get the same tea set, without Hinata knowing about it! She’ll kill me if she finds out what happened to it…”

“Kill you? Impossible; if anything, I believe she might even find some way to make this incident a… blessing.” Proclaim even that her gift wasn’t that pretty anyways and she could get you a much better! Just to avoid seeing you upset. “I’d be the one to face death instead.”

“Not if we keep this a secret.” You smile, offering your pinky finger at him. “Shall this stay between us?”

He clasps your finger with his.

“I swear, over your sore—”

“Shut up!”

Your reaction would be believable if you weren’t equally perverted as him, it’s how many of these things came to be, after all.

Nothing but a reflection of your own desires, made possible thanks to his undying devotion.

a.k.a you have all these kinks you wanna try out and naoya is like damn!!!

...

....

count me in. also facesitting is 🤌

Nothing more to add than thank you so much for this hehe I hope it was to your enjoyment!

Take care and hope to see you soon :)) 💖💖💖

#ask #naoya zenin #naoya zen'in #naoya x reader #naoya zenin x reader #naoya zenin x you #jjk naoya #naoya zen'in x reader #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk x you #prompt series: jujutsu kaisen

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nanamineedstherapy · 4 months ago

Text

Controversial Opinion: The Anti-Sugar Baby Manifesto

Okay, so... does anyone else not want to be Nanami’s sugar baby, Gojo’s dependent, Sukuna’s servant, or insert your favorite emotionally unavailable man’s sidekick?

I’ve read (and loved!) plenty of fics where the reader is in one of these roles. And honestly, there’s nothing wrong with enjoying them—power to you if that’s your vibe! But if we’re talking canon or even slightly realistic scenarios… yeah, I just can’t.

Before you start throwing tomatoes 🍅, hear me out. I promise this isn’t a hate post—just my thots.

Alright, buckle up because I’m about to destroy your sugar baby and servant fantasies with my unsolicited, unhinged takes.

Nanami Kento:

You wanna be Ken Doll’s sugar baby? Cute, but be serious. This man is one passive-aggressive comment away from throwing himself into traffic because he hates capitalism that much. He chose exorcisms and certain death over Excel sheets. Excel sheets, babe. If you think he’s gonna work overtime to buy you Versace, you’re delusional.

If I were with him, I’d work harder at my job (I hate corporate too, but not more than I love Nanami) and funnel my salary straight to him. He’d handle it responsibly because I’d just blow it on expensive pens, another PC, and iced tea. But also? I’d keep an emergency fund. Trust no one. Not even your man.

Let’s not forget the workplace romance trope. This man is the epitome of professionalism. He’d never date his coworker, let alone his secretary. Not because you’re not amazing, but because the power imbalance would haunt him. Like, he’d wake up in a cold sweat thinking about HR policies. And I respect that about him bcs same.

Also, please don’t get involved with someone who promises love and then runs to HR if his job’s on the line. (Not Nanami but in general advice.)

The stats don’t lie, and I’m not about to become the next cautionary tale in a LinkedIn post.

Gojo Satoru:

You wanna date Gojo? Cute. Except he wouldn’t date you, let alone spoil you. He wouldn’t date anyone. He’s emotionally constipated, a walking trauma fest, hyperfocused on being the strongest sorcerer alive™️, and allergic to vulnerability.

Most fics turn him into this suave flirt, but let’s be real—canon Gojo struggles with human interaction beyond being a troll. He’s a nerdy dork, so his game is shit even if he wanted to date you.

Y’all write him as this rich sugar daddy, but in reality? He’d spend your entire relationship trolling you, gaslighting you into thinking he’s a “normal guy,” and then disappearing for weeks because he’s busy babysitting teenagers and battling his inner demons.

Also, sugar babies love his money, but be honest—you don’t even like him; you like his black card. Gojo deserves better than being your walking ATM, and you deserve better than a man who’d eat your last snack just because he can.

Gifts are cute, but if he’s doing all the work while I’m chilling? That’s just freeloading.

I'm yet to come across a fic where he takes the time to realize he even wants a relationship, instead of being a pre-established fuckboy who suddenly changes because he found the 'right person.' Let’s be real, that’s not how it works. We shouldn’t glorify men for changing after finding the right person or excuse their past behavior, including any STDs they may have/had.

(Note to self: In future fics, explore his struggle to admit he wants a relationship and the challenges he faces in figuring out how to be in one.)

Haibara Yu:

So, you’re thinking about dating Haibara? Buckle up, ‘cause you’re signing up for a rollercoaster ride where the tracks are constantly under construction. Haibara’s got the energy of someone who just found out about sarcasm, but also the emotional depth of a puddle.

This guy’s all fun and games until you realize he’s like a cat that wants attention, but only on his terms. He’ll say the most unbothered things with that sunshine stare of his, but don’t be fooled. That’s his way of hiding his entire emotional baggage.

One minute, he’s sarcastic and aloof, and the next, he’s unexpectedly clingy, wanting to know if you still like him (even though he’d never admit it). You’ll spend half your time wondering if he actually likes you or if he’s just in a perpetual state of "I’m too cool for this."

Does he care? Absolutly. Expect texts like "I'm fine" followed by a cryptic emoji and zero context.

Dates? Don’t hold your breath. He's too busy trying to be taken seriously.

He’s not a millionaire either. Don’t expect a big grand gesture. His idea of spoiling you? Buying you a drink from the convenience store, giving you stale candy and maybe, just maybe, sending you a playlist of sad songs that “remind him of you.” Yeah, romantic, I know.

He’s not gonna spoil you with gifts, but he’ll share his last pack of gum like it’s the greatest act of love ever. Don’t expect consistency, just an occasional burst of affection sandwiched between long silences and sarcastic banter.

Would he be loyal? Absolutely. Would he constantly second-guess himself and need reassurance that you're not going to leave him because he doesn’t know how to talk about his feelings? Definitely.

Prepare to give him more emotional support than you ever signed up for. Would he adore you? Yes, but he’ll probably think it’s too much work to actually show it. But hey, if you’re into emotional chaos and not knowing where you stand, Haibara’s your guy.

You probably only like him because you know nothing about him.

Ryomen Sukuna:

The “servant/concubine” trope is insane. INSANE. You think Sukuna, the literal King of Curses, is gonna treat you like anything more than a chew toy? The power imbalance isn’t sexy—it’s electric chair. You’d either die mid-hookup (his hands alone could snap you in half) or be tossed into a volcano because you sneezed too loudly.

Be fr—he’d accidentally (or on purpose) kill anyone he sleeps with. The man’s a giant sadist, naturally rough, and has zero chill.

Romance? Nonexistent. Sukuna’s idea of flirting is probably something like, “You’re less annoying than most humans. Barely.” That’s not romantic; that’s verbal abuse with extra steps.

Toji Fushiguro:

This one hurts because Toji’s hot but this man has no money. None. Zero. If you want to date him, you better be ready to cover rent, groceries, and his “post-mission beer fund" because his entire paycheck goes toward sharpening his sword, buying protein powder, and gambling.

Let’s not forget he has a dead wife, and he went off the deep end after her death. Even if you could somehow 'fix' him like the unlicensed therapist you are because you have nothing better to do, he’s a vengeful widower who would leave you randomly for missions—and might not return because he’s driven by the insecurity of proving the Zenins wrong, which would get him killed.

Plus, he’d bring up his dead wife in every argument, saying things like, “She wasn’t this nagging; she didn’t do this or that.” People tend to glorify the dead, and he’d be the prime example of that. How could you compete with the memories of someone his mind has declared perfect?

He’s everyone's wet dream, sure, but do you really wanna date a guy who’d ghost you and leave you with his kid?

And don’t even get me started on his love language. It’s probably, “I killed a guy for you.” That’s cute until the cops show up at your door asking questions.

He might toss you a bone (not like that, calm down), but the idea of me paying for someone who might not even text me back? Pass.

Kamo Choso:

Sweetest man alive. Too pure for this world. But dating him would be like adopting a sad, traumatized puppy who cries every time you leave the room. You’d spend your entire relationship comforting him and Googling “how to help my boyfriend stop mourning his 17 dead brothers.”

He’s too busy laser-focusing on Yuji and going through an identity crisis to even think about being in a relationship. I’d want to protect him, not date him.

Also, his skincare routine is probably better than yours, which is cute until you realize you’ll never be the pretty one in the relationship.

Geto Suguru:

Ah, Babygurl Suguwu. Love him to death (pun intended), but dating him sounds like lifelong therapy.

Do you really wanna date a guy who’s juggling a cult, unresolved trauma, and genocidal tendencies?

His love language is probably “eliminating humanity,” and unless you’re down to join his pyramid scheme of sorcerer supremacy, this is not gonna work.

Also, you will forever be second place to the Gojo-fucking-Satoru.

Be serious. You will never win that chase. He'll leave you mid-sex to go see his 'one & only' babe.

Kashimo Hajime:

Kashimo would date you for the sole purpose of fighting you. He doesn’t want love; he wants violence—he’s looking for someone who can throw hands.

Imagine coming home after a 10-hour shift at work, exhausted, and this man’s standing in your living room like, “I’ve been waiting to test my new technique on you.” No, sir, I want a nap.

And don’t think you can just say no. He’d follow you to the grocery store, the dentist, your grandma’s funeral, like, “We fight now!”

Hiromi Higuruma:

Now, this man’s tempting. Responsible, classy, knows how to argue (a lawyer, duh), but... he’s also on the verge of a midlife crisis.

Do you really wanna date someone who’s one bad day away from snapping? You’d spend most of your time convincing him he’s not a terrible person, and honestly, I don’t have the emotional bandwidth for that. Therapy is expensive, and I already have PTSD from my ex.

Also, he’d probably start arguments just to win them. You think you’re ready for that kind of intellectual warfare 24*7?

Shiu Kong:

Do you like mafia drama? Because that’s what you’re signing up for. Mafia life isn’t sexy—it’s stressful.

You’d be dodging bullets, interrogating his “coworkers” about his whereabouts, and wondering if he’s about to betray you for a promotion.

Also, he's an asshole who's going to disappear after he's done with you; go see the scene before Toji died. Hard pass.

Kusakabe Atsuya:

This man is the king of doing the bare minimum. His love language is probably “napping,” and while that’s cute in theory, it’s less cute when he cancels date night because he “forgot” he had to sleep.

Honestly, he’d be a great friend, but as a partner? You’d be babysitting him.

Takuma Ino:

You wanna date Ino? Adorable. But let’s be real, you’re signing up for 24/7 unpaid emotional labor. Ino’s a golden retriever boy who desperately wants validation, and you’d basically be his therapist, hype woman, and emotional punching bag all rolled into one.

He’d shower you with attention (cute, right?) until you realize he’s also incredibly insecure and needs constant reassurance that he’s “doing a good job.” You’d be his number one fan and his HR department.

He’s not rich either. Like, at all. His idea of spoiling you would be buying you snacks from the konbini and taking you to the movies with coupons. Don’t expect luxury here—expect a man who puts in effort but forgets anniversaries because he was too busy stressing about being a sorcerer who no one takes seriously.

Would he adore you? Yes. Would you want to be adored by someone who still Googles “how to ask her out” while you’re already dating? I’ll let you decide.

Final Thots-

At the end of the day, I’d rather have my own independence than rely on someone else to “take care of me.”

I want a partner—not a sugar daddy, not a servant-master dynamic, not a walking red flag, and definitely not a paycheck.

I'd rather have a househusband who's retired and relaxed than an overworked sugar daddy—or worse, a dead one. Is that too much to ask?

Anyway, this is just my opinion!

If you love those tropes—go off; that’s totally valid. I’m not yucking anyone’s yum. We all have our preferences, and that’s what makes fandom fun.

No hate, just vibes.

Thanks for coming to my TED Talk. I’ll see myself out. 👋

If you still wanna fight, my comments are open, although I will reply like the guy you are fighting for.

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okaerina · 10 months ago

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⠀ ⠀ ( 𝒜rticle ) ̨ 𝒞RUSH! ୨୧ 一 엔하이픈 ՞

SIMP! enhypen x CRUSH! reader GENRE! fluff, crack, mutual pining, idiots in love TW! not proof read, lowercase intended A/N! anon rqs WC! 890 NOW PLAYING! . . . xo ( only if you say yes ) by enhypen ── 💭 ࿔

𖠗 HEESEUNG .ᐟ

somwhat awkward but confident. he thinks he's pretty mature in terms of romance but when he is with you his brain short circuits so hard he has to grip on something to not faint. but he's a great listener, he will listen to your rants, anything that's been bothering you. he listens so attentively humming and interacting. writes songs dedicated to you and serenades you by singing them !!! you are literally his muse atp, he notes down every little detail about and absolutely adores them. he's all giggles and blushy with you hehe. he dreams of playing video games with lmao.

𖠗 JAY .ᐟ

pretty mature and a bit shy. i feel like jay would be the most mature one amongst enhypen. he's also a bit shy too but tries to overcome it. he's loaded as hell so do expect expensive gifts and bouquets more often. another great listener. he's also a very great adviser, he's wise and thoughtful. very (+infinity) dependable and reliable. he's always there to help you out, cooks you meals and encourages you to eat more. very polite and understanding your parents will definitely approve of him. plays you a song he wrote for you as a way of confessing. lots of fancy outings and always pays first ^^

𖠗 JAKE .ᐟ

so super sweet and shy. when jake likes someone he tends to get touchy with them but when it's you hell he can't even look up at your face (he swears up and down that he loves you). stutters alot when talking to you and you just can't help but chuckle at his cuteness (he dies pls stop). tries to help you out with everything, even if he doesn’t take the class he still tries to learn a thing or two so he could help you out oh! you'd also start seeing him in your classes. lots of study sessions where he's most of the time gawking at you and always getting caught doing it lmao. rants about physics and layla to you alot! makes a lego bouquet for you.

𖠗 SUNGHOON .ᐟ

very hyper confident and delusion. he's good looking, loaded, has nice personality, fame and fans - everything you could ask for he's got it all so what's stopping you from liking him? he deludes himself into thinking that you'll fall in love with him just like any other girl but you don’t (sike) he goes ''huh wait what but i thought'' cue courting era of park sunghoon. never in his life he imagined he'd have to court someone but you’re not just someone you’re special, you’re his one and only true lovd. gets unexpectedly shy with you, hides his face and giggles. he realizes you’ve officially unlocked a new persona of sunghoon reserved just for you.

𖠗 SUNOO .ᐟ

he's so popular and friendly with everyone that you thought he was being just friendly to you the entire time sheesh. he has to restart his plans and just ends up telling you he has romantic feelings for you. then you'd start seeing the subtle difference between him around you vs around others. you noticed how he would like to listen to you speak when he was hyper yapper. always wants spend alone time with you. "hm im sorry i need to hang out with my girl" plans everything from the date spot to how it end. loves to plan outfits with you. skincare nights! always make sure that you eat well. takes lots of pictures of you without you knowing (not in a creepy way). will clap back at anyone and everyone for you.

𖠗 JUNGWON .ᐟ

pretty chill about it tbh. you'd have no idea he's got something for you yes he's that good at hiding. a fake-scenario maniac, daydreams about you a lot and giggles like a maniac (oof the weird stares). looks your contact name every single day. takes advice from his hyungs and literally has a diary related to you, he writes about you, to you. approaches in the most random way, "you know i have a dog..." very caring, always stands by your side. your biggest defender. once you two start chatting he will send you random videos of him playing in the park when the entire country is asleep.

𖠗 NI-KI .ᐟ

he may put up a bad-boy chill sigma look but is straight up awkward and goofy (?) almost tsundere. literally fumbles at your sight, his legs comically jiggling he has to lean on something to hold himself up. he will try to first ignore these stupid feelings that tarnishes his cool image, making his heart quesy. but gives up when he notices he's fallen badly in love. messes up every single time he tries to woo you. like that one time he tried to flirt with you, the moment you turned towards him, he forgot what he memorized to say. the next few sentences he tried to utter were filled with nothing but stutters and awkward pauses. nevertheless you still found him so endearing. girl trust me if you were ever to say yes he'd probably faint then and there. is so soft and lovey-dovey with you that others had to double take like that's the giant ahh intimidating nishimura riki?!?! huge girlfriend privileges for you :)

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ

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cripplecharacters · 2 months ago

Note

Hey :) I feel like I need to mention that English isn’t my first language, so I apologize for any mistakes I’m going to make and for how my question probably won’t be that detailed

I have a question about service dogs! I’m doing my research right now and I started to ask myself, if the ‘don’t touch the working service dog’-rule also has to be followed by the owner? And when the service dog doesn’t have finished it’s training yet, are there some sort of guidelines for interacting with it?

Generally speaking: Do you maybe have tips for writing service dogs in training and before training?

thank you a lot!

Hello,

Nope, the handler is allowed to touch the service dog at all times, but they'll do things to avoid undoing the dog's training. For example, service dogs are trained not to beg for food, because that distracts them and also can get the dog and handler kicked out. To avoid undoing this training, a handler won't feed the dog from the table. If they do, it will be while the dog isn't working but even then, it would rarely happen. All they give the dog while it's working are either dog food or treats, no human food. Part of the dog's training can even be to ignore other people offering them food.

As a service dog owner, you need to remember to not do anything that will undo the (very expensive) training. Whenever the dog is in work mode, you don't do anything that'll unteach the "manners" your dog learned, which are usually the first thing your dog learns. These "manners" include;

Paying attention to the handler at all times while on the job. Ignore everyone else (unless they have a command to keep people away.)

Do not bark unless the handler is in danger. Stay quiet.

Do not beg for food. Ignore dropped food, too, unless it's the handler giving a treat.

Do not growl, snarl, lunge, bare teeth, or anything else that's considered a threat display towards other people or animals. Just ignore other people or animals.

Do not go to the bathroom without being told. Handlers will have a command that tells the dog it's okay.

Stay in "job mode" until the command is given. Do not exit job mode without the command.

These are only a few and there can be some that depend on the disability the handler has, but these are the basics. As long as what the handler is doing doesn't train their dog out of these rules, they're allowed to do it. The same goes for when the dog is being trained- just don't do anything that goes against training and don't do anything that will encourage bad habits, it's easier to keep a bad habit from developing than it is to break the habit.

Tips are going to depend on what disability the dog is for.

Mod Aaron

#mod aaron #service animals #anonymous

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softlypaintedseafoam · 14 days ago

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women's wrongs

synopsis. sanji is a supporter of many things, women's wrongs being one of them. he just wasn't expecting women's wrong opinions to be among them; the cook supposes there is a first time for everything.

pairing. roronoa zoro x f!reader

word count. 1k | masterlist

content warning. written with a plus-sized reader in mind (but read as you prefer), pre-timeskip (post-little garden/pre-drum island), presently unrequited feelings (zoro has feelings for luffy as of this moment in time), usonami and lusan undertones if you squint

reblogs & interactions appreciated.

a fic that was hilarious inspired by my conversations with @hash-slinging-slasher-trash about her selfship verse with zoro and i couldn't resist writing it. i find it hilarious that depending on the verse, sanji and/or zoro judge for who you have feelings for but try to be supportive in their own way and thus this story was birthed

Conflicted doesn't begin to cover the expression on Sanji's face.

Conflicted, disturbed, confused and utterly full of disbelief. Those words combined probably summarize his expression best and even then you feel as if a new word should be invented entirely to describe it. You bury your face into your hands, ears hot. "The mosshead," Sanji asks, incredulous.

You nod, face even warmer.

"Mosshead." He says again, voice weak from your confirmation he unfortunately heard you correctly.

You nod once again.

This is all a mess. Here in his kitchen while he preps for tomorrow's breakfast, Vivi stands watch, Luffy and Zoro sleep and Usopp cares for an ailing Nami you know you have found yourself in a hot mess. You're sure when Sanji asked you "a berry for your thoughts?" that this was the least likely confession he expected to receive. Yet it all came flowing from your lips like a dam bursting through a crack.

"I have feelings for Zoro," you squeaked in a fluid motion, fingers clutching the tea cup Sanji gave you for dear life.

"My condolences," Sanji grumbles, equal parts empathy and pity sketched into his face.

You can't hold back a snort despite yourself. "Sanji."

As if remembering his chivalry, the cook stands straight at attention. "Forgive me, my lady, I only meant," the blond pauses, gathering his thoughts at speeds unknown to man. "Respectfully, the man who has caught your attention-"

"Is in love with Luffy, I know," you groan as you remember this oh-so-important fact. "Trust me, I am very aware of that fact." It's hard not to notice. When you initially joined the Straw Hats, you thought Zoro a stoic yet battle-hungry bounty hunter turned pirate who seldom showed how he felt. As it turns out, the swordsman is rather expressive save for how his face solemn and irritated when at rest. Zoro emotes quite often, in truth.

Zoro laughs when he's amused.

Zoro grins when he teases.

Zoro even pouts when you point out he should have noticed he was lost three tree loops ago.

You can feel your lips twisting into a smile in spite of your dilemma and do your best to fight it. Then you remember a flash of yellow and red, bright like sunshine and your smile falls as quickly as it started. Yes, Pirate Hunter Zoro is very expressive, you realized quickly.

For a ー former ー noble, such as yourself, you're not used to seeing love in its truest and most pure form. Your parents' marriage had been arranged by your grandparents, your parents merely had you to maintain the status quo and any match you'd find would be a man they approved of and would help you produce quality stock to continue the bloodline.

Vivi's lucky, you think of your fellow princess who is happily tucked away in a blanket on the crows nest doing her part. Her parents loved each other and they love her. Even her servants adored her so. Your heart aches as its strings are tugged. Luffy's lucky too.

He receives love as easily as he gifts it, even to those he doesn't know very well. He makes you feel like he's been your best friend for your entire life, despite having only met nearly a month prior. You'll always appreciate him for that and you know you are not the only member of the crew who feels this way. You all love and appreciate Luffy, some of you more than others.

Zoro more than others. His gaze lingers when he sees Luffy barreled over into himself as he laughs at whatever tall tale Usopp has weaved.

He smiles when Luffy makes his silly faces.

If you hadn't known better, you would think Zoro believes in Luffy more than he does himself.

Monkey D. Luffy is the sun; you're not even the moon.

"No," Sanji sets down his knife on his cutting board and presses his hands firmly on the dinner table. "That bum wants a man who picks his nose. In public! You can't have feelings for someone like that; I won't allow it. Besides, any clown who is in love with Luffy over a literal princess isn't worth anyone's time, let alone yours."

You're giggling again as you shake your head, "I appreciate you trying to make me feel better but you don't have to do it at Luffy's expense. He's a great guy to fall in love with. He's sweet." Loud and selfish but he's somehow sweet and selfless for it.

"He's fine," Sanji makes a face, shrugging. "He'd be better if he stopped breaking into the fridge every other night." Blue eyes look pointedly at the five giant mouse traps set around it, prepared once more for their war with the captain. You shake your head in amusement.

He complains but I think he secretly likes it. At least, if how Sanji smiles at Luffy in exasperation every meal time is anything to go off of. Sanji brow furrows when you tell him as much. "You can make that face all you want but you like how much likes your food."

Had you been one of your crew's male counterparts, you're sure Sanji would have scoffed at your words. Since you are not, he can't find it in himself to protest. "It's the least he can do if he is going to eat us out of house and home," he murmurs, mostly to himself, with a quiet huff. "You'd think he'd never eaten all his life with how he scarfs it all down, the shitty rubberman." He rests his hands on his hips with a sigh, finally relenting.

You grin at your small victory.

"I guess there are technically worse choices for the barbarian swordsman could have gone with," Sanji shakes his head, one eye closed in reluctant acceptance. "If he wants Luffy, he can have him. That doesn't change the fact that no mellorine should sell herself short."

"Sanji," you start to no avail.

Sanji shakes his head, not wanting to hear any further protests. "Trust me, my lady, you can do much, MUCH better than that guy. I'll make sure of it," he swears solemnly. "For all we know, your prince charming is right around the corner waiting to join the crew so he can throw himself at your feet. As a servant of love, I can't sit back now that I know this information."

It's your time to sigh as Sanji rambles on, cutting his carrots quickly.

#romance dawn ー 🌅#one piece x reader #op x reader #roronoa zoro x reader #zoro x reader

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erenjaegerwifee · 9 months ago

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The Selection

Prologue

Paring: Neteyam x Fem!Tawakmi!Reader

Warnings: none, some flirting.

Word Count: 2.7k

Disclaimer: All my characters are aged-up! If that bothers you feel free to scroll and do not interact with my account or any of my post.

~ This is the first part to my new series! I hope you all like the idea and enjoy reading! Suggestion are welcome I'd love to hear your ideas. in this series I should make you aware I will be including some human things, there will be some pretending when it comes to those things. the technology for instance will be something that is heavily in the series. human songs is also something that will be mentioned throughout, which will include some songs and lyrics (but Y/n is gonna write them so it wouldn't be considered human in this series)

Series M.List | Main M.List

“Neteyam the war is over, it is high time you choose a wife” Neytiri, his mother said to him while they were all having dinner. “Yea son, I know that for a long time it is all we thought about but you should get out there, get to know some people” his father, Jake pipped up.

“Being married is great I promise, I didn’t think I'd like it this much man seriously” his brother Lo’ak said as he hugged his wife Korra against his side making her giggle. Neteyam smiles at his brother and new sister, they had such a strong relationship ever since they were young, the type of friends you knew one day they would mate and be as one. Neteyam has never had anyone like that, he has had friends and girls he was interested in but this war changed people, took people. He just isn’t really attracted to anyone in his clan right now.

“I hear you; I know a bond is important to form, but honestly this war has taken so much out of all of us, there isn’t much people left in the clan and no one I can say I really feel for.” Neteyam sighed as he told his family as he passes his hand over the scar, he now has on his chest from getting shot all those years ago. His parents look at him sympathetically, they know what it feels like to be in love, they only want their children to feel the same one day, to feel that happiness.

“Ok, I attended a meeting with the clan leaders from across the forest, they too have suffered much lose from this war and one of them pitched an idea I thought was interesting, I did not agree beforehand because I wasn’t sure you would agree” Jake sighed and glanced at his wife before continuing, “In the Kekunun clan, they have this tradition where men try through a series of competitions and challenges to win over the woman of their choosing, they pitched that if you were open too it, you can hold one of your own here, and which ever woman you choose will be your mate for life and join their clan with ours, so don’t suffer such a lose alone. You will rule both clans side by side.”

His family looked at him while he contemplated his options, it was not the worse idea, maybe someone from the other clans might catch his attention. Maybe he might fall in love with someone, “How will we choose which girls will enter?” Neteyam asked his father.

“Well, you can let the clans decide which girl they think is best fit or you can send someone you know to survey the crowds and choose a girl they think you’ll like, the point of this is to find you a match you are happy with, making the clan bigger is just a bonus” his father said. “We only want you to be happy son” his mother spoke up.

Neteyam sighed again, “Ok, we will do it, but I want someone to survey the clans” his family waited for him to say who they will send and Neteyam didn’t have to give it much thought, at the end of the day only his family stood with him in the hard times, only his family held his hand throughout all of the injuries and loses, “Lo’ak, I trust his judgement, he’ll find me the right girls.”

Lo’ak smiled at his brother, over the years they had depended on each other a lot, they grew much closer than their teenage years, they are not only brothers but good friends, they have kept each other safe countless times now, there really is no one Neteyam has more trust in to think of his best interest.

Lo’ak has been to three clans so far with his wife, all three times he had chosen a woman he thinks his brother might like. He has been to the Tanrangi Clan by the eastern sea, the Olangi Clan that reside in the forest plains of Pandora and the Kekunun Clan that live in the Mountains. Visiting them has been a real experience for Lo’ak he was able to spend time with the people and get to know their customs before he chose a woman.

It was easier than expected the women he chose just stood out to him, and his wife was much help in decided as well because Lo’ak came to realize, all the other forest clans have heirs that are women. Not a man besides their father was in the family, someone them were only children but some had sisters, none so far had brothers.

Lo’ak must make one more stop, the furthest clan in the forest, a good three days travel away from the omatikaya clan, it was the Tawkami clan. Rumor has it you reside in one of the forest clans but Lo’ak has yet to see you. He just knows you would be perfect for his brother, but he can’t help but feel a bit selfish about wanting to choose you, yes, he has a wife and he loves her more than anything, he would never do anything to hurt her. But ever since Lo’ak heard the sound of your voice in his teens he’s been crushing hard, almost like a fantasy he knows he has no shot, he knows he doesn’t want it, he just likes you. He had this idea in his head about what you might be like and he always wondered what it would be like to meet you.

Now Lo’ak is no stalker, he knows what you look like simply from pictures, but what na’vi on Pandora doesn’t know you? You are famous on Pandora, your voice people say was a gift from the great mother herself, they say your body was hand shaped by Eywa from how incredibly beautiful you are. They way your waves fall so lovely down your back, the silky curls bounce with every movement you make.

Lo’ak has only seen videos and heard recordings but he has never gotten the chance to meet you. Why were you so out of reach to the public, he wasn’t even sure what clan you are from. He definitely thinks you are perfect though, but maybe his opinion on your is biased. Korra understands Lo’ak’s feelings towards you, she’d be lying if she said she didn’t also admire you, the way you moved when you danced in the videos she saw, it was so graceful and full of meaning.

They talked about it the entire trip, every clan they would look for you and every clan they would be disappointed they didn’t find you; this is their last chance. They fly over the entrance of the Tawkami clan attracting the people below. This clan was beautiful, big space, Lo’ak knows they fought besides them in battle but they didn’t not return in the numbers they gave out. They are highly skilled and in tune with their land.

Lo’ak jumped off his ikran and walked over to Korra to help her off her ikran. The pair walked hand in hand up to the crowd and greeted all of them. Everyone knows they are omatikaya, they know Lo’ak and who his father way, they also are very much aware of his skills as a warrior and is well respected at the clan.

The clan’s Olo’eyktan with his three sons came forward, Lo’ak and Korra respectfully greeted them and they returned the gesture. “Lo’ak, son of Toruk Makto, what brings you so far from your clan?” Olo’eyktan spoke up. Tsahìk has joined them shortly after greeting them respectfully. “This is my wife, Korra. We are here to inform the clan that the Omatikaya have decided to hold a competition for the hand of Toruk Makto’s eldest, my brother Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk’itan, the winner will join clans with ours and we will live as one. I was sent to choose the woman and request her presence to the clan to start the games in one weeks time”

“Walk with me son” the Olo’eyktan invited Lo’ak, Korra walked alongside them as they spoke, “You are meant to choose clan leading children, right?” the man asked. Lo’ak nodded his head waiting for the man to continue speaking, “I am afraid I only have the one daughter; she is off age and if she is willing to participate in this competition you will have my blessing,”

The Tsahik of the clan speed up her pace to stand in front of the three, “She has a beautiful connection to Eywa son, she must be taken care off if we allow her to come to your clan. How long will she be staying?” Korra spoke up before Lo’ak did, “the selection will take six months, between those six months some of the women who Neteyam is not interested in will be sent home.”

Tsahik made eye contact with her husband speaking without words, almost as if Lo’ak read their mind, “Her place at the clan is welcome, she will be treated as one of our own, but we cannot guarantee she will be the one my brother chooses. If she is not, we will ensure her safe passage back. My brother is not only looking for a capable woman, he is looking for a loving wife, I am only here to see which one might be best suited, in the end it will be up to him.” Lo’ak’s eyes dart between them both before letting out a nervous sigh.

It was never easy to explain to the clan leaders their children may not be Neteyam’s wife but they accepted anyways, many have respect for his brother, many women want to mate him, but not everyone has the same advantage in the games. “Let us introduce you and you can ask her yourself.”

You sat on in a small clearing humming tunes of songs and sewing on some beads you gathered earlier in the day. You felt at peace in the forest, it was always something you loved to enjoy by yourself, the wind blew softly through your curls that fell over your eyes slights and down to the middle of your back. It was sort of uncommon for Na’vi women to have nags but you always thought they suited your face well, especially with your full curls, “Y/n!” you heard your mother shout.

You heard turned to the voice before you stood up and ran in the direction of your mother. “Sa’nok? What is it?” you pull a big leaf down to walk in front of it being met with bother your parents, and a man and woman you did not recognize.

The spark in their eyes when they saw you was something you would never get tired of, they are your fans, your mother brought fans to meet you? Thats a first. You brought your hand up to your forehead to greet them respectfully smiling sweetly, “I see you, y/n” they both said in sync copying your motion making you smile.

You parents excused themselves mumbling to each other about how they hoped you said yes. You look at them confused before turning to the couple, “May I know your names?” you said sweetly. “I am Lo’ak, son of Toruk Makto, this is my mate, Korra” you smile at them both before silence took over as if they did not know what else to say. “It is nice to meet you both, may I ask why you journeyed so far from your clan?” your eyes dart between them.

“We have come to choose women from the forest clans for my brother to mate, it is a competition to see who is best suited for him, in return the winning woman will join her clan with the Omatikayan and we will live as one. I know this is short notice but the games start in one week, we have chosen you if you will accept?” Lo’ak said, his grip on his wife’s hand was a bit hard but he was just so nervous on whether you would say yes. You are famous across the moon, everyone and their mother knows about your blessed voice, he just knew he would be doing right by his brother if you accepted.

“Wow, this is quite a decision, how long will I be staying at your clan?” you bit your lip swinging from side to side as you contemplate, no one has ever asked you to compete for someone else’s hand, people compete for yours. “Six months, if it doesn’t work out between you two and he decides to go in a different direction, though I can’t imagine why, we will grant you safe passage home.” you giggle at him sly comment.

And you nod your head, “the Omatikaya are 3 days travel away from here as you know, I will not be able to visit my family, it is a big decision to make. I do not want to shut you down but I have no idea what your brother looks like” you tilt your head to the side slightly. Lo’ak sighs assuming you are about to shut him down. “Tell you what, how about you stay for dinner and leave first thing in the morning, I shall give you my answer then” you smile at them.

You try to ignore the way they both look at each other in a celebratory way and you lead them back to the clan while they ask you questions about how you write your songs and your music, if it is true, you are also a good dancer. Their excitement to talk to you makes you smile, you had secretly always loved the attention that came with being famous, the way people always treated you nicely and how they travel the moon looking for you just to hear you sing.

After dinner you get tucked away thinking about the situation, your parents have been hounding you about getting a mate for the longest, it is a bit difficult though. You always loved the gifts Eywa blessed you will but men do not want you for a wife, they want you for a lay. You are one of the most beautiful women on the moon according to some, you are something people want to say they have had, like an object. Mates should not treat you like that so you never committed to being anyone’s wife. Maybe Lo’ak’s brother will be different, maybe he will love you for you and not what you have. You knew you had your iPad and you can call your mother whenever you needed but you’ve never really been away from your family before. What if this doesn’t work out, what if you fall in love with him and he doesn’t love you back. No relationship is formed without risk, right?

The next morning breakfast was served to your guests they made themselves ready to take off to their home clan. They must be relieved to be going home now, they definitely didn’t forget you told them you would have an answer now.

“So, what’s it gonna be princess? Have you decided whether or not my brother is worth your time?” Lo’ak asked.

“Well, I’m not sure about that I don’t know him how can I know if he is worth my time?” you giggle at him. “But what is reward without risk? I will be there.” Lo’ak and Korra both smiled at your answer and gave you a hug goodbye. Bidding them safe travels, you watched them fly away.

“Are you sure about this sis?” your brother Kian asked you, he was your first younger brother, second born in your family. “I am, what is the worst that can happen? I come back here?” you snort making him laugh. “No, I know, I just do not want you to get hurt by this.” you smile at him then glance down to your feet, “We cannot control the things that happen baby brother, we can only control how we react to them.”

You yanked on his tail and ran away leaving him to chase you in circles around your parents, you will miss them dearly.

~ I hope you all like it so far! I’m not sure how much chapters I’m writing but as I update I’ll put them here so look it or comment to be tagged!

~ Reblogs, Comments and Likes are always appreciated

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