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danidrabbles · 4 hours ago

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Home Again

Michael “Dr. Robby” Robinavitch x f!reader | 3k words | explicit

Summary: After four days apart, Robby is aching to see you after his shift.

Tags/Warnings: Robby’s POV, female reader (female anatomy, boobs big enough to fit around a dick but I firmly believe that all boobs are fuckable boobs and that no matter how big or small your boobs are, Robby and you would make it work 🫶), post Season 1, established new relationship, therapy mention (🥳), fluff/feelings/angst, kissing, nipple play, breast play (Robby fucks them), Reader being held down, fingering (f receiving), super brief blowjob, smidge of comeplay – let me know if I missed anything!

Notes: I wrote a huge portion of this down weeks ago, meant as a part of a multi-chaptered fic, but then I remembered that I suck at multi-chaptered fic… I reworked this as a standalone one shot, with the possibility of adding more – like a series of snapshot looks at their relationship. I’m kind of dropping you in the middle. I want these to be centered around music (Baby has been on repeat) and I had a lot of fun imagining other songs Robby might listen to. First songs of this series are Home Again and Where You Lead, both by Carole King. Ok! Yay! Hope you enjoy!

– – – – –

Standing in front of your apartment, Robby slips into the familiar routine of pressing his foot against the door then pulling at the handle before pushing it down. The lock clicks, and it’s followed by a faint creak.

When the door swings open, he’s met with the clean scent of detergent, the sound of Carole King spinning on the record player, crooning about snow and rain chilling her soul right to the marrow. A smile curls at his lips at the song, and at the sight of you, wearing a loose fitting T-shirt and dark cotton shorts he’s seen you sleep in once or twice, swaying your hips to the music. Your back is turned to him, too busy folding some laundry on the kitchen table and singing along to the music to notice him yet.

Until he closes the door behind himself a little louder than he wanted, and your head whips around.

“Hey!” you greet him, a smile breaking out across your face at the sight of him. “I wasn’t expecting you today.”

Robby’s stomach does a little flip at the excitement in your voice. He pockets his sunglasses, toes off his shoes, drops his backpack by the door, and reaches you in a few quick strides. His arms wrap around your middle from behind and he greets you back with a kiss to your cheek and a, “Hi.” Hooking his chin over your shoulder, he holds you close and watches as you finish folding your last two pieces of clothing. “How are you?”

“Hmm, good. Just finishing up,” you say, your hand finding his cheek blindly. Your nails scratch softly at the coarse hair you find under your palm while your free hand divides your washing into neat stacks. “And you? How was work?”

Robby hums, the sound noncommittal as he nuzzles your neck and his beard tickles your bare shoulder.

It hadn’t been better or worse than any other day, but work had kept the two of you apart for four days in a row now, and it had made his body thrum in a way that was distinctly different from the usual emergency department adrenaline rush. Despite the fact that he was busy, flitting between rooms, checking up on patients and residents alike, firing questions at the interns, you were on the back of his mind all day. The feeling of wanting to be around someone so bad that it became physical was something he’d long forgotten, and he spent the day aching for the end of shift so he could go see you, even though you hadn’t made any plans.

“It was okay,” he says. Without planning to, he adds, “I was thinking about you, I missed you.”

Robby’s terrified of how fast he’s falling, and how quick this has become something meaningful; this thing between you new enough to still be making him feel like a teenager with a crush, but familiar enough that you leave the door unlocked for him. For the first time in a long time, he feels like there’s more to his life than his job, but he’s afraid it’s all too much, that his personal and work life can't possibly coexist as equals.

But he’s working on it. Every Wednesday afternoon he’s talking to someone about it.

Because if he’s truly honest, he’s equally terrified of something–or God forbid, you–stopping this now. He’s a little too familiar with people close to him letting him down, and this thing between you crashing, on top of everything else that happened in the past two months, might be too painful. So he can’t move too fast, or–

But then he feels the way your cheeks round around a smile, and he forgets his train of thought when you say, I missed you, too, and melt into his embrace.

“Yeah?” he asks, peppering your shoulder with kisses to hide the relief that washes over him at your words.

Your head turns to him, your palm on his cheek guiding him to look at you. “Yeah,” you say quietly. It sounds like a promise, and the worry etched on his face instantly smoothes over. Your lips find his in a kiss that’s soft and slow. Robby sighs into it, his eyes fluttering closed as the warm press of your mouth soothes him as much as your words did.

When your arm lifts and your hand slides back into his hair, your shirt rides up. Robby’s fingers slide down over your skin, the space from your hips to your belly button pleasantly warm, and his pinky grazes the waistband of your panties that peeks out from your shorts. He cracks an eye open when he feels it. It’s simple, black cotton; no frills, nothing fancy. But it’s you and it’s driving him crazy.

He kisses you harder, swiping his tongue over the seam of your lips, your answering gasp allowing him to taste you; it’s familiar and sweet, a hint of that drink you like so much still lingers. Robby gets lost in it, in the feeling of your hand tightening in his hair, your tongue dipping into his mouth, the feeling of your stomach tensing under his touch when he uses his grip on you to grind against the swell of your ass.

“Fuck– I really missed you,” he murmurs.

“Hmm, so you said,” you say with a grin. You guide his hand under your shirt, up, until it fits around the underside of your naked breast. “Why don’t you show me?”

He nods, nose sliding against yours when he does. He moves slowly, testing the weight of your chest in his palm before pushing up with a squeeze and flattening it against you. You’re even warmer here, smooth under his touch until your nipple hardens under the roll of his thumb. The sound of your breath hitching when he pinches it is music to his ears, and he can’t help but laugh when your hand slams against the glossy surface of the table the moment he gently twists the sensitive bud.

“I said show me,” you huff, but the unserious tone of your voice is not lost on him, “not tease me.”

“Same difference,” he says, taking pity on you nonetheless and going back to kneading your breast instead. He nips at your pulse, “Why don’t you show me to the bedroom?”

He can feel your laughter before he hears it. “I’m pretty sure you know the way by now.”

– – – – –

If anyone were to walk into your apartment now, they would find a trail of clothes - a T-shirt, a Beers of the Burgh Festival hoodie, cotton shorts, charcoal coloured scrubs, cargo pants - tracking from the kitchen to your bedroom.

You’re on the bed, sitting up against the pillows, working your underwear down your legs and throwing them off to the side; Robby’s working as fast as he can to match your state of undress.

There’s so much he wants; to get lost in the taste of you with your moans muffled by your thighs around his ears, to turn you over and slide inside while he can get his hands on your ass, to switch places so he can have you in his lap and kiss you for as long as he needs. But then he catches the way your fingers slide over your kiss-swollen lips, down to cup your breast while your eyes rove over his body. He recalls the way you felt in his hand just minutes before, soft and pliant, and suddenly he knows exactly what he wants.

“Stay right there” he says, sliding his boxers off, before kneeling on the comforter at the end of the bed.

He shuffles closer, straddles your waist, and when he finds your eyes to check in with you, they’re glittering with enthusiasm. Working with him, you slide down to make sure you fit together, his knees pressing into your armpits. Robby takes a careful seat on top of you, pinning you under his weight.

When he takes himself in hand, he catches the way your mouth falls open, ready, but instead of guiding himself inside, he taps the head of his cock against the soft underside of your breast. It lands with a wet sound, and a surprised, encouraging gasp from you. A little string of precome connects the two of you, and he repeats the action, alternating sides, watching your skin bounce, before resting his shaft against your sternum.

Realization makes your eyes widen, your pupils dilate, and you quickly move to cup your breasts, then push them together around his length. “Is this how you want it?” you ask, eyes falling down to watch, covering what doesn’t fit with your palm, before looking back up at him.

His hands curl around the headboard to keep himself steady, the peak of his nose and the high of his cheeks no doubt dusted with a rosy flush. It feels better than he imagined, you are making it feel better than he imagined; the eager energy, the tight press of your hands.

“Yes.”

“Hmm, yeah?” you ask, moving your hands up and down to give him some friction. “Do you wanna fuck my tits, Robby?”

His eyes flutter, a shaky breath sailing past his lips at your sweet tone. “Fucking– You know I do,” he grunts, giving an experimental thrust of his hips.

“Hold on, lift up” you murmur, letting go of yourself. Robby takes himself in hand, following your instructions and giving his length a slow stroke. Your lips purse, before you spit into the cup of your palm and spread your saliva between your breasts. Using the same hand, you reach for him, stroking down until you meet his fist. “Now come back.”

“Jesus,” Robby huffs, the sight of your dewy skin and the feeling of your soft, slick hand guiding him making his cock pulse. The snug fit between your glistening tits reminds him of the way your pussy feels at that very first slide inside; the warm, velvety stretch, that specifically slippery feeling he can’t really describe. He sets a gentle pace, testing the waters, watching the tip reappear on each forward thrust of his hips.

“It looks so hot,” you mutter softly. “How does it feel?”

“So fucking good,” he says, his voice laced with a hint of disbelief at just how good it is.

“Yeah,” you encourage, moving a little under him and pushing down harder, making the space tighter. ”Keep fucking me like this.”

Robby’s eyes close with a groan at the feeling. Between the plush press of your skin, the words spilling from your lips and how wound up he’s felt all day, he knows he’s not going to make this last as long as he wants.

Before he’s fully thought about doing it, his hand is flying up to his mouth. He licks at the pads of his fingers before reaching behind him, between your legs. He can see it on your face when he finds your clit, just a fraction before he feels himself roll over it; the widening of your pretty eyes, the twitch of your lips before they fall open around a surprised, deep moan. Robby can feel the rumble against his thighs where they’re pressed against your ribs. You buck under him, chasing his touch, his slippery fingers sliding over your lips, down to the wetness collecting at your opening. He uses it, dips one fingertip inside, swipes up, and swirls it around.

More of your sweet sounds echo around the bedroom, and it goes straight to his cock, getting the space between your breasts wetter with the next push of his hips. Together, you find a rhythm; the push, pull, twirl of hands and hips, the sounds, all making Robby’s mind swim.

“Faster,” you mutter, planting your feet against the mattress to give him more room to follow your instructions. “Please, just a little faster.”

Robby tries to do as you ask, tries focusing on his ministrations equally. He’s dipping forward more and more, the slick head of his cock grazing your chin every couple thrusts. Your mouth drops open, tongue unfurling, and his pace stutters when he fucks up against it. “Sweetheart,” he warns sharply, the muscles in his thighs flexing when you dip into his slit before closing your lips around his tip.

One of your hands lets up, using the other and the side of your elbow to keep yourself closed around him. Reaching for him, you finger the hair that’s scattered all over him, following the dark trail down over the soft give of his belly, his hips twitching when you flit over that sensitive spot next to his navel. The wild curls at his base are wet with a mix of your spit and his precome, and he can’t help but let out a gruff sound when you give them a little tug.

It makes him press down harder between your legs, pushing the hood of your clit back further and exposing more of it to his rolling fingers. With a gasp, your mouth pops off him, head falling back into the pillow as your eyes screw shut. “Oh, my– Stay right there,” you beg, widening your legs, “Robby, yes, it’s– Fuckfuckfuck–”

Robby can feel your pulse where he’s touching you, the twitching under the circle of his fingers turning into a steady throb as you come with a breathy gasp. It’s one of the most erotic things he’s ever experienced, he thinks, the feeling of it, the sight of your shoulders pulling together as you arch up, managing to keep yourself pressed around his cock, your mouth hanging open as you shudder under him.

He wants to tell you everything; how good you look, how good it feels, that he’s so hard that it hurts, but it’s too much. The familiar feeling of release is already tingling up his spine and taking root in his gut, making his shaft pulse and his balls draw up. “Gonna come,” he manages.

“Please. Want you to feel good.” You sound wrecked, voice gone hoarse with desire and intensifying the pleasure coursing through his body. “Want it all over me.”

The headboard creaks again when he lets go, grabbing at you before you can reach up to help him, pinning your wrist to the mattress while pulling himself from between your tits with his other hand. The bounce of your chest, your dazed little grunt, and the quick, wet slap of his fist make him feel warm all over. It’s a fight to keep his eyes open when it hits, when he almost doubles over before he splashes warmly over your chest with a deep groan of satisfaction. He’s heaving on top of you, hissing as he uses the tip of his cock to smear his come over your pebbled nipples, braving the overstimulation until he has to pull away.

After a beat, when the final drop lands on your skin and he starts softening in his palm, his shoulders slump with a heavy sigh. The muscles in his thighs protest when he lifts himself off you, before he settles on his back beside you. With a little frown, he takes your wrist, and brings it to his lips. “Got a little carried away,” he says apologetically.

Still catching your breath, you huff out a laugh. “‘’s okay,” you say, voice reassuring as you shuffle towards him, careful not to spill, until your hip presses against his. You turn your face towards his. “I liked it. All of it.”

Robby hums in agreement, lacing your fingers together and resting them on his chest. His heart is still slamming behind his ribcage as he comes down, and he sighs again as he allows himself to slowly feel the contentment thrumming through his veins, watching as you curiously search his face.

A finger comes up to caress his jaw. “Are you staying?”

He snorts. “You just want someone other than you to finally turn poor Carole over.”

You throw your head back, the line of your throat bobbing with a laugh. “You’re funny.”

Robby uses your joined hands to pull you closer. “You think so?” he asks, basking in the way the crinkles next to your eyes deepen at his question.

“Very,” you say, giving him a quick peck before letting go of him and getting on your feet. “I should really get cleaned up.”

Robby’s eyes land on the swell of your ass, the sway in your hips as you make your way to the bedroom door. When you turn in the doorway, his gaze is drawn to your sticky chest; his come warm enough to still be sliding down, slow as molasses, but cooled enough that he’s pretty certain it won’t leak everywhere before you’ve made it to the bathroom. The amused look on your face when he drags his eyes up again makes him blush.

“How about this: I’ll take one for the team and turn Carole over before I clean up, and you are staying,” you propose. “Deal?”

“Deal. But…,” he grins, holding his hands up in mock surrender, “...if you want to send me away when you hear my poor rendition of Where You Lead, I would totally understand.”

One corner of your mouth turns up, but it quickly morphs into something else, a crease forming between your brows. You shuffle your feet, your voice softer, “I could never send you away while you’re singing that song.”

Robby’s mouth goes dry, but before he can even think of how to reply, you’re turning on your heels, padding towards the kitchen. There’s a sharp pinch in Robby’s chest; your words, your sweet face, lyrics, it all settles somewhere behind his ribs, blooming bright and warm. He falls back against your pillows, eyes pressed tightly shut as he brings a fist to the center of his chest, moving it in circles, something he’s done with so many patients today.

It does very little to snap him out of how affected he is.

They didn’t cover this in med school.

– – – – –

Thanks for reading! Please come say hi and/or share your thoughts via ask/messages/reblogs/whatever you feel comfortable with! Also, if you have any song suggestions, send them over, I’d love to add more songs to my Dr. Robby playlist!

#dani writing #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt fic #the pitt x reader #the pitt x you #dr robby x reader #dr robby x you #michael robinavitch x reader #robby x reader #the pitt smut #michael robinavitch #x reader #f!reader

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bonus-links · 1 day ago

Note

Director’s commentary please? Also Wake and Tetra holding hands and Slate finding the castle familiar ghfggf…

HELLO sorry I'm late! update here

I think in hindsight I needed to fix the levels on this update bc it's a little dark lol. I always try to check on multiple screens and multiple different lighting conditions before I post, but sometimes my eyes get too adjusted lol. anyway if it's hard to see details this update my apologies

holding hands for moral support <3 i imagine it's not easy for either of them to be back here

Linebeck staying on the ship lol. I'm going to be so real, he was supposed to go into the castle with them, but he didn't have much dialogue and I just really didn't want to draw a 6th person 😭 There was also a scene that was meant to go before this where Wake and Linebeck have a conversation, which was literally the whole reason he was in this chapter and greatly pained me to cut. I think I might still make it a bonus comic if I have time for it. anyway I rlly planned for Linebeck to actually have a point in this chapter and it ended up just not materializing HAHA rip linebeck im sorry

Slate can't help but remember that the last time he stepped up to decrepit haunted castle he rlly thought he was gonna die. This is a shot of Slate hesitating in front of Hyrule Castle just before the final confrontation with Ganon. it's one of the only times he wears the champion's tunic, as a specific tribute to The Other Guy. Anyway Slate has to laugh be what are the odds of being in this situation twice across millenia. he has 2 nickels

also the repeated Big Scary Dark Doorway.

On that note, this is the same BG as the conversation with Ganondorf, just scaled back and recolored.

my biggest goal with this update in was to emphasize the Wrongness of the castle being on the surface. It's also kind of, like, anticlimactic. What would usually be a puzzle dungeon or a big action set piece is just kind of. hollow and empty and damaged.

a lot of people have pointed out this panel break as clever, but it's actually not the first time I've pulled this trick lol! I didn't add the little strings this time tho bc well. mostly be the portal technically was not supposed go through the floor, so I felt it'd look weird if I added them. the example from the prologue has the advantage of being a midshot lol so the effect works slightly better imo

what's with me and statues huh

speaking of which i have a confession. recently I was replaying WW with my baby cousins and I got to the part in Hyrule Castle at the very very end and realized. the the hero of time statue is like completely knocked down and broken on the ground. which uh. is clearly not the case here. and has been one of the biggest visual motifs of this entire chapter. whoops lol

and finally, some close-ups of all the little guys

that's all I got for now! There's one more double update left and ch2 is done!!

#ask #directors commentary

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brookghaib-blog · 2 days ago

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It's Quiet Between the Stars

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x reader

Summary: After surviving a lifetime of pain, addiction, and betrayal, Y/N begins the long road to healing with Bob—her anchor in the dark. Hidden away in the Watchtower, love grows between two broken souls as they learn that peace isn’t found—it’s built, moment by fragile moment.

Warning: Depression, torture, human experiment

Word count: 5,8k

Note: Based on this request!

The Watchtower was unusually quiet, humming low with the sound of the city beneath them and the occasional mechanical click of overhead vents. The team had returned only hours earlier from the mission in Berlin. A supposed underground facility—yet another sadistic attempt to manufacture super soldiers. Only, this one had gone even more wrong than usual. The scientist behind it all had experimented on unwilling civilians, turning them into grotesque hybrids—barely alive, veins blackened, bodies grotesquely enlarged, minds shattered into fragments of who they once were.

They hadn’t spoken much on the flight back. There wasn’t much to say when the smell of rotting flesh still lingered in your nose and your fists ached from mercy killings.

Now, night had blanketed the Watchtower, the skyline outside a sea of blinking lights. In the common room, Alexei flopped onto the couch with a dramatic grunt, groaning like he had been shot.

“I swear, if one more mission smells like a funeral home and makes me punch corpses, I am retiring. Again.”

“Didn’t you already retire four times?” Ava muttered, legs tucked under her on the far corner of the couch, sipping tea that didn’t quite mask the haunted look in her eyes.

“Five. But this one? This is the real one. Official. I will announce it. There will be cake,” he added with a crooked grin, though the shadows under his eyes gave him away.

Walker rolled his eyes as he tossed a can of beer onto the table—non-alcoholic, courtesy of the Watchtower’s very strict policy since Bob moved in. “You’re all talk, Red. Besides, who the hell retires before beating their kill count record? You’re still like... fifteen behind me.”

“You count your kills?” Ava asked flatly.

He smirked. “Only the impressive ones.”

“You’re disgusting,” she muttered, turning her gaze back to the TV she wasn’t watching.

Across the room, Bob listened from the intercom embedded into the wall—a low, grainy speaker buzz he had half-disassembled and reassembled himself just to feel useful. He didn’t go on missions anymore. Not often, at least. Not unless it was desperate. Too much power. Too much risk. Too much Void.

But he listened. Always. Especially when Y/N was out with them.

He sat cross-legged on the floor of his room, hair tousled, hoodie sleeves stretched from restless fingers. He leaned closer to the speaker when Alexei made an offhand joke about one of the hybrids biting at his armor like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

And then Bob’s voice came through, soft, static-washed.

“Where’s Y/N?”

The room quieted a beat too long.

Walker glanced over his shoulder toward the hallway. “She locked herself in her room since we got back. Didn’t say a word.”

Bob’s chest tightened. That cold, dull ache he hated. He hadn't seen her in four days. Her voice hadn’t come through the line even once during the mission. Not after the breach. Not after the clean-up.

Alexei shifted, quieter now. “She... she looked shaken. One of the hybrids was—small. A kid. Maybe thirteen. She was the one who had to finish it.”

Walker looked visibly uncomfortable at the memory, his jaw tightening.

Ava added, “She said she was fine. But... she hasn’t come out. Not even to shower. We tried knocking.”

Bob didn’t answer. The silence on his end said more than anything he could.

Alexei, trying to lighten the room again, muttered, “Maybe she’s binge watching Grey’s Anatomy. That always ruins my mood too.”

Walker groaned. “Please, no more trauma surgeons who cheat on each other and cry. It’s worse than our missions.”

Even Ava cracked a faint smile.

But the joke hung heavy in the air. Because they all knew what it looked like when someone said “I’m fine” too many times in a row. They had all heard that sentence before a collapse. Before a relapse. Before a loss.

And Bob knew, with bone-deep certainty, that something had gone quiet in Y/N. Something inside her had curled up and stopped speaking. And he wasn’t sure how to reach it from the other side of the Watchtower walls.

The room was dark, save for the pale sliver of moonlight creeping in between the gaps in the blackout curtains. The air was heavy with stillness, stale and unmoving, like even time itself was holding its breath. Y/N hadn’t changed out of her combat uniform. The dried blood—some hers, some not—had cracked and flaked across her chest and sleeves, crusting the fabric like a memory she couldn’t wash off.

She lay curled on the edge of the bed, knees to her chest, her forehead pressed into the pillow, damp with sweat and soaked in tears. Her body trembled with each wave of emotion that hit her, like a storm on repeat. She wasn’t sure when she started crying. Or when she had stopped breathing normally. Everything felt tight. Her throat. Her chest. Her skin. As if she was locked in, as if her own body was punishing her for being weak.

The child’s face haunted her.

Not a monster. Not like the others. He had human eyes. Confused. Hurt. Terrified. He hadn’t even screamed when she did it. Just blinked—slow, resigned. And she had to. She had to.

Right?

Her fingers clawed into the mattress as a new sob tore out of her. Her lungs burned from hours of shallow breathing, from muffled crying into her arms, her pillow, her palms. Her face was raw. Her eyes were swollen. Her throat was hoarse. But the crying wouldn’t stop. It couldn’t stop. It was the only thing keeping her from ripping her skin open just to let something out. Just to feel anything that wasn’t shame.

A soft knock rattled the silence.

She froze. She didn’t move. Didn’t dare breathe. Her body tensed like a child afraid of being found.

“Y/N?”

His voice.

Bob.

He was on the other side of the door. She hadn’t seen him when they landed. She’d walked past everyone. Didn’t look anyone in the eye. Especially not him.

“Y/N… please.”

Her lip quivered. Her body didn’t move.

“I know you’re in there. I know you can hear me. Can you—can you just say something?”

No. She couldn’t. Her tongue felt like it was buried in ash. Her mouth dry. Her throat locked.

Bob’s voice cracked a little. “I was listening. To the team. They said what happened. About… about the kid.”

Her hands gripped the blanket until her knuckles burned.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Don’t say that. Don’t lie to me, she wanted to scream. But her voice had died somewhere back in that lab, alongside everything else.

“You did what you had to. That’s what they do, these monsters—these scientists. They put blood on our hands and call it duty.”

Her lip trembled harder now. More tears slid silently down her cheeks.

“But I know that doesn’t matter right now,” he said, voice softer, sadder. “Because when it’s night… and you close your eyes… all you see is their face.”

She gasped softly. A hiccup of grief, of recognition.

“I know what that’s like,” he continued, closer to the door now. She could almost feel his shadow through the wood. “I know how it feels when the guilt eats everything. When you think, ‘If I had just been faster. If I’d aimed different. If I hadn’t hesitated.’”

Her chest caved in with another silent sob. Her nails dug into her own skin now.

“I used to think dying would be easier than living with it,” Bob admitted, and that silence that followed was louder than anything else he said.

She closed her eyes. Tears streamed sideways onto the pillow.

“But I didn’t die,” he said. “I stayed. And I found you.”

More silence.

“I’m still here, Y/N. I’m right here. Just open the door. Please.”

Her hand twitched. It twitched toward the edge of the bed, where the floor and the door were just a few short steps away. But her body wouldn’t move. It wouldn’t listen. She didn’t deserve to open that door. Not now. Not looking like this. Not being like this.

She pressed her face deeper into the bed, trying to smother the sounds of her breaking. Shame had rotted her from the inside. How could she face him? He’d see her and know immediately. Know how much she wanted to disappear.

A moment passed.

And another.

Finally, Bob’s voice fell into a whisper. Like he was leaning against the door now, forehead resting on the cold steel.

“I’ll be here,” he said quietly. “Whenever you can. However long it takes.”

And then she heard it—the slow retreat of his steps. The ache in the air deepened as his presence faded.

Berlin, 2005

The room was white. Sterile. So bright it hurt to open her eyes—but she had to. If she didn’t, they’d do it again. They always did.

Little Y/N was no older than six. Her tiny frame barely filled the metal slab they strapped her to, and yet they treated her like a monster. Like something dangerous. Like something they had to fear.

She screamed. Again. And again.

“Please!” Her voice cracked, tiny lungs heaving as her wrists pulled violently at the restraints. “Please, stop! It hurts!”

But no one stopped.

No one ever stopped.

The needles were thick. Burning. Electric. Sometimes they poked beneath her fingernails. Sometimes her spine. The shock collar around her neck pulsed every time her heartbeat spiked. A mechanical voice from the corner of the room would note her stress levels, her pain threshold, and the surge of neural activity as they injected another serum into her bloodstream.

Experiment 041: Day 136.

Her scream echoed off the walls.

She called for her mom. She always did.

“Mama! Mama—please! Mama!”

But her mother never came. Not anymore.

Instead, her father did.

Clipped heels. Cold eyes. A tablet in his hand. He stood above her, jaw tight, eyes unreadable, watching like she was just another number on a screen. Another line on a chart.

“Dad?” she whimpered, chest heaving. “Please… stop them. It hurts—Daddy, it hurts…”

He didn’t flinch.

He just turned to the scientist beside him and said coldly, “Increase the dosage. Let’s see what triggers the next response.”

Her world exploded in white-hot agony.

There were no toys. No sunlight. No birthdays. The other children, the ones she heard from behind distant doors, all stopped screaming eventually. They stopped crying. One by one, their voices went silent. She never saw them again.

Maybe they got better.

Or maybe they died.

She stopped asking.

Time passed. She wasn’t sure how long. It could’ve been months. Years. The drugs twisted her sense of reality, made her forget her own face. All she knew was pain. That, and the humming sound of the machines that never stopped recording her.

Then… one day, something snapped.

Her head throbbed like it might split open. Her vision blurred. Her pulse roared in her ears—and then it happened.

The straps shattered. The slab split down the middle. The machines blew apart with a deafening clang as an invisible force surged from her chest and tore the room in half.

The walls caved in.

The men screamed.

She could see them—but also couldn’t. It was like she had arms that weren’t hers. Arms that reached where she couldn’t. Arms that crushed steel, that slammed bodies into glass. That killed.

Blood hit the floor. Then the ceiling.

She curled into the corner, hands over her ears, sobbing.

“I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—I didn’t—!”

But they were all dead.

Everyone.

Except him.

Her father stood untouched. His coat torn, blood on his cheek, but alive. He looked at her—not with fear. Not even rage. Just… satisfaction.

“It worked,” he muttered, stepping over corpses. “It finally worked.”

That was the first time she saw red.

She lunged. The invisible arms moved faster than thought, wrapping around his throat.

But he only smiled. “You’re perfect, Y/N. I made you perfect.”

And then she saw it—her mother’s necklace. Hanging from his pocket. Stained with blood.

“No…” Her lip trembled. “No—what did you—what did you do to her?”

Silence.

“What did you do to Mama?!”

A slow, cruel smile twisted across his lips.

“She got in the way.”

And just like that, she understood: she was never his daughter.

She was his creation.

Years later, people would ask her how she got her powers. She’d never answer.

They’d ask why she looked so empty behind her eyes.

Why she flinched when a needle came too close.

Why she hated white walls.

She never told them about the humming machines. The cold table. The fact that the first time she felt love, it came from a dead woman’s memory—and the first time she felt power, it came from death.

They’d never understand.

Because pain wasn’t just a memory.

It was the reason she existed.

And sometimes, when the Watchtower fell silent at night, and no one was around to hear, she’d sit alone in the dark… and whisper her mother’s name like a prayer she knew would never be answered.

She hadn’t told a soul.

Not Valentina. Not Bucky. Not even Bob.

Y/N had known about the mission weeks before they deployed. She read the briefings in silence, her hands trembling as soon as the file landed in her lap. The name of the lead scientist—Dr. Elias Grey—was burned into the top corner like a scar across paper.

Her father.

The monster who made her.

She thought he’d died years ago. After she’d escaped his lab, after the massacre caused by her uncontrollable powers, after she vanished off the grid and forced herself to forget, she assumed that was the end. That his work had crumbled without her. That his madness had been buried along with the blood on his hands.

But he hadn’t stopped.

He’d just waited. Built in the shadows. And now he was back. And she had to kill him.

But no one knew that.

To the team, it was just another mission: infiltrate, extract intelligence, eliminate the source. A nameless scientist who had built monsters in cages and called it "progress."

But for Y/N, it was hell coming full circle.

She didn’t speak much on the ride there. She sat in silence, fingers buried in the sleeves of her jacket, jaw clenched so tightly she could taste blood. Yelena had tried to sit near her, brush his knee against hers for comfort, but she hadn’t even looked at him.

If she did, she might break.

She couldn’t let them see the little girl underneath all the layers of steel she’d built. The girl who still flinched when someone mentioned the word “father.” The girl who still heard the humming of fluorescent lights and the clink of surgical tools when she tried to sleep. The girl who cried silently into her pillow when Bob wasn’t around.

The mission was a blur.

A nightmare on loop.

The halls of the facility looked exactly like the old lab—white, sterile, humming with that same artificial coldness. The same padded floors. The same flicker of a dying fluorescent light down the corridor.

She could still smell the burnt metal, the blood.

Every test subject they passed made her chest seize. Limbs missing. Skin rotting. Bones warped and protruding through flesh. They weren’t people anymore. Just husks of failed experiments—just like she almost was.

And then she saw one of them crying.

“Help… me…” A voice barely above a whisper. She turned. A boy. No older than fourteen. Eyes cloudy with pain, his body bound to a medical rig with tubes down his throat.

She froze.

Bob shouted something ahead, but she didn’t move.

Then she saw him.

Through the glass of a secured operating room—her father.

Older. Greyer. But still the same eyes. The same cold, calculating look she’d seen hovering over her in the lab as a child.

He was alive. He was real. And he was still doing it.

She couldn’t breathe.

Her chest caved inward. Her powers flickered at her back like a warning signal, the invisible arms twitching in her panic. The walls felt closer. The lights felt louder. The boy kept whispering, “Please, help me—” and her vision blurred.

She had to get out. She had to get out.

“I’m hit,” she said flatly into her comm.

She didn’t wait for a reply. She pressed her hand to her ribs, smeared some blood from a fallen soldier onto her shirt, and staggered back toward the exit.

Bucky tried to stop her—radioed in confusion—but she cut the line before she heard his voice.

She locked herself in her room the moment they returned to the Watchtower.

Bob wasn’t allowed to see her like this. No one was.

Her body curled beneath the sheets like a corpse, sweat soaking through the fabric, her skin pale and cold as her mind spiraled into the past. Her eyes were bloodshot, hollow. She hadn’t cried like this in years—but now the sobs wouldn’t stop.

She had lied to them.

She had let them walk into her nightmare without warning. And worse—she’d abandoned them.

Bucky was the one who had to kill her father. Not her. She couldn’t do it.

She pretended to be injured—like a coward.

She let Bob believe she was strong.

But she wasn’t.

The next day bled into grey silence.

No footsteps.

No sound of a shower running.

No sign of life behind her bedroom door.

Y/N hadn't moved. Not once.

Her team tried not to overthink it—at first. Everyone dealt with mission aftermath in their own way. Walker assumed she was just being dramatic. Bucky figured she needed space. Yelena lingered in the hallway a few times, hesitating with her hand raised to knock before deciding against it. None of them had seen her since their return. Not a glimpse.

But Bob… Bob was unraveling by the hour.

He’d left dinner outside her door the night before—still warm, still hopeful. Her favorite: white rice, grilled vegetables, a little piece of chocolate on the tray because she liked something sweet before bed. He checked the hallway two hours later.

Untouched.

He didn’t say anything. Just quietly picked up the tray and brought it back to the kitchen.

That morning, he tried again. Toast. Eggs. Fresh fruit and tea.

She didn’t take that either.

He waited all morning by the door, hoping for the tiniest sound—a breath, a sob, anything. When he found the breakfast still sitting where he left it, the tea cold and untouched, something inside him snapped.

She wasn’t okay.

This wasn’t just recovery exhaustion or a need for solitude. Something had happened. Something inside that lab had shattered her so deeply she couldn’t even pretend anymore. And the thought of her curled on the floor, silent and suffering, made Bob feel like his entire chest was caving in.

By the afternoon, he stopped caring about boundaries.

He sat down on the floor outside her door, legs crossed, hands shaking in his lap. His voice was hoarse from lack of sleep.

"Y/N… please. Just say something. Anything."

Silence.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the door.

“You don’t have to talk about it. You don’t have to do anything. I just need to know you’re okay.”

He knocked again, gentler this time, like the door might bruise.

“You’re scaring me.”

No answer.

He ran a hand through his messy blond hair, fingers curling in frustration. A familiar tightness was building behind his eyes, one he hadn’t felt in a long time. He knew what this was. He remembered it all too well. That hopeless, silent spiral—the one you didn’t want anyone to see because you were too ashamed to admit you’d fallen again.

“You don’t do this,” he muttered softly, more to himself than her. “You always answer. You always—fuck, Y/N, you always open the door.”

The hallway was empty. Just the faint buzz of lights overhead. The rest of the team gave him space—gave her space. But the stillness was starting to feel like a coffin.

He pressed his palm flat against the door. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there with you. I should’ve gone. I should’ve seen it. Whatever happened in that place, whatever it did to you… you don’t have to carry it alone.”

His voice cracked, eyes glassy.

“You carried me through hell when I couldn’t stand. You held me when I couldn’t even look at myself. Don’t do this alone, please…”

He leaned forward until his forehead was resting against the wood, breathing ragged.

“I can’t lose you. Not like this. Not when I finally got you back.”

Still nothing.

He sat there for hours. Talking. Pleading. Whispering apologies. Promising to stay as long as it took. At one point, he heard something inside the room—a soft, choked breath, maybe. A sob. Or maybe just the air creaking through the vents. It was impossible to tell.

By the time night fell, Bob was still outside the door, curled up like a dog in the hallway, eyes bloodshot, throat raw from begging.

The tray of untouched breakfast sat beside him.

Cold.

Unwanted.

Just like every part of him felt.

Y/N's pov

The ceiling above her never changed.

White. Cracked in one corner. A water stain blooming faintly like a bruise.

That’s where her eyes had stayed for the past thirty hours. Her body ached from the stiffness—shoulders locked, jaw clenched, legs curled beneath her like she was still hiding under some table in a war zone. Her back stuck to the floor from sweat-soaked clothes, her mouth dry from dehydration, but none of it hurt as much as the weight pressing down on her chest.

She hadn’t slept. Couldn’t eat. Breathing alone felt like a punishment.

Her hands shook against the floorboards.

She’d buried it. For years, she thought it was gone. That memory. That face. His face.

But when she saw him—when her eyes locked with the ghost of the man who stole her life, the monster who created her and murdered her mother—everything inside her had cracked open like a shattered rib cage. The lab. The screaming. The invisible limbs that tore through people she never meant to hurt. The look on her father’s face when he smiled at the carnage he’d caused.

It had never left her.

And now she’d left people behind. Innocent people. Because she couldn’t move. Because she was terrified.

She didn’t even know how she made it back to the Watchtower. Her legs moved on their own. She went straight to her room, bolted the door, and collapsed on the floor. The same place she still lay. Trapped in her own silence.

And Bob…

She heard every word.

She heard the plate shift when he set it down outside her door the night before. Heard the tea cup clink. Heard him sit down, his back against the other side of the wall she was hiding behind.

He was crying now.

She could hear it in his voice.

“Y/N… please. Just say something. Anything.”

Her lip trembled, teeth sinking in to keep the sob at bay. Her fingers dug into the floor.

“You don’t have to talk about it. You don’t have to do anything. I just need to know you’re okay.”

But she wasn’t.

She wasn’t okay.

She hadn’t been okay since she was a child and her father strapped her to a gurney and injected her with agony. She hadn’t been okay when she escaped his lab covered in blood that wasn’t hers. She hadn’t been okay the night she realized the only person who loved her was buried in a shallow grave her father dug himself.

She wasn’t okay the night Bob left her.

And even now, even with him back—sitting outside her door, begging—she still didn’t know how to let anyone in.

He knocked again. Softer. As if the sound might crack her.

“You’re scaring me.”

She curled tighter into herself. Nails digging into her own palms.

“You always answer. You always—fuck, Y/N, you always open the door.”

She bit down a cry. Hard. Choked on it. Her ribs ached from holding it in.

“I should’ve gone. I should’ve seen it. Whatever happened in that place… you don’t have to carry it alone.”

Her whole body trembled.

He was right there. Inches away. Just outside the wood.

Her heart screamed to reach for him. But the shame clawed louder.

If she opened the door, he’d see what was left of her. The wreckage. The filth. The child still buried inside her who never stopped screaming for a mother who never came.

Her powers had started acting up again. She felt the invisible limbs stretching under her skin like phantom pain—trembling, thrashing, begging to be let out. She hadn’t lost control in years, but now she was slipping. She was afraid she’d hurt someone again. Hurt him.

“You held me when I couldn’t even look at myself,” Bob whispered. “Don’t do this alone, please…”

Her hand moved. Slowly. Against all instinct, against every fear, she reached for the doorknob.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispered. “Not like this. Not when I finally got you back.”

She heard it then—his breathing. Shaky. Wet. Like he was trying not to sob but failing.

And she couldn’t do it anymore.

She couldn’t stay silent.

With trembling fingers, she turned the knob.

The door creaked open just a sliver.

And there he was.

Bob Reynolds.

The man she loved. The man who loved her even when she didn’t know how to be loved.

He was sitting on the floor with his knees pulled up, face in his hands, hair a tangled mess. His eyes were rimmed red, his chest still rising and falling like he couldn’t breathe right.

When he heard the door click, his head jerked up.

He looked at her like he was seeing a ghost. Like maybe he’d imagined it.

Y/N stood in the doorway like a broken statue.

She hadn’t showered. Her skin was pale. Her eyes were swollen and bloodshot. She looked hollowed out—like something had been carved from her soul and never returned.

And still, Bob reached for her.

“Come here,” he whispered, voice cracking.

She collapsed.

Into his arms, into his lap, into his chest—sobbing, shaking, screaming without sound. Her fingers gripped the fabric of his hoodie like she was afraid he’d vanish. Bob didn’t say anything. He just held her, arms wrapped tight around her like he was trying to keep her from falling apart completely.

She buried her face in his neck, her voice barely a whisper.

“I saw him.”

Bob froze. But he didn’t let go.

“My father. He was there.”

Her breath hitched with every word.

“He… he’s the reason I’m like this. He killed her. My mom. He made me into this.”

Bob didn’t speak. Didn’t try to fix it. He just cradled her like something precious.

“I thought I could kill him. I wanted to. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t even move. I pretended to be hurt so I wouldn’t have to… I let people die, Bob.”

“No,” he whispered fiercely. “You didn’t let anyone die. He did. He did all of it. Look at me okay? Don’t take your eyes off of me. You’re going to be fine. You’re going to be fine.”

She sobbed harder, her body going limp in his arms.

“I’m so tired,” she choked.

“I know,” he said. “I know. But I’ve got you now.”

He pressed his forehead to hers, his voice steady even through the tears.

“You’re not alone anymore.”

They didn’t speak much that night. He ran a bath and helped her into it, gently washing her hair like she was made of smoke and might disappear if he touched too hard. She didn’t say a word, just closed her eyes and let the water soak into her bones, like it could wash out the memory of the blood on her hands, the sterile stink of the lab, the ghost of her father's voice.

Afterward, wrapped in one of his oversized shirts, she lay on the couch while Bob sat beside her on the floor, his back against the sofa, their silence stretching soft and long.

“I didn’t know,” he said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t know what that place was to you.”

Her fingers twitched against the blanket. “You weren’t supposed to.”

“But you went anyway,” he murmured. “You walked into the fire knowing it might kill you.”

She didn’t respond.

Over the next few days, Bob took it upon himself to keep her anchored. He rearranged everything in the Watchtower to fit her needs: blackout curtains for the bad mornings, herbal teas to help when the tremors came, soft instrumental music when silence was too loud, white noise machines when it wasn’t loud enough.

He didn’t press her to talk—not at first. He just stayed, made sure she ate, sat with her during the nights when her body jolted from nightmares. He never asked what they were about. He didn’t have to. The look in her eyes afterward was enough.

Eventually, on a rainy Tuesday, she started talking.

“He killed my mother,” she whispered. “Because she tried to stop it. Stop him. He was the only one who called me by my full name before the sessions. Everyone else just used numbers. He didn’t even flinch when I cried.”

Bob didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His silence was a container where her grief could safely land.

“He wanted me to be a weapon,” she continued, eyes red. “And when I finally escaped, I thought he’d stop. I thought he’d take the hint. That killing his wife would be enough.”

She laughed bitterly through her tears, and it twisted something inside Bob.

“I walked into that lab and thought maybe—just maybe—he’d changed. That time broke him like it did me. But he didn’t. He kept going. Using people. Twisting them.”

Her breath shuddered in her chest.

“I should’ve killed him myself.”

“No,” Bob said gently. He looked up at her from where he knelt beside her chair. “You should’ve never been the one to carry any of this. Not as a kid. Not now.”

“But I did,” she said hollowly. “And I still do.”

She expected him to give her a solution. Some vague superhero platitude about strength, redemption, purpose. But he didn’t. Bob just nodded and placed his hand gently on her wrist.

“So let’s carry it together.”

She finally broke then, falling into him, fists gripping his shirt, sobbing as if she were trying to rid herself of every memory at once. And Bob just held her—his strength silent, steady, sacred.

Every night after, they carved a routine from the wreckage. She’d sit on the bed while he read to her—sometimes books, sometimes old scientific journals she didn’t even understand but liked the cadence of his voice. Sometimes, he’d share pieces of his own darkness—his addiction, the voices, the way the Void still tugged at the edges of his sanity like a cruel shadow.

“I’m not whole either,” he told her one night. “But with you… I’m not alone.”

It became their pact. They wouldn’t be alone again.

Not with nightmares. Not with grief. Not with the ghosts of their past.

Together, they started to learn how to breathe again.

It was late—well past midnight—when she crept into the bedroom, barefoot and quiet. Bob was sitting on the edge of the bed in a plain t-shirt and sweats, his long fingers tangled together, his eyes fixed on the floor.

He looked up the moment he felt her presence.

She didn't say anything, just crossed the room slowly and sat beside him, their shoulders barely touching. The silence between them had changed these past few weeks—it wasn’t heavy anymore. It was a warm, living thing. A shared space where words didn’t always need to live.

“I had a good dream,” she whispered suddenly.

Bob blinked, surprised. “Yeah?”

She nodded, a soft smile playing at her lips. “We were at a little house… somewhere green. You were trying to cook, but you kept setting off the fire alarm. I think you were making pancakes.”

“I do make terrible pancakes,” he murmured, and she laughed—quiet, small, but real.

She turned to him. “There was no Watchtower. No missions. No past. Just you and me. And it didn’t hurt.”

His hand found hers instinctively, fingers threading together. “Maybe we can have that someday. The quiet.”

“We don’t deserve quiet,” she said. “Not with everything we’ve done. Everything we carry.”

Bob looked at her for a long moment. “No one deserves peace, Y/N. We just decide whether or not to let ourselves have it.”

He reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You deserve to stop running. Even just for tonight.”

She stared at him—his eyes, warm and unwavering, his voice a tether pulling her back from the places her mind still wanted to drown in. She didn’t know when it started, but her heart had begun beating faster. Not from fear this time. From something so much more terrifying: trust.

“I don’t want to be broken anymore,” she said.

“You’re not.”

“I feel like glass.”

“Then I’ll hold you carefully.”

He leaned in slowly, giving her every chance to pull away. She didn’t. Their lips met, soft and searching, the kind of kiss that doesn’t demand but asks. And she let herself answer. She let herself feel wanted. Safe. Loved.

His hands rested lightly on her waist, not pressing, not taking. She moved closer, curling into his chest, letting his warmth bleed into her bones. It wasn’t about lust. It was about belonging. About showing one another, without words, that they were still human. Still capable of gentleness. Of giving and receiving softness in a world that had taken so much.

“I love you,” she breathed against his neck, tears slipping silently down her cheeks. “Even if I still hate myself sometimes.”

“I love you more on the days you can’t,” he whispered back. “I’ll love you through it.”

She kissed him again—this time with a little more certainty. Her hands ran over the lines of his back, tracing the parts of him that held her together. They undressed slowly, like peeling away armor, like surrendering their pain. When he held her, skin to skin, heart to heart, she didn’t feel like glass anymore. She felt real.

They didn’t speak much that night. But in the stillness, in every kiss, every breath, every whispered promise against her skin, something inside her began to mend.

And for the first time in years, she let it. All this time, what she needed was someone as broken as her.

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l0s3rd0wnt0wn · 1 day ago

Note

So image like you have a wash day right

You were doing your hair since Alfred couldn't do our hair texture (I'm thinking afro or really thick curls) and duke just come pass the bathroom door and seen us over the bathtub with our hair in the water,

Later we were doing his hair with his head in our lap while he give him cornrows or braids

And the others get jealous

AWE THIS IS SO CUTE *Screams in for 4c hair*

"Alfred, are you sure you can do this?" you said, the mirror held up to your face, then held higher so the old butler could be in view. Your afro was practically covering the old man's face; dark black curls took up half the mirror and your face, plus his. "I've done all the young masters' heads for as long as they've lived under this house. I can surely do this," he announced with a confident voice, his British accent heightening. "Well, you've never had my hair..." you mumbled, taking your hair pick right out of your head, hoping that would make it easier for the man your mom used to help you with almost all the time. But living in the manor meant no mom, and you weren't a big fan of barbershops. You did your hair at salons with a bunch of Black women styling your hair into cute braids. Your mom never wanted you to cut your hair, so it was salons for you. Even if she wanted a haircut from you, then salons were the way to go. You wanted to go to a salon for wash day since you usually had your mom's help, but you didn't know any good salons in Gotham, so all you had was Pennyworth and a YouTube video.

"Oh dear..." You didn't like the sound of the brush in your hair. You felt your head yanked back into his chest, almost falling out of your chair. "Hold on, Master [Name]!" He brushed one more time, and you felt your face pulled with your hair. "I just need to get the brush out!" he shouted. "Alfie, maybe you should use the blue magic?" Then another yank, and then...SNAP! You looked up to see half a brush lodged in your head, the handle in the poor butler's hand. You let out a soft sigh. "Thanks, Alfie..." you sighed. "But young master...?" You sat up, plucking the brush out of your head and tossing it to the ground. "It's okay, Al, you're tired," you said, giving him a small smile.

Now your head is stuck in the sink, shampoo and conditioner on standby as you tried to detangle your hair. All on your own, the dry way was not the right way, so let’s try the right way. But your neck hurts and your hands are cramped. Just then, a pair of hands touched your head. Your head shot up, and you let out the most girliest scream you could muster. "Dude, it's just me!" Duke laughed, watching you look like a wet dog. He burst out into a fit of laughter. "That's not funny, man..." you grumbled. "You look like a chick from The Ring," he chuckled, making you click your tongue at him. "Man, shut up! You don't scare people like that. I could've gotten a heart attack and died, and my body would be in the water; I would drown." Duke rolled his eyes. "Don't roll your eyes at me, boy," you said, pointing at him, or more at the door since your hair was covering your eyes. "Oh, can you tell? You can barely see! Plus, I'm older than you!" You shoved him away, but you almost fell instead of pushing him. "Just let me help, man. Your arms look like they're about to shrivel away, and your fingers are all wrinkly," you groaned. "Fine, just watch the YouTube video," Duke laughed. "No need; I got this." And got this he did. Duke gently massaged your head, stroking it. It felt nice, really nice, and he was doing a good job—a really good job. You felt safe in his hands. You'll never say that aloud, never. He placed a towel on your head and gently lifted up your chin. You weren't close enough to hug him, so you dabbed him up as a small gesture to say "Thank you," but not out loud.

A few weeks later, you get a bag of beauty supply products. "Mind if you do me a favor, lil bro?" Lil bro? Who does he think he is? Then boom, his head was in between your legs, and his durag was off; messy braids said hello to you. "I hate you so fucking much," you huffed, opening the bag of beauty supply combs, brushes, and gels. "Yeah, yeah, get to work, lil man," you slapped his head. "Don't make me mess your shit up," you shouted, only for him to chuckle. "So what do you want me to do?" you said, slowly unbraiding his hair. "Cornrows, please, good sir," he shouted with some finger guns. "Whatever, man," and you got to work, gently unbraiding and re-braiding his hair, sometimes moving his head forcefully just to mess with him. But you stopped, gently putting his head on your knee. "Here, you're done." He held a mirror near his face. "Decant, decant, decant!" he chuckled, then saw a little curve on the side of his head. "Did you do my baby hairs?" he muttered, gently touching the little edges. "I didn't know what to do with them, so I slicked them back," you shrugged, holding the mirror over your shoulder. "You know what? I look good if I were a girl," he mumbled, making you snort. You finally laughed at one of his jokes. "You would look ugly as fuck," leaving you both laughing. And let's just say the other boys are pissed; why didn't you do their hair?

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velvetvisionsaurora · 2 days ago

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Hello! Could I request a one shot with yeosang and female reader where they are best friends, super close to the point the boys swear they’re together but they aren’t, and they accidentally kiss. They panic a little because they like each other but didn’t know if the other did and it makes them realize feelings. Maybe leads to some smut. Thank you!! 🥰 -mxnsxngie

Unspoken

Yeosang x Best Friend Reader

Warnings/tags: smut, friends to lovers, drinking, mutual pining, angst, fluff

Your phone buzzed with a notification at 3 AM. Without even checking, you knew who it was.

Yeosang: You awake?

You smiled in the darkness of your bedroom. This had become your routine—late night texts when Yeosang couldn't sleep after practice, or when you were stressed about work.

You: Always for you. Rough day?

Yeosang: Just can't turn my brain off. The usual.

You: Want me to come over? I can bring those honey chips you like.

There was a brief pause before his reply came through.

Yeosang: It's 3 AM. You have work tomorrow.

You: So? When has that ever stopped me?

Twenty minutes later, you were punching in the door code to the ATEEZ dorm, grocery bag in hand. You'd been there so often that Hongjoong had given you the code months ago, joking that you might as well move in since you were practically Yeosang's shadow anyway.

Yeosang was waiting in the dimly lit living room, his hair tousled from running his hands through it—a habit when he was overthinking something. His face softened when he saw you.

"You really didn't have to come," he said quietly, careful not to wake the others.

You plopped down beside him on the couch, pulling out the chips and two banana milk cartons. "That's what best friends are for. Besides, I couldn't sleep either."

This was your safe space—the quiet hours you shared when the rest of the world was asleep. It had been this way since you met Yeosang in high school, years before ATEEZ debuted. Back then, you'd stay up talking about your dreams—his of becoming an idol, yours of working in your current field. You'd supported each other through every step, every setback, every triumph.

"So," you said, poking his side gently, "what's keeping the great Kang Yeosang awake tonight?"

He smiled slightly, accepting the milk you offered. "Just thinking about the new choreography. I can't get this one section right."

"Show me," you encouraged, standing and pulling him up by his hands.

"Now? Everyone's asleep."

"So we'll be quiet. Come on, I know you won't rest until you work it out."

This was familiar territory. In the small space between the coffee table and TV, Yeosang demonstrated the move that was troubling him. You watched attentively, offering suggestions even though you had no dance training. It wasn't about expertise—it was about giving him someone to explain it to, helping him process it out loud.

"Maybe if you shift your weight here instead," you suggested, demonstrating awkwardly.

Yeosang laughed softly at your attempt, the tension leaving his shoulders. "That's definitely not it, but thanks for trying."

"Hey, I'll have you know I'm an excellent bathroom mirror dancer," you protested with mock indignation.

"The best," he agreed, his eyes crinkling with affection. He tried the move again, incorporating a slight adjustment. "That feels better actually."

"See? I'm basically a choreographer now. You can tell your dance instructor I'm available for consultations."

Yeosang shook his head, amused, as you both settled back on the couch. This easy banter was the foundation of your friendship—the ability to be completely yourselves with each other.

"San was asking about you today," Yeosang mentioned casually as you opened the chips.

"Oh? What about?"

"The usual. 'Are you sure there's nothing going on between you two?'" he mimicked San's teasing tone.

You rolled your eyes, settling deeper into the couch beside your best friend. "We're just friends, San. How many times do I have to tell you?" you responded, as if San were actually there.

Yeosang nodded in agreement, though you missed the way his eyes lingered on you a moment too long. "Yeah, stop making it weird," he echoed.

"The members are convinced we're secretly dating," he continued. "Wooyoung even had a theory that we're hiding it because of some company policy."

You snorted. "Right, because we're so good at keeping secrets. Remember when you tried to surprise me for my birthday and ended up telling me three weeks early?"

"That was different," Yeosang defended himself. "You did that thing with your eyes that makes it impossible to lie to you."

"What thing?" you asked innocently, widening your eyes dramatically.

"That thing exactly," he laughed, throwing a small cushion at you.

The ATEEZ members had collectively decided you were secretly dating, despite both your insistences to the contrary. It had been like this for months—ever since you'd become a regular fixture at their dorm, having been Yeosang's friend since before their debut.

What they didn't understand was how deep your friendship ran—how Yeosang had been there when your parent was hospitalized last year, sitting with you in the waiting room for hours without a word; how you'd stayed up all night with him before his debut, calming his nerves and reminding him how far he'd come; how you knew exactly how he took his coffee and he knew precisely which songs would lift your mood on bad days.

If only they knew how your heart raced whenever Yeosang's shoulder brushed against yours, or how you sometimes caught yourself staring at his profile when he wasn't looking. But you'd buried those feelings deep. Your friendship meant everything, and you weren't about to risk it over what you assumed was one-sided attraction.

"I brought something else," you said, reaching into your bag to pull out a small sketchbook. "Look what I found while cleaning yesterday."

Yeosang's eyes lit up with recognition. It was the sketchbook you'd kept during your high school days, filled with doodles, quotes, and notes you'd passed in class.

"I can't believe you still have this," he said, carefully turning the pages.

"Of course I do. It's a historical artifact now. Look—" you pointed to a page where you'd written 'Kang Yeosang, future K-pop star' with little stars around it. "See? I always believed in you."

He looked at you then, something unreadable in his expression. "You've always been there," he said quietly. "Even when no one else was."

The sincerity in his voice made your heart flutter. "And I always will be," you promised. "That's what we do, right? We show up for each other."

A comfortable silence fell between you as you continued flipping through the sketchbook, shoulders touching, the occasional laugh when you found something particularly embarrassing.

"It's late," Yeosang eventually said, glancing at the clock. "You should stay over. The spare room is made up."

This wasn't unusual either. You'd spent countless nights in the dorm's spare room, especially when your hangouts ran late. The members joked it was basically your room now.

"I'll stay," you agreed, stifling a yawn. "But only if you promise to actually sleep instead of overthinking that dance move."

"Deal," he said, getting up to fetch you a clean towel and the spare toothbrush you kept there.

As you followed him down the hallway, Wooyoung's door cracked open. He peeked out, hair sticking up in all directions, and gave you a knowing smirk.

"Just friends, huh?" he whispered theatrically.

"Go back to sleep, Wooyoung," Yeosang sighed.

"I'm heading to the kitchen. Want anything?" Yeosang asked later, his voice pulling you from your thoughts as you settled into the spare room.

"I'll come with you," you replied, ignoring Wooyoung's theatrical whisper of "See? They can't even be apart for five minutes!" as you passed his room again.

In the kitchen, Yeosang leaned against the counter as you rummaged through the fridge for water. The quiet moment between you felt comfortable, as it always did.

"They're never going to stop, are they?" you asked with a small laugh.

Yeosang shook his head, a strand of hair falling across his forehead. You resisted the urge to brush it away. "Probably not. Does it bother you?"

"No," you answered honestly. "I'm used to it by now."

What you didn't say was that sometimes, in moments of weakness, you wished their teasing had some truth to it. You didn't see how Yeosang's fingers tightened around his glass, or the way he swallowed hard before nodding.

"Me too," he said softly, his thoughtful eyes meeting yours for a brief moment before looking away. "It's funny how convinced they are."

Little did either of you know that you were both harboring the same secret—a longing that remained unspoken, a love that felt too precious and too dangerous to confess.

---

The dorm was alive with laughter and music, bottles of soju scattered across the coffee table as the members celebrated the end of their latest comeback promotions. You sat cross-legged on the floor, cheeks warm from the alcohol and the proximity of Yeosang beside you.

"Let's play a game!" Wooyoung announced, his voice carrying over the music.

San clapped his hands. "Truth or dare!"

A chorus of groans and enthusiastic agreements followed. You caught Yeosang's eye, both of you sharing a look of amused resignation. These games always led to chaos with this group.

Several rounds later, the questions and dares had grown increasingly ridiculous. Hongjoong had rapped while standing on his head, Mingi had prank called their manager, and Seonghwa had revealed his most embarrassing training memory.

"Yeosang, truth or dare?" Jongho asked, his powerful voice softened by a slight slur.

"Truth," Yeosang replied cautiously.

Jongho's eyes gleamed mischievously. "Have you ever thought about kissing Y/N?"

The room fell silent. You felt your heart hammering against your ribs as you stared intently at your half-empty glass, afraid to look at Yeosang.

"I—that's not—" Yeosang stammered, his usually composed demeanor cracking.

"Too late! You chose truth!" San singsonged.

Yeosang stood abruptly. "I need some air."

Without thinking, you followed him to the small balcony, closing the door behind you to shut out the whistles and teasing comments from the others.

"Hey," you said softly, leaning against the railing beside him. "Sorry about that. They're just being stupid."

Yeosang stared out at the city lights, his profile illuminated by the soft glow. "It's fine. I'm used to their teasing."

"Still..." you began, turning to face him. The words died in your throat as he turned simultaneously, bringing your faces inches apart.

Time seemed to freeze. You weren't sure if it was the alcohol, the moonlight, or years of suppressed feelings, but neither of you moved away. Instead, as if drawn by an invisible force, you leaned closer until your lips met his.

The kiss was gentle, hesitant, a question neither of you had dared to ask aloud. For a blissful moment, everything felt right—until Yeosang suddenly pulled away, his eyes wide.

"I—I'm sorry," he stammered, panic etched across his features. "That was... that was the alcohol. A mistake. I didn't mean..."

Each word felt like a knife to your heart. You forced a smile, even as you felt something breaking inside you. "Of course," you said, your voice surprisingly steady. "Just the drinks. Don't worry about it."

You stepped back, creating physical distance to match the emotional chasm that had suddenly opened between you. "We should go back inside before they start another round of teasing."

Back in the living room, you sat as far from Yeosang as possible, laughing at jokes you barely heard and avoiding his gaze for the rest of the night. If the others noticed the sudden tension, they didn't mention it.

But inside, your heart was shattering. The one thing you'd feared most had happened—you'd crossed a line, and now your friendship with Yeosang might never be the same.

---

Two weeks had passed since that night, and you hadn't set foot in the ATEEZ dorm. Your phone was filled with unread messages from the members—everyone except Yeosang. His silence spoke volumes.

You'd made excuses—work was busy, you weren't feeling well, you had family obligations—but the truth was, you couldn't bear to face him. The memory of his words echoed in your mind: *"A mistake. I didn't mean..."* How could you go back to being just friends when now you knew exactly what you were missing?

At the dorm, Yeosang wasn't faring any better. He moved through rehearsals like a ghost, his usual quiet thoughtfulness replaced by a distracted melancholy that concerned his members.

"Okay, that's it," Wooyoung declared after Yeosang had missed his cue for the third time during dance practice. He grabbed his friend's arm and dragged him into the hallway, ignoring the curious looks from the others.

"What did you do?" Wooyoung demanded once they were alone, his usual playfulness replaced by genuine concern.

Yeosang blinked. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't play dumb. Y/N hasn't been around for weeks. You look like someone stole your favorite hoodie and set it on fire. Something happened, and I want to know what."

For a moment, Yeosang considered deflecting, but the weight of carrying his secret alone had become too much. He slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, head in his hands.

"We kissed," he admitted quietly. "That night we were all drinking."

Wooyoung's eyes widened. "Finally! But wait—why is that a bad thing? You've been in love with her forever."

Yeosang looked up sharply. "What? How did you—"

"Please," Wooyoung scoffed. "You look at her like she hung the moon. We all know. So what's the problem?"

"I panicked," Yeosang confessed, shame coloring his voice. "I told her it was a mistake, that it was just the alcohol. I was scared, Wooyoung. What if she didn't feel the same way? What if I ruined our friendship?"

Understanding dawned on Wooyoung's face. "So instead you rejected her and now she's avoiding us all. Brilliant move."

"I know," Yeosang groaned. "But what was I supposed to do? I've been in love with her for years, and I was afraid to lose her."

"And how's that working out for you?" Wooyoung asked pointedly. "Seems like you've lost her anyway."

The truth of those words hit Yeosang like a physical blow. He had been so afraid of rejection that he'd ended up pushing away the person he cared about most.

"I've been such an idiot," he whispered.

Wooyoung nodded sagely. "Yes, you have. But luckily for you, I'm an expert in grand romantic gestures." He pulled Yeosang to his feet. "Go to her. Tell her how you feel—the truth this time. Before it's too late."

For the first time in weeks, hope flickered in Yeosang's heart.

The knocking at your apartment door came just after 9 PM. You weren't expecting anyone, and for a moment you considered ignoring it. You were in no mood for company, dressed in your oldest sweatpants and a faded t-shirt, hair piled messily on top of your head.

But the knocking persisted, growing more urgent. With a sigh, you padded to the door and peered through the peephole.

Your heart skipped a beat. Yeosang.

For a moment, you considered pretending you weren't home, but you knew you couldn't avoid him forever. With trembling fingers, you unlocked the door and pulled it open.

He stood there, slightly out of breath as if he'd run all the way to your apartment. His hair was tousled, his eyes intense in a way you'd rarely seen.

"Yeosang," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "What are you—"

You didn't get to finish your question. In two steps, he closed the distance between you, his hands gently cradling your face as his lips found yours. Unlike the hesitant kiss you'd shared before, this one was certain, deliberate, filled with an urgency that took your breath away.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes searched yours. "That wasn't a mistake," he said firmly. "And I'm completely sober."

You stared at him, afraid to believe what was happening. "But you said—"

"I lied," he interrupted. "I was scared. I've been in love with you for years, Y/N. Years. I thought you only saw me as a friend, and I was terrified of ruining what we had." His thumb brushed over your cheek. "But these past weeks without you have been unbearable. I'd rather risk everything than spend another day pretending I don't love you."

Tears welled in your eyes as the words you'd longed to hear finally reached your ears. "I love you too," you confessed, your voice breaking. "I always have."

Relief and joy washed over Yeosang's face. He kissed you again, deeper this time, backing you into your apartment and kicking the door closed behind him. His hands slid from your face to your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.

"I've imagined this so many times," he murmured against your lips. "Being with you, telling you how I feel."

Your fingers tangled in his hair. "Show me," you whispered.

That was all the invitation he needed. His kisses grew more intense, trailing from your lips to your jaw, then down the column of your throat. Your hands slipped under his shirt, exploring the warm skin beneath, feeling the rapid beat of his heart.

His shoes and jacket were discarded as you made your way to your bedroom, neither of you willing to break contact for more than a moment. In the soft glow of your bedside lamp, Yeosang looked at you with such adoration that it made your heart ache.

"You're so beautiful," he said softly, his usual quiet demeanor giving way to passionate conviction. "I've dreamed of this moment."

"No more dreaming," you replied, pulling him down to you. "This is real."

Yeosang's confession still hung in the air, vibrating with hope and panic.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. The space between you was small, but it crackled with things unsaid—the years of laughter, quiet companionship, late-night confessions, longing glances, words hidden behind "just friends." All of it condensed into this one breathless moment.

Yeosang lifted a shaking hand, brushing a flyaway strand of hair from your cheek, thumb lingering on your skin as if memorizing the shape of you. His touch was hesitant, reverent, and you turned your head into it, letting your lips ghost against the pad of his thumb. You felt, more than heard, his inhale.

"Can I…?" he whispered, voice rough, as if afraid to finish the sentence.

You nodded, almost imperceptibly, your answer coming out as a trembling sigh.

The first kiss was more an exhale than a meeting of lips—a tentative press, careful and soft, as if he was certain you'd vanish if he pushed too far. It was slow, so painfully slow, all gentle coaxing and exploration. Your hands found his shoulders for balance, fingers clutching fabric as if you needed the anchor, needed him to ground you to this new, impossible present.

His other hand slipped to your waist, warm through the thin cotton of your shirt. His thumb traced delicate circles just above your hip, hesitant yet possessive, and the gentleness of it made tears sting your eyes. When his mouth slanted across yours a second time, you both melted into the kiss—soft, searching, tasting what you'd both denied yourselves for so long.

Yeosang made a quiet, needy sound as your lips parted for him. Your tongues met in a slow dance, less about lust and more about revelation. He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath mingling, letting his eyes flutter shut as if he was savoring the moment, tucking it away to keep forever.

"You're so beautiful," he breathed, careful, awestruck, like he was saying it for the very first time—even though you'd always seen it in his eyes.

You reached for the hem of his shirt, looking up for permission. The way he nodded—swallowing hard, gaze never leaving yours—made something fragile inside you come undone. You pulled the shirt up and over his head, your hands skating over the planes of his chest—a place you'd known in comfort for years, but never allowed to discover like this.

Yeosang was warmth and muscle and nerves, skin prickling beneath your fingers. A faint scar at his ribs caught your attention; you traced it gently, looking at him in silent question.

"Training accident," he murmured, smiling wryly, "back before we debuted. You remember?"

You nodded, recalling the night you'd bandaged him in your college bathroom, your hands trembling as you tried not to let your fears show. Now your hands shook for an entirely different reason.

He gently tugged your shirt upward in return, giving you time to change your mind. You lifted your arms, baring yourself under his gaze, heart racing as his eyes swept over you—awed, hungry, yet still reverent. He pressed feather-light kisses to your shoulder, the hollow of your throat, the space just above your heart, as if paying tribute to every inch.

His hands found your waist again, and you gasped as he guided you toward the bed, never breaking eye contact. There was nothing hurried—every movement was deliberate, filled with years of longing finally spilling over. When you lay back, he followed, settling beside you rather than atop, propping himself on one elbow so he could still see your face.

You studied him in the warm light—his flushed cheeks, the way his lashes fanned against his cheekbones, the way his hair kept falling across his eyes. You reached up and finally—finally—swept it back, letting your fingers tangle in the dark silk.

His breath stuttered. He leaned in to kiss you again, deeper now, lazy and exploratory. His palm flattened over your stomach, sliding up your ribcage, the roughness of his touch contrasting with the soft slide of skin on skin.

He murmured your name between kisses, worshiping every reaction—a gasp here, a shiver there. He traced patterns along your torso with careful, unhurried hands, learning you by touch as if memorizing a favorite song. When his thumb brushed the edge of your bra, he paused, lifting his eyes, waiting for your go-ahead.

You arched your chest upward—a silent invitation. He smiled, breathless, and hooked his fingers under the band, easing it away with gentle insistence, his lips following the path to kiss the bare skin he uncovered.

You sighed, hands weaving into his hair as he lavished slow, reverent attention; he nuzzled and kissed each sensitive peak, his tongue tracing light circles until you shivered. His name slipped from your lips, barely a whisper, and he moaned at the sound, growing bolder as the line between friendship and something softer, deeper, inevitable, blurred then snapped altogether.

He kissed his way back up your body, settling over you. "Tell me if anything's not okay," he whispered, voice hoarse with need but sweet and careful as ever.

You pulled him in, fitting your mouth to his, pouring years of longing and loneliness and hope into a single, searing kiss. He pressed himself to you, skin to skin, and you both trembled with the enormity of what was finally, finally happening.

Clothes were eased away with patience and awe, hands and lips and whispered reminders: "You're perfect," "I love you," "I've wanted this for so long.”

Yeosang’s kisses grew hungrier as you drew him down to you, the taste of his lips becoming addictive, each press deeper and more desperate than the last. His shyness fell away under your hands—each caress and sigh fanning a fire you’d both kept banked for too long.

He trailed kisses down your neck, teeth scraping lightly over your skin and drawing soft, startled gasps that he swallowed eagerly. His breath was warm, lips gentle at first but quickly growing demanding as he mapped your body with his mouth—the hollow of your throat, your sensitive collarbone, the rapid pulse beneath your skin. Your hands roamed his back, feeling every muscle tense and ripple under your touch, each reaction proving how deeply he felt this.

Your bodies pressed closer, too close for shyness, not nearly close enough for the want threatening to undo you both. Yeosang slipped his hands over your bare waist, sliding lower, fingers digging into your hips with a need you hadn’t seen in him before. “I never thought I could want anything this much,” he whispered, voice rough.

You arched beneath him, emboldened by every tremor you could coax from his body. “I want you, Yeosang. I want all of you.” The words fell from your lips with abandon; you wanted him to know, to never doubt what he meant to you again.

He groaned—an honest, needy sound that settled low in your belly—and pressed himself to you, completely bare, letting you feel every inch of him, the hard proof of his longing flush against your skin. You opened your legs, inviting him between, and he settled in the cradle of your thighs, grinding slowly, unhurriedly, making you both shudder.

Your hands fumbled, greedy and reverent, over his chest—feeling how his heart thumped furiously, tracing down his stomach to grip his hips and pull him even closer. He hissed, pleasure and disbelief blurring in his voice. “You drive me crazy,” he gasped. “Tell me if you want me to stop. Please—”

You shook your head. “Don’t stop. Please, Yeosang.”

He kissed you again, slower but deeper, one hand slipping between your bodies to touch you—gentle at first, then firmer as he discovered exactly how you liked to be touched. His finger slid through your wetness, circling, teasing, learning what made you gasp and moan. He watched your face, drinking in every reaction. “You’re so perfect,” he whispered, breath trembling. “So beautiful—I could stay here forever.”

You couldn’t bear to wait. You pressed your hips against him, curling your fingers around his wrist, silently urging more. “Yeosang, I need you,” you pleaded. “I can’t wait any longer.”

He lined himself up, touching your cheek for one heartbeat longer, his gaze asking, Are you sure? When you nodded, he pressed forward, filling you slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. The stretch was exquisite—both familiar and completely new, an ache and a relief all at once. You gasped, clinging to him as he pressed in fully, groaning at the sensation of being joined at last.

He stilled, forehead pressed to yours as he breathed through it, giving you time to adjust, his hands shaking where they gripped your hips. “You feel…god, you feel incredible.”

“Move,” you begged, barely coherent. “Don’t hold back.”

He did—rolling his hips, withdrawing and thrusting slowly, then faster as your bodies found a rhythm that sent molten pleasure streaking through you both. His control frayed quickly in the heat of your body and the intensity of your gaze. He thrust harder, deeper, his hand sliding under your thigh to hitch your leg higher, changing the angle and making you cry out his name.

Your head fell back against the pillow; he kissed down your neck, nipping, soothing with his tongue, marking you as his. Your nails sank into his back, holding him close, feeling the tension building between you, the feeling that you could fly apart at any moment if you didn’t hold on.

He fucked you with a reverence that bordered on worship, but his voice was guttered now, every word raw with want. “God, you’re mine—say you’re mine. Let me hear you.”

You met his hips on every thrust, letting go of any shyness, letting him see all the need and love in your eyes. “I’m yours, Yeosang. I’ve always been yours.”

He kissed you hard then, devouring, as his rhythm grew frantic, chasing both your pleasures. The bed creaked beneath you, sheets twisted in your fists as you came, the pleasure cresting and breaking you apart with his name on your lips. He groaned, coming moments later, deeper than before, clutching you like a lifeline as his body shook against yours.

You stayed tangled in each other afterward, damp skin pressed together, hearts pounding in tandem. Yeosang tucked your hair behind your ear and kissed your lips, your jaw, your eyelids, murmuring your name between soft, stunned laughs.

As you lay in his arms, Yeosang traced patterns on your bare shoulder. "I should thank Wooyoung," he mused.

You raised an eyebrow. "For what?"

"For knocking some sense into me." He smiled, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "He told me I was being an idiot, and he was right."

You laughed softly. "Remind me to thank him too."

"The others are going to be insufferable," Yeosang groaned. "They'll never let us hear the end of this."

"Let them tease," you said, nestling closer to him. "They were right all along."

Yeosang's arms tightened around you. "Worth it," he whispered. "You're worth everything."

As sleep began to claim you both, one last thought drifted through your mind: sometimes the greatest risk isn't taking a chance on love—it's never taking that chance at all. Thankfully, you and Yeosang had finally found the courage to cross that line from friendship to something far more beautiful.

In the morning, you would face the world—and the inevitable teasing from seven other K-pop idols—together. But for now, wrapped in each other's arms, you were exactly where you both belonged.

#ateez fanfic #ateez x reader #ateez smut #ateez angst #ateez yeosang #ateez fluff #ateez #yeosang x reader #kang yeosang x reader #kang yeosang #yeosang #best friends #yeosang smut #yeosang fluff #mutual pining

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witchingwithscissors · 22 hours ago

Text

Agathario WNBA AU Fic | They kept it private. Until love made a scene.

🏀 🦐 🏀 🦐 🏀 🦐 🏀 🦐 🏀 🦐 🏀 🦐 🏀 🦐 🏀

The new season opened under a sky that couldn’t decide if it was spring or still clawing through winter. Newark was like that—clinging to chill, even when the flowers had started fighting through the cracks.

Rio Vidal stood outside the arena tunnel, bouncing a ball in her palm, earbuds in, jawline sharp with focus. The Pistol Shrimps’ new media director wanted a shot of her walking in, tall and aloof and magnetic, headphones on like she couldn’t hear the world begging for a piece of her.

She gave the camera a flash of grin and walked through the doors, alone.

By the time she hit the locker room, her teammates were already chirping.

“Oooh oooh Rio Vidal,” called Alice from her locker, fake swooning. “Your sneaker deal get upgraded again or is that just a new diamond earring?”

Rio flicked her head toward the mirror and tugged her hoodie down. “What can I say? People like my face.”

They laughed, and she smiled, even if the inside of her chest felt like the hollow of a basketball. Echoed.

Empty.

She was twenty-eight. Her jersey sold the most. She had a signature shoe, a line of lotion with Fenty, and a sneaker closet that would make grown men weep. She dated casually, got flirted with more than she wanted, and got laid a lot less than people assumed.

She’d been called a player, and maybe she had been one, once.

But now she just wanted to win.

And maybe be held. Occasionally. Briefly.

Quietly.

Media Day felt like a blur of bright lights and the same five questions. She fielded them with ease. She knew which angles to tilt her chin for. Which smile to give the rookie newsletter reporter vs. the ESPN one. She joked, charmed, winked. Played the game within the game.

She was six interviews deep when she saw her.

At first, it was the hair—glossy, dark, pinned back like she didn’t want anyone touching it. Then the mouth: a knowing curve, a little cruel, the kind that made you want to chase the smirk just to see if you could catch it. The jaw came next, cut sharp and proud. And then the suit—cream, pinstriped, tailored like it had a personal grudge against wrinkles. She looked like money and control and danger in heels.

But it was the eyes that got her. Cool. Detached. Watching from the media suite above the court like she owned the whole damn building—and maybe she did.

Rio didn’t care for the suits. Barely skimmed the emails. Okay, didn’t read them at all. The business side of basketball never interested her. She was here to play, to win, to move.

But now she couldn’t stop looking up.

Rio’s voice stuttered mid-answer. Just for a second. She kept talking. But her eyes flicked back. And that woman didn’t stop looking.

“Who’s the hottie shark in heels?” Rio asked an assistant coach later, half-joking, half-not.

Coach raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t met her yet?”

“Should I have?”

“She’s your boss. Or… close enough I guess.” A pause. “Agatha Harkness. Majority stake in the team, new blood from the business world. She’s why your pre-season charter flights are double the size.”

Rio blinked. “She doesn’t look like she likes basketball.”

“She doesn’t. She likes investments. This one just happens to run on sneakers and lesbians.”

Rio barked a laugh.

The first time they met, it wasn’t on the court. It was in the elevator lobby.

Rio was heading up to the executive floor to shoot a quick welcome promo—something about team values and hometown pride. She hadn’t read the script.

Agatha was stepping out of the elevator, phone to her ear, mid-sentence. Her voice was low and clipped, professional with just enough edge to make someone on the other end sweat.

Rio almost bumped her. Agatha didn’t flinch.

They both stopped. Rio raised a brow.

Agatha gave her a once-over that wasn’t flirtatious—wasn’t anything, really. Just cool appraisal.

“I assume you’re Ms. Vidal,” she said, as if she’d never watched a game in her life but had read every clause of Rio’s contract.

Rio tilted her head, offered a small smile. “That’s me. Rio’s fine, by the way.”

Agatha’s lips twitched like she wanted to smirk but refused. “You’re taller in person.”

“And you’re kinda scarier.”

“I get that a lot.” Agatha’s eyes flicked to the camera crew down the hall. “You’re needed.”

“Apparently.”

She moved past her. Rio let her, watching the swish of her suit and the subtle click of those goddamn heels.

That night, Rio lay in bed, half-scrolling, half-thinking. She could still feel Agatha’s gaze from the glass suite. Not judgmental. Just… seeing. Watching.

Her phone buzzed with the day’s media content. She tapped through the set and paused on a frame—she was walking off court, laughing, water bottle in hand.

And there, in the far-right corner, just barely caught in the frame: a perfectly manicured hand gesturing mid-sentence. Cream suit sleeve. A shimmer of silver rings.

Agatha’s hand.

Rio cropped the image. Zoomed just enough.

She posted it—no caption, no filter. She couldn’t explain why. Just… the photo.

Within thirty minutes, the comments had started.

“Who’s hand??”

“Wait… Rio are we soft launching???”

“👀👀👀👀👀”

Rio turned off her phone and dropped it face down beside her. She couldn’t explain it. Just knew it felt like something worth keeping.

Agatha Harkness didn’t clap. That was the first thing Rio noticed.

Even when the team won by thirty. Even when Rio sank the game-winner like it was muscle memory. Even when the rookie center threw down her first dunk and the bench lost its mind like they’d just clinched the Finals.

Agatha didn’t flinch. Stayed seated in the owner’s box, sunglasses on, expression untouched. Regal. Untouchable. Like she was watching an art exhibit, not a game.

She didn’t clap. But she didn’t leave, either.

She sat there long after the final buzzer, legs crossed, elbows balanced against the glass rail, as if she were still waiting for something. Or trying not to leave too soon.

Rio tried to ignore it. Pretend she didn’t see her.

But her eyes kept drifting back, like they had a mind of their own.

It wasn’t until week two that she started clocking the tells. At first, it was subtle. A glance, maybe. But Rio had sharp eyes, and Agatha was a creature of control. Which meant that any deviation stood out.

She bit the inside of her cheek during Rio’s free throws. Picked at her cuticle—just the pinky, always the pinky—even though her nails were immaculate. When Rio hit the floor hard in the third, Agatha didn’t flinch. But her fingers stilled.

And later, when Rio cracked a throwaway joke at the press table, Agatha tilted her head. Just slightly. Just enough.

It was always like that. Small things, barely there—meant for Rio and no one else.

And Rio noticed. Every time.

She didn’t know if it meant anything. But it made the game feel warmer. Like she wasn’t just playing for fans or teammates or ego.

She was playing for someone watching her too closely. Someone who mattered—not in basketball terms. Not in business either. Something else. Something harder to name.

Agatha was always visible but never reachable.

The owner’s box was a different world—glass and brass and executive detachment. And Agatha wasn’t exactly hanging out in the hallways. She ghosted through the building in heels and hard-to-read stares, always two steps ahead of wherever Rio thought she might be.

But Rio could feel her watching.

One night in Atlanta, after a brutal back-to-back stretch, Rio came back to her hotel room sore, sweaty, and starving. She peeled off her team hoodie, dropped her bag by the door, and blinked.

Sitting on her pillow: a bouquet of lavender azaleas.

Fresh. Still cool from whatever fridge they’d been stored in. Wrapped in butcher paper, tied with a thin silk ribbon. No tag. No card.

Just that particular, dark-sweet scent. Like something private.

Rio stared for a long moment.

Then she took a photo. The petals were almost blue in the dim hotel light.

She didn’t post it. Just looked at the photo once more, then locked her screen.

If she was right, she already knew who sent the flowers. And if she was wrong—well. She could live with a little embarrassment. Disappointment too.

She picked up her phone, typed the message, and hit send without pausing.

She sent it to one contact. Just “A.”

She’d saved the name a month ago, after a single text from the team’s new owner about media protocol. Nothing since.

Rio: Thank you.

Agatha read it. And sent back a single period.

A: .

Rio laughed—out loud, alone in the room. Shirtless, barefoot, still sweat-damp from the game and grinning like an idiot.

So it was her. Flower gifter confirmed.

She texted again.

Rio: You always this romantic?

Read. No reply.

Three hours later, Rio was clean, fed, and in pajamas, her muscles mellowed from a balcony joint and a halfway decent room service dinner. She was nearly asleep, phone slipping in her hand, when it buzzed.

A: Only when it’s deserved.

It started like that.

Nothing scandalous. No late-night calls or whispered confessions. Just… words. Simple. Intentional.

Midnight messages that slipped into 2 am.

Jokes that turned into philosophy.

Sarcasm that curled into softness.

Rio never said she liked the quiet between games. But somehow, Agatha knew.

She started sending her articles—long reads with no real urgency. Pieces on women in power. Queer athletes. A deep dive into the color theory behind WNBA uniforms.

Agatha never asked if she’d read them. But somehow, she always knew. And Rio liked that—liked the quiet feeling of having done something right. Not for her boss. For her.

She never asked how Agatha knew her hotel room number, either. Some part of her didn’t want to.

It felt better this way. A little mysterious. A little sacred.

Late one night, three cities into a road trip, Rio sent a text.

Rio: Tell me something true.

She expected a deflection. Or silence. Or worse: a quote from some dead French poet.

Instead, Agatha replied instantly.

A: I’ve been watching you longer than I should have.

Rio stared at the screen.

Not smiled. Not laughed. Just… felt it.

She typed back.

Rio: That supposed to make me sleep better or worse?

This time, it took five minutes.

A: Both.

They still hadn’t touched.

Hadn’t shared a room. Hadn’t even been seen speaking again. But something was happening. Something real.

When Rio walked off the court after games, her first instinct was to look up. Not at the scoreboard. Not at the press.

Just at the woman behind the glass.

She didn’t always see her.

But she always felt her.

On a travel day, Rio tucked her phone into her carry-on and leaned back against the plane window. Alice was snoring beside her. Her earbuds buzzed with soft music.

She thought about lavender azaleas.

About tight suits and sharp sunglasses.

About power and restraint and the way Agatha had looked at her—really looked—when she laughed too hard on camera and tilted her head back like she wasn’t famous, just happy.

Rio knew the line she was toeing.

Owner. Player.

It wasn’t just risky—it could look bad. To the media. To the team. Maybe even to herself.

But she also knew the truth.

Some people make silence feel like a love song.

And she was already humming it.

The text came at 7:16 pm.

A: If you’re free tonight, I’d like to run some numbers by you. Sponsorship breakdown, that sort of thing.

Rio stared at the message for a second longer than necessary, towel draped over her shoulder, her gym clothes still sticking to her skin. Her heart did a thing—small, quick.

She typed back.

Rio: You always discuss business after dark on a Friday?

Three dots. Then four. Then nothing.

Finally, she texted.

A: Only when I’m trying to hide how much I’m looking forward to it.

Agatha lived in a building that required two separate door codes and an elevator that knew your name.

Rio stepped out of the lift into quiet luxury. Hardwood floors that muffled footsteps. A glass console table that looked like it cost more than Rio’s car. The door was already ajar.

Inside, soft light spilled across cream-colored walls. There was music playing—jazz, not too slow, not too moody, just… rich. A saxophone threaded through the air like it knew secrets.

Agatha was barefoot.

She was in a navy wrap dress, sleeves pushed up, hair half-down like it couldn’t decide if it was hosting a gala or going to bed. Her legs were bare, and her toenails were painted the same color lavender as the flowers Rio couldn’t stop thinking about.

She didn’t look like a team owner. She looked like a woman trying not to look like she cared.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Agatha said, turning from the stove without smiling.

“I didn’t think I’d get asked,” Rio replied.

They looked at each other too long. Then Agatha moved.

Dinner was salmon, perfectly cooked. Broccolini, slightly crisp. Wild rice. A single chilled glass of white wine placed in front of Rio with zero fanfare.

There were no papers on the table.

“I thought we were talking sponsorships,” Rio said, stabbing her fork into a bite.

“We are,” Agatha said gently, swirling her wine. “Feeding you something real. Not just whatever keeps you moving.”

Rio laughed. It surprised them both.

Agatha looked down, then met her eyes again. “Rio… is this okay?”

Rio nodded. “Yeah. It’s nice.”

They didn’t sit on the couch after. They ended up on the balcony, the spring air sticky with that just-before-rain heaviness. The city shimmered under a slate sky. Somewhere below, the hum of distant traffic played backup to the music inside.

Rio leaned against the railing. Agatha brought out a blanket. She didn’t sit close. Not yet. But she handed Rio a cardigan—her own—and said, “In case you get cold.”

Rio looked at her. “You always have this planned?”

Agatha didn’t answer.

The rain started slowly. A gentle tapping against the glass, a silver blur in the streetlights. They didn’t move.

Agatha curled her legs under her. Her hair frizzed just slightly at the ends. The silk collar of her dress fell open, just enough to see the line of her clavicle, sharp and soft at once.

Rio wanted to kiss her.

She didn’t.

Instead, they talked.

About the team. The season. Sales. Marketing. Pressure.

Then about nothing—music, books, places they’d never been.

At some point, Rio told a story about high school—missing prom for a regional tournament and winning MVP instead of a corsage.

Agatha was quiet, then said, “I went to prom with a boy who asked the smartest girl in school because he thought it’d make him look interesting. He called me a dyke when I wouldn’t sleep with him.”

Rio blinked. “Jesus.”

Agatha shrugged. “It was a good dress, though.”

Rio laughed. Then, softer, “Did you know then?”

“I knew before then. I just stopped hiding it after that.”

A long silence.

Then Rio: “You hide now?”

Agatha didn’t look at her. But her voice was calm.

“I don’t hide. I protect. That’s different.”

Rio almost pushed—almost. But Agatha looked tense, like a question might crack something open she wasn’t ready to share.

So Rio shifted gears, and Agatha’s shoulders dropped a fraction. Relief, maybe. Or gratitude.

It was well past midnight when Rio finally stood to leave.

Agatha walked her to the door, barefoot and quiet again. She didn’t offer a car. Didn’t ask her to stay.

But when they hugged—brief, polite, the kind you could pass off as professional—Agatha’s fingers curled gently into the back of Rio’s shirt.

Not forceful. Not needy. Just long enough to say something she didn’t.

Like maybe she didn’t want to let go.

Rio didn’t say anything. Just held on.

They pulled apart. Agatha didn’t meet her eyes.

“I’ll see you at the game,” she said, already half-turned away.

“Yeah,” Rio said. “See you.”

It started quietly.

A touch on the arm during a post-game meeting. A glance held a second too long. A shared car ride after an away win, when Rio asked if Agatha was hungry and Agatha said, simply, “Come over.”

No champagne. No candles. No dramatic undoing of clothing.

Just Agatha, barefoot again, her dress unzipped halfway down her spine, standing at the window of her penthouse like she was already ashamed of what she wanted. Rio moved toward her slowly, fingers grazing skin like it might disappear if she touched it too hard.

Their first time didn’t feel like the beginning of anything.

It felt like a confession.

They made love with the lights off, at first.

Agatha pulled her in with a hunger she didn’t know how to name. She took control—gently, reverently—but with finality. As if she’d waited too long to be careful now.

Her hands trembled. But her mouth didn’t.

She kissed Rio like she was starving. Like this was the one thing she hadn’t been able to buy, broker, or bury.

And Rio let her take everything.

She liked giving in. She liked the strength in Agatha’s thighs, the weight of her palm on Rio’s lower back, the way her voice dropped when she said Rio’s name in the dark—like it was a language only she was fluent in.

There was no dirty talk. Not yet. Just sounds. Breaths. Stolen time.

After, they lay tangled in silence.

Rio almost said something—just to fill the space—but Agatha stayed still, quiet in a way that didn’t feel cold, just careful.

She didn’t ask Rio to go. And Rio didn’t move.

Later that first night, Rio woke at 4:13 am to find Agatha asleep beside her, hand curled loosely around her wrist—like she needed something to hold onto.

Like she might drift without it.

Rio didn’t move.

But her heart tightened, quietly, around the shape of it.

The routine settled in like weather.

Private hotel rooms when they traveled. Quiet mornings at Agatha’s place, Rio padding barefoot through the marble kitchen in Agatha’s oversized robe. One time, Agatha cooked eggs without a bra on and Rio nearly dropped her protein shake.

Practice. Games. Appearances. Sponsorship meetings. Then: her.

Always her.

Soft hands. Sharp eyes. A body Rio could trace from memory. A mouth that never said “I love you,” but always, always came back.

But in public? Nothing.

No eye contact. No smiles. No acknowledgement.

At a press event, Rio cracked a joke about team bonding and Agatha walked right past her without even a flicker of recognition.

At practice, Agatha stood in the corner like a statue while Rio ran drills hard enough to sprain something.

It made Rio restless. She didn’t need a billboard. Didn’t need to be paraded around.

But she wanted to be seen.

To be looked at like she mattered. Like she wasn’t a secret. Like whatever this was between them could stand in the light and still be real.

So she did what she always did when her heart felt too loud.

She posted.

First, it was a photo of two wine glasses on a marble counter. One was lipstick-smudged. The other, untouched.

Then: a blurry mirror selfie, her hair messy and damp, the outline of a woman in the background—spine arched as she reached for a towel.

Later: a shot of the floor. Rio’s scuffed Breakthrus side by side with a pair of sharp red-soled Louboutins.

The comments came fast.

“Whose back is that???? 🥵👀”

“Soft launch getting softer”

“Um okay wifey heels 💍”

Agatha didn’t say anything or look at her for two days. Then, at 2:11 am a single text.

A: You can’t post me.

Rio read the message three times. She didn’t reply right away. She waited until the ache in her chest settled into something steady. Something defiant.

Then she typed.

Rio: I don’t want to keep hiding the best thing that’s ever been mine.

Agatha didn’t respond.

But the next morning, when Rio stepped into her place after practice, something had shifted.

The kitchen light was on. A fresh jar of juice waited on the counter—cold, sweating gently. Her bedroom door stood open. And on the pillow beside her, nestled into the silk sheets, was a small bouquet of azaleas.

No note. No explanation. Just a quiet answer, left in bloom.

Sometimes Rio thought she should end it.

Not because she wanted to.

Because she didn’t want to.

Because this—these midnight fucks, these bruises kissed into her hips, these unread messages and untagged photos—this wasn’t sustainable.

She could feel herself falling, faster than she meant to.

What terrified her wasn’t the fall—it was not knowing if Agatha would be there when she landed. Or if she’d be left to break on her own.

One morning, after they made love slow and soft and silent, Agatha reached for Rio’s hand without looking and said, almost absentmindedly, “You always smell like sunshine.”

Rio blinked. “You always taste like red wine and bad decisions.”

Agatha smiled. But she didn’t deny it.

They never talked about the future.

They talked about next time.

About cities.

Schedules.

Flight delays.

But never about what would happen if the season ended and Rio wanted more than flowers and twilight.

Rio didn’t need everything. She just wanted something real. Agatha had already given her that. But Rio was starting to wonder if maybe she’d need more than “almost.”

The night she said it, the sky outside was the color of overripe peaches, and Agatha had just made eggs.

Not fancy eggs. Not truffled or poached or folded into omelets. Just simple, warm, buttery scrambled eggs on mismatched plates. Rio stood barefoot in the penthouse kitchen, swaying like an idiot to a faint Beyoncé remix while fishing orange juice from the fridge.

Agatha didn’t laugh. But she didn’t tell her to stop either.

She just watched. Elbow braced on the counter, robe open over a cotton tank, legs bare and one heel cocked up behind her like she wasn’t posing, just… there. Comfortable. Home.

And Rio—sweaty, tired, still in practice shorts—looked at her and felt everything at once.

She didn’t plan to say it. But the words burned in her chest until she couldn’t breathe around them.

So she said it.

“I love you.”

The words dropped into the space like a shot clock buzzer—loud, unavoidable, final.

Agatha didn’t move.

She didn’t blink. Didn’t sigh. Just stared at Rio like the world had shifted and no one warned her.

Rio softened. “You don’t have to say it back if you’re not ready,” she added. “I just… I needed you to know.”

Still, Agatha said nothing.

Then she turned.

Walked to the sink, rinsed her plate, set it down.

And kept walking.

Out of the kitchen. Down the hall. The click of her door closing echoed louder than anything she could’ve said.

Rio sat there, eggs going cold on her plate, barely touched.

She waited. Two minutes. Five. Ten. No text. No sound from down the hall.

She blinked hard, trying to hold it together. But the tears came anyway—quiet, hot, impossible to stop.

She’d done everything right. Played it cool. Played by Agatha’s rules. Put herself out there.

And still, she lost.

Silence stretched, cruel and final. At fifteen minutes, she stood up, grabbed her things, and left.

She cried in her car—ugly, angry, helpless. Then lit up to numb it all down.

She had a game tomorrow. She had to show up. Be sharp. Be locked in.

No one gave a shit about her feelings.

Fucking feelings.

The next day, Rio played like hell.

Fast, messy, teeth-gritted basketball. She charged down the court like it owed her something, like if she ran hard enough, she could leave last night behind. Coach yelled at her twice. Alice tried to get her to laugh during warm-ups and got an angry snarl in return.

Rio was not herself.

She was trying to outrun the moment her heart hit the floor and no one picked it up.

Third quarter. Tie game. Rio had just blown an easy assist and gotten elbowed in the ribs.

She didn’t feel it.

The adrenaline was too thick. The noise too loud.

She moved through the next play with fire in her gut, legs pumping, vision narrowed to a blur of sneakers and sweat. The ball hit her palms, she pivoted, and—

Pop!

Rio felt it before she heard it. The way her knee twisted wrong, shifted out of socket. A blink of a second where the world kept moving but her body didn’t follow.

Then: the ground. Her scream. Pain, hot and immediate, ripping up her thigh like lightning.

She clutched her knee, gasping.

And through the chaos, through the blur of whistles and sneakers and shouts—

Agatha.

Not in the box.

On the court.

In heels, in black, in panic.

She dropped to her knees beside Rio, both hands on her face.

“Baby,” she whispered. “Rio, baby, look at me.”

Rio’s eyes welled. “Agatha—”

“You idiot,” Agatha said, her voice shaking. “You don’t get to…”

Rio couldn’t think. Couldn’t move. Her knee was on fire and her chest ached worse.

Agatha leaned in, one hand stroking Rio’s damp temple, the other pressed to her chest like she was afraid Rio might vanish.

“I love you too.”

Cameras flashed.

All around them, the game had stopped. Teammates stood still, circling Rio with towels, trying to shield her from the cameras—trying to protect her pain. The crowd was screaming. And a thousand phones caught it all: the moment the team’s star went down… and the owner of the franchise gave everything away.

The story broke before Rio made it to the hospital.

Clips flooded online. The kiss to her forehead. Agatha cradling her. The raw look on both their faces. Commentators stammered. Threads popped up.

“Wait. Are they…?”

“AGATHA HARKNESS DROPPED TO HER KNEES FOR HER STAR PLAYER???”

“That was NOT just a ‘concerned owner’ reaction I’m sorry”

Someone slowed the footage. Enhanced it. Paused at the exact frame where Agatha whispered “I love you too.”

The media had a field day.

And Rio?

Rio was high on painkillers and half-asleep in the hospital bed when Agatha came in.

No security. No entourage. Just her. Hair undone, blazer wrinkled, lavender azaleas in her hands.

“You didn’t have to come,” Rio whispered, her voice barely above a breath.

“Of course I had to,” Agatha said, sitting beside her. “I couldn’t not.”

Rio studied her, eyes heavy. “You really mean it?”

Agatha didn’t answer. She leaned in. Kissed Rio’s knuckles like they were vows.

“I think I’ve loved you since that first night,” Agatha said quietly. “The wine, the way you made me laugh… how you actually saw me.”

She hesitated, then looked at Rio like she meant every word.

“I just didn’t think I was allowed to want something that good. Let alone keep it.”

Rio blinked slowly. “You are.”

Agatha nodded, brushing hair back from Rio’s damp forehead.

“Then let me be good to you,” she murmured, voice soft but steady. “Out loud. No hiding. Just… us. Can we try? For real this time?”

Rio exhaled, hand curling into Agatha’s.

“Only if you wear my jersey to games,” Rio whispered, a small smile tugging at her lips.

Agatha laughed under her breath, eyes crinkling. “I’ll wear anything,” she said, squeezing Rio’s hand. “Your jersey, a shirt with your face on it, I don’t care.”

She looked at her, warm and completely in love.

“As long as I get to be yours.”

Rio grinned, hopeless. “You already are.”

And then they were laughing—quiet, happy, a little breathless—as if falling in love could be easy, after all.

Agatha didn’t leave the hospital for thirty-six hours.

Not even once.

She kicked off her heels at the foot of Rio’s bed and didn’t put them back on. Changed into black leggings and an old oversized Pistol Shrimps pullover that looked comically soft and out of place on her—except it wasn’t. Not anymore.

She held Rio’s hand through scans, met with the team doctor herself, and talked to the league’s press manager with a tone that made a grown man flinch.

But she didn’t cry.

Not until Rio was asleep and the nurse walked in on her with her head bowed against the bed rail, one hand clenched in Rio’s and the other gripping a azalea stem so tight the petals were crushed between her fingers.

The nurse said nothing.

Just handed her a tissue and walked out.

When Rio woke, the pain was a dull roar beneath the morphine. Her knee felt like it was made of lead. Her throat was dry. Her mind was fogged.

But her hand was warm.

Because Agatha was still there.

Sitting beside her, makeup worn off, hair tied up like she’d stopped pretending hours ago. Eyes red, but open. Shoulders tense. But steady.

“Hey,” Rio rasped.

Agatha looked up.

“I’m here,” she whispered, brushing hair from Rio’s face. “I’m right here.”

Rio blinked slowly. “Still not used to seeing you in Shrimp gear.”

Agatha’s voice caught, but her smile was unstoppable.

“Yeah, well… my girlfriend’s the starting point guard,” she said, then looked straight at Rio. “And I’m really, really proud of you, so—”

She gave a helpless shrug. “You’re kind of hard not to brag about.”

Rio smiled, then flinched.

Agatha moved instantly, gently adjusting the pillows behind her with practiced hands and a furrowed brow.

“You okay?” she murmured, already checking again.

Rio shook her head, just a little. “No. But I’m better.”

She glanced up at Agatha, smiling again—smaller this time, but real. “You make it better.”

Agatha didn’t answer right away. Just looked at her for a quiet moment—like something in her had settled.

Then she leaned in and kissed her.

Soft. Steady. Not rushed or showy. Just full of feeling.

Love.

Agatha looked at her for a long moment, like she was still trying to believe it was real. Then, quietly—almost like a confession—she said, “You brought me out of hiding, Rio. I… I didn’t think anyone could… but you did.”

Rio blinked. “What?”

“I thought if I let myself love someone, I’d lose everything I’ve built,” she said softly. “My name. My control. All of it.”

She looked at Rio, open now in a way she rarely let herself be.

“I didn’t think I could have both.”

She swallowed hard.

Rio waited.

“When you hit the floor… I ran without thinking,” she said, her voice low, steady. “But later, when I realized how long I’d been hiding the rest of it—us—I hated that it took something like that to wake me up.”

She looked at Rio, eyes full of everything she hadn’t said until now.

“It made everything clear.”

She reached for Rio’s hand, held it like it anchored her.

“I thought I couldn’t have both—love and control. But the truth is…”

A pause. A breath.

“I’d rather lose everything than lose you.”

The photo went up that night.

Rio’s Instagram post had no edits. No cryptic caption. Just a square, dimly lit photo: her in a hospital bed, shoulder bare beneath the thin gown, head tilted slightly back. And there—tucked against her chest, eyes closed, lips parted in sleep—was Agatha.

Her arms wrapped tightly around Rio’s waist, her face soft, hair loose, cheek pressed to Rio’s sternum like she belonged there.

The caption was simple: My love.

The world had opinions.

Some sent love. Some sent hate.

And some just flooded the post with hearts, headlines, and noise.

But Rio didn’t care.

She was done hiding. Done twisting herself to fit someone else’s comfort zone. This was her life.

Her knee might be wrecked. Her season might be over.

But her heart?

Her heart was wide open, and finally being held like it deserved.

Recovery sucked.

There was no way around it.

The pain was constant. The frustration worse. Physical therapy became her new religion. She cursed her own muscles. Screamed into towels. Cried once—only once—when she couldn’t make the bike pedal turn all the way around.

But Agatha was there.

Every appointment. Every ice pack change. Every moment she thought she was going to break.

She never hovered. She never baby-talked. She just showed up. Quiet, firm, steady.

A chair pulled close. A hand on her thigh.

Fresh azaleas by her bedside every week.

A new pair of sneakers laced gently beside her rehab mat. Rio once caught Agatha wiping them clean herself with a towel, muttering, “She’s not putting her foot in that filthy thing.”

One morning, as she limped from one end of the PT room to the other, Rio paused beside the full-length mirror and caught Agatha watching her.

Not like an owner watching a player.

Not like someone waiting for her to be useful again.

Just… watching.

Eyes soft. Chin tilted. Expression raw.

“You’re staring,” Rio said.

Agatha lifted a brow. “You’re limping attractively.”

Rio smiled. “You’re so in love with me.”

Agatha walked over. Brushed sweat from her forehead.

Agatha smiled, slow and certain. “You’re damn right I am,” she whispered, then leaned in and kissed her—soft and sure, like it had always been true.

Later that night, Rio posted a video: Agatha at the stove, barefoot, back to the camera, wearing nothing but Rio’s oversized jersey and a subtle, smug wink. She flipped the salmon like she did this every night—like it wasn’t a big deal.

But to Rio, it was.

She watched the clip three times before posting, smiling like an lovestruck idiot.

The caption read: MVP girlfriend 🏆🔥 can’t believe I get to come home to this.

Later, in bed—glasses on, Rio’s hand tracing invisible shapes on her thigh—Agatha liked the post. Then she left a comment.

@agathaharkness: FYI jersey’s mine now. Don’t start something you can’t finish.

Rio laughed into her pillow and kissed her shoulder, already planning the next post.

Weeks passed.

Rio got stronger. The limp faded. Her strength came back with a vengeance.

Agatha stopped sleeping at her penthouse.

Not because she didn’t want to. Because she didn’t have to.

Rio’s place had fewer frills, fewer wine glasses, no valet—but Agatha claimed the spare drawer like she was never giving it back.

“You’re building me a shrine,” she teased, folding her lingerie beside Rio’s sports bras.

Rio kissed her neck. “A shrine wouldn’t roll over and steal my covers.”

Agatha smirked. “You love it.”

Rio buried her face in her neck.

“I love you.”

Their first public appearance together came during a charity event hosted by the WNBA Players’ Union. Rio was still in a knee brace. Agatha wore tailored lavender slacks, low heels, and a silver pendant Rio had once kissed between her breasts.

They walked in together.

No one said anything.

But the flashbulbs went wild.

Someone asked a question. Agatha paused. Then took Rio’s hand, laced their fingers together, and said, “Yes. She’s mine.”

Four years later…

The Newark arena was on its feet.

The final seconds ticked down like a held breath. Rio Vidal, all sweat and precision, crossed half-court with the ball. She barely glanced at the clock. She didn’t need to. Her rhythm was perfect.

Step back. One dribble. Pivot. Rise. Release.

The buzzer sounded just as the ball sank through the net—clean, final, electric.

The crowd went wild.

And Rio—heart racing, muscles screaming, lungs burning—looked up, through the noise, to find the only thing that mattered.

Agatha stood in the owner’s box, glowing.

Custom Pistol Shrimps jacket, lips ruby red, gold hoops, her signature diamond “R” necklace. But the flashiest thing on her wasn’t the accessories—it was her visible, five-month baby bump beneath a sheer black blouse and her wide, stunned smile.

Her hand moved instinctively to rest over her stomach, then the other hand lifted high.

She blew a kiss toward the court, eyes locked with Rio’s.

Fifteen minutes earlier…

In the tunnel, as Rio tightened her shoes and tugged her jersey straight, Agatha had appeared.

“No cameras,” she murmured, tucking herself into the shadowed wall.

Rio blinked. “Thought you hated this part.”

Agatha stepped in close. Close enough that Rio caught the soft scent of azaleas on her skin.

“I do.” She reached up. Smoothed Rio’s hair. “But I didn’t want you playing without this…”

And then she kissed her. Slow and sure. One hand on Rio’s cheek. The other on the curve of her belly.

Mid-kiss, Agatha froze.

Rio pulled back, instantly concerned—until Agatha grabbed her wrist and pressed it low against her bump.

Rio gasped.

A kick.

A real, honest-to-God kick.

“She knows her mami’s about to drop thirty-five,” Agatha whispered.

Rio cupped her face, eyes burning. “You are the coolest thing I’ve ever loved.”

“Go win,” Agatha said softly, brushing her lips against Rio’s again. “We’ll be waiting.”

After the game, Rio skipped the tunnel interview. Agatha would cover the fine—probably with an eye roll and a sigh—but she wouldn’t actually be mad. Rio didn’t care about the cameras. She jogged straight for the stairs, cutting through the sideline chaos, eyes locked on the one person who mattered.

Agatha met her halfway.

Pregnant, glowing, grinning.

And when Rio wrapped her in both arms, the whole world got the headline shot: sweaty star athlete in a jersey, forehead pressed to her elegant, lipsticked wife’s—both of them laughing like the world couldn’t touch them anymore.

And maybe it couldn’t.

A few years ago, Rio hadn’t known if she’d ever play again. Heck, Agatha hadn’t believed she could be loved in the light.

Now?

They were building a life. A future. A family.

At the next game, as she walked onto the court, Rio looked up. Agatha was there, smiling. One hand on her belly. The other hand in the air waving.

And the screen above lit up with the shot.

The Jumbotron read: Agatha Vidal - Owner. Wife. Mother-to-be.

Rio blew her a kiss.

Yeah, she’s still got court vision.

Basketball player Rio and her basketball wife. What’s the AU? Agatha would never be this iced out on a WNBA salary. Woof.

#i finally did it #sorry this took so long #pistol shrimps #agatha all along #agathario fic #rio x agatha #agathario au #modern domestic agathario makes me asdfghjkl

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kittenan2 · 3 days ago

Text

You Were the Win All Along

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader Genre: Romance, Angst, Smut, Fluff, Sports AU Rating: 18+ (Minors DNI) Warnings: Explicit sexual content (oral, penetrative sex, praise kink, worship kink, emotional sex), heavy angst, sports-related pressure, public scrutiny, social media hate. This is an emotional rollercoaster, so buckle up! Word Count: ~7k Summary: Jungkook, the “cursed captain,” has faced loss after loss in his soccer career, with you by his side through every heartbreak. When his last shot at a championship comes, the stakes are higher than ever—will he break the curse, and will you be his real victory? A story of love, loyalty, and triumph.

The roar of the crowd was deafening, but it wasn’t the kind of roar that lifted your heart. It was the mocking kind, the kind that stung like a fresh cut.

Another year, another state league final, and Jungkook’s team—your Jungkook’s team—had lost. Again. The scoreboard glared down: 2-1. A single goal in extra time had sealed their fate. The “cursed team” had lived up to its name.

You stood in your usual spot in the stands, wearing his oversized jersey, the number 7 stretched across your chest. Your hands gripped the railing, knuckles white, as you watched Jungkook on the field.

His shoulders slumped, his hands on his hips, staring at the ground like it held the answers to why luck always slipped through his fingers. His teammates were scattered, some kicking the dirt, others walking off without a word. The stadium was emptying, but the jeers lingered in the air.

“Same old Jungkook, choking when it counts!” someone shouted from a few rows behind you.

You flinched, your stomach twisting. You wanted to turn around, to scream, to throw something—but you didn’t. You never did. Instead, you kept your eyes on him, your heart aching for the boy who carried the weight of a thousand expectations.

Social media was already ablaze. You didn’t need to check your phone to know. The hashtags, the memes, the Reddit threads—they were relentless. #CursedCaptain was probably trending again. You’d seen it all before: “Jungkook’s team can’t win a trophy, but at least he’s got a hot girlfriend to cry to.” Or worse, the ones that cut deeper: “Maybe she’s the jinx.”

You’d been with Jungkook since college, back when he was just a scrappy kid with big dreams and a wicked right foot. You were there for his first goal, his first captain’s armband, his first press conference. And you were there for every loss. Every heartbreak. Every time the world turned him into a punchline.

You’d seen him at his best—scoring impossible goals, leading his team with a fire that made everyone believe they could win. And you’d seen him at his worst—curled up on your couch, silent tears streaming down his face, his voice broken as he whispered, “Why can’t I get it right?”

Tonight was no different. You waited outside the locker room, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Players shuffled past, heads down, avoiding your gaze.

They knew you were his anchor, the one who stayed when everyone else gave up. When Jungkook finally emerged, his hair was damp from the shower, his eyes red-rimmed but dry. He didn’t say a word. He just walked straight to you, wrapped his arms around your waist, and buried his face in your neck.

“Let’s go home,” he mumbled, his voice muffled against your skin.

You nodded, your hand sliding up to stroke the back of his neck. “Okay, baby.”

The drive to your apartment was silent, the city lights blurring past the car windows. Jungkook’s hand rested on your thigh, his fingers twitching like he was trying to hold onto something steady. You didn’t push him to talk. You never did. He’d open up when he was ready.

Inside your apartment, the tension broke like a dam. You were barely through the door when he turned to you, his eyes dark with something raw—anger, pain, desperation. He dropped his gym bag, the thud echoing in the quiet space, and then he was on you, his hands cupping your face, his lips crashing against yours.

“Jungkook—” you gasped, but he swallowed your words, kissing you like he was drowning and you were air.

“I saw it,” he said between kisses, his voice rough. “The comments. The ones about you.” His hands slid down to your waist, pulling you flush against him. “They’re wrong. They’re so fucking wrong.”

You froze, your heart stuttering. You’d tried so hard to shield him from those. “Jungkook, it’s fine—”

“No, it’s not.” His eyes were fierce, almost wild. “You’re not the curse. You’re the only reason I keep going.” His thumbs brushed over your cheeks, wiping away tears you hadn’t realized were falling.

“You’ve been here through every fucking loss. Every meme or troll. Every time I thought I couldn’t do this anymore. And they—” His voice cracked. “They dare say you’re the problem?”

You shook your head, your hands gripping his wrists. “I don’t care what they say. I care about you.”

He kissed you again, softer this time, but no less desperate. His hands slid under your jersey—his jersey—his fingers grazing the bare skin of your waist. “I should’ve defended you harder,” he whispered, his lips brushing your jaw. “I should’ve shut them all up.”

“You don’t need to,” you said, your voice trembling. “I’m here. I’m always here.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours. “Do you still believe in me?” His voice was so small, so vulnerable, it broke your heart.

“Always,” you said, your hands sliding up to cradle his face. “Even if the world doesn’t. I believe in you.”

That was all it took. He lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the bedroom. The jersey was the first to go, tossed somewhere in the dark. Your shorts followed, then his shirt, until it was just skin against skin, heat against heat.

He laid you down on the bed, his body hovering over yours, his hands shaking as they traced the curve of your hips. “You’re the only good luck I’ve ever had,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent. He kissed your collarbone, your chest, his lips lingering over your heartbeat. “Let them say whatever. I know the truth.”

You arched into his touch, your breath hitching as his fingers slid between your thighs, teasing but not yet giving you what you craved. “Jungkook,” you whispered, your hands tangling in his hair. “Let it out. The pain. The anger.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. His fingers brushed against you, finding you warm and open, and he let out a shaky breath against your skin. “You’re always here for me,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, his touch gentle as he slid one finger inside you, then another, moving slowly, like he was cherishing every moment of closeness. His thumb traced soft circles, coaxing a quiet gasp from your lips.

You arched into him, your body trembling with need, but he steadied you with his other arm, his strength a quiet promise. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear, grounding you in his love.

His kisses trailed lower, a tender path down your stomach, until he settled between your thighs. He parted you gently, his breath warm against your skin, and his lips found you, pressing slow, reverent kisses that made your heart race.

“You’re my everything. They don't have any right to say anything bad about you,” he said, his voice low, trembling with devotion. He moved with care, his tongue tracing you softly, his fingers still inside you, and you whimpered, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

“Jungkook—please—” Your voice broke, your body trembling as he drew you closer to release, his touch a quiet worship of all you meant to him. He didn’t rush, his movements deliberate, pouring his gratitude into every caress.

When you came, it was with a soft cry, your body shaking as waves of warmth washed over you. He lingered, drawing out every shudder until you were breathless, guiding him up to kiss you. His lips were warm, his eyes soft with love and need.

“You’re my home,” he said, his voice raw with emotion. He shed his pants, his body bare and ready, and you reached for him, your touch gentle, stroking him until he let out a shaky breath, his head resting against yours. “Baby, I need you,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

“I’m here,” you murmured, guiding him to you, your voice steady with love.

He entered you slowly, inch by inch, his breath catching as he filled you. “You feel like everything,” he said, his forehead pressed against yours, his eyes locked on yours. “You’re all I need.”

You wrapped your legs around him, drawing him closer, and he began to move, each thrust slow and deep, like he was sealing a vow with every motion. The desperation grew, his rhythm quickening, his hips meeting yours with a quiet intensity that shook the bed, but his hands stayed gentle, one cradling your face, the other holding yours tightly.

“Let them talk,” he panted, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks. “You’re mine. And I’m yours. Always.”

You clung to him, your nails digging into his back as he drove into you, each thrust pushing you closer to another release. “I love you,” you gasped, your voice breaking as you came again, your walls clenching around him.

He groaned, his thrusts faltering as he chased his own release. “I love you too,” he said, his voice breaking. “Fuck, I love you so much.” He came with a shudder, spilling inside you, his body trembling as he collapsed against you, his face buried in your neck.

You held him as his breathing slowed, your fingers stroking his hair, his sweat-damp skin pressed against yours. “You’re enough,” you whispered. “Win or lose. You’re enough.”

He didn’t say anything, but his arms tightened around you, and you knew he heard you.

A year later, the air felt heavier, charged with a quiet intensity that hadn’t been there before. Jungkook was different now—not the fiery, reckless captain who used to charge into every game like he could will victory through sheer force.

This Jungkook was quieter, his movements precise, his eyes carrying a weight that spoke of sleepless nights and unspoken fears. You saw it in the way he tied his cleats, methodical and deliberate, as if each knot was a vow to himself. This was his last shot.

He didn’t say it out loud, but you both knew it—one more season, one more chance to break the curse that had haunted him for years.

The state league final was a looming specter, only weeks away, and the pressure was suffocating. The team was stronger than ever, a well-oiled machine of talent and grit, but the ghosts of past failures lingered. Practices were brutal, stretching into the late hours, the field lit by harsh floodlights.

Jungkook pushed himself harder than you’d ever seen, his body a blur of motion—sprinting, dribbling, taking shot after shot until his legs shook. His teammates followed his lead, but you could see the doubt in their eyes, the same doubt that had crept in year after year. They believed in him, but they didn’t believe in luck.

You were there for every moment, just as you always had been. You sat in the stands even during practices, your laptop open on your knees, pretending to work but really watching him. The way his muscles flexed under his practice jersey, the way his jaw clenched when a shot went wide, the way he’d glance up at you between drills, like you were his tether to sanity.

You wore his oversized hoodie, the sleeves swallowing your hands, and cheered until your throat was raw, even when it was just you and the assistant coaches in the stands.

The media was relentless. Articles dissected his every move, questioning his leadership, his strategy, his mental strength. “Can Jungkook finally break the curse?” one headline read.

Another was crueler: “Captain Choke: Will Jungkook Ever Win?” Social media was worse. The memes had evolved, more vicious with each passing year. A viral video looped a montage of Jungkook’s missed shots in past finals, set to a laugh track.

The hashtag #CursedCaptain, #CursedGirlfriend trended again, and your private Instagram account couldn’t shield you from the notifications that slipped through.

“She’s still with him? Girl, run.”

“He’ll never win with her around.”

You didn’t tell Jungkook about the comments. You never did. You’d learned your lesson after last year. But he knew. You could see it in the way his shoulders tensed when he scrolled through his phone, in the way he’d pull you closer at night, like he was afraid the world’s cruelty might tear you away.

One night, after a particularly grueling practice, he showed up at your apartment, his hair still wet from the shower, his gym bag slung over his shoulder. You were on the couch, working on your laptop, when he dropped the bag and knelt in front of you, his hands on your knees.

“I’m scared,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes were dark, shadowed with exhaustion and something deeper—fear, maybe, or resignation. “What if I fuck it up again? What if this is all I’ll ever be? The guy who almost wins?”

You set your laptop aside, your heart aching at the vulnerability in his voice. You slid your hands into his hair, tugging gently to make him look at you. “You’re not that guy,” you said firmly. “You’re Jungkook. You’re the one who gets up every time he falls. You’re the one who fights when everyone else gives up. And you’re mine.”

He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch. “I don’t know if I can do it without you.”

“You don’t have to,” you said, your voice soft but steady. “I’m right here. Always.”

He kissed you then, slow and deep, his hands sliding up your thighs to grip your hips. It wasn’t the desperate, frantic kisses of last year’s losses. This was something quieter, more profound—like he was pouring all his fears into you, trusting you to hold them.

You kissed him back, your hands framing his face, your thumbs brushing over the faint scar above his eyebrow from a rough tackle two seasons ago.

The night before the final, you sat together on your balcony, the city skyline glittering in the distance. He was quiet, his fingers tracing patterns on your palm. You pulled a small silver charm bracelet from your pocket, a single star pendant dangling from it. “This is for luck,” you said, fastening it around his wrist. “Not for the team's loss or win. For you.”

He stared at the bracelet, his throat working as he swallowed hard. “You’re the only luck I believe in,” he said, pulling you into his lap. He kissed your forehead, then your temple, his lips lingering against your skin. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

“You don’t have to deserve me,” you said, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “You just have to keep being you.”

The final match was a war. The stadium was a sea of noise, flags waving, drums pounding, the air thick with anticipation and dread. The opposing team, the Hawks, was a powerhouse, known for their ruthless defense and lightning-fast counterattacks.

You sat in your usual spot, third row behind the bench, your hands clenched in your lap, Jungkook’s hoodie swallowing your frame. The charm bracelet glinted on his wrist as he warmed up, his focus razor-sharp.

The first half was brutal. A Hawks defender took out Jungkook’s striker with a sliding tackle that earned a yellow card but left the player limping. By halftime, the score was 0-0, and the tension was palpable. Jungkook’s face was a mask of determination as he jogged to the sidelines, his eyes finding yours for a brief, fleeting moment. You gave him a small nod, your heart pounding. You’ve got this.

The second half was worse. A red card reduced Jungkook’s team to ten men, and the Hawks capitalized, scoring a goal that felt like a punch to the gut. You could see the frustration in Jungkook’s movements, the way he barked orders, trying to rally his team. He was everywhere—intercepting passes, sprinting down the wing, taking shots that were blocked or went just wide. The clock was merciless, ticking down to the final minutes.

With two minutes left in regulation time, Jungkook stole the ball, weaving through defenders with a grace that took your breath away. He passed to his midfielder, who sent it back with a perfect through ball. Jungkook took the shot—a curling strike that hit the crossbar and bounced out. The crowd groaned, and you felt your stomach drop. Not again.

Extra time was chaos. Injuries piled up—Jungkook’s knee was bleeding through his sock, a teammate had a swollen ankle, another was clutching his ribs. The Hawks pressed hard, but Jungkook’s team held on, driven by something fiercer than desperation—hope. You were on your feet now, screaming his name, your voice lost in the roar of the crowd.

In the final minute of extra time, it happened. A Hawks defender slipped, and Jungkook pounced, stealing the ball and sprinting toward the goal. The crowd was a wall of sound, your heart in your throat as he dodged one defender, then another. He was thirty yards out, too far for a clean shot, but he took it anyway—a rocket that soared past the goalkeeper’s outstretched hands and hit the back of the net.

The stadium erupted. His teammates screamed, piling onto each other. The scoreboard flashed: 1-1, but the goal was enough to force penalties.

You were shaking, tears streaming down your face as you watched Jungkook rally his team, his voice hoarse but steady. The penalty shootout was a blur—save after save, shot after shot. Jungkook took the final kick, his face calm but his eyes blazing. The ball flew true, and the goalkeeper didn’t stand a chance.

The whistle blew. They’d won.

The crowd was a tidal wave, chanting his name, but Jungkook didn’t join his teammates in their celebration. He didn’t run to the trophy stand or the cameras. His eyes scanned the stands, frantic, until they locked on you. And then he ran—straight off the field, up the steps, pushing past fans and security, his chest heaving, his face streaked with sweat and blood.

The stadium seemed to hold its breath as Jungkook climbed the stands, his cleats clattering against the concrete steps, his jersey soaked with sweat, the number 7 barely visible under the dirt and grass stains.

The crowd’s reaction was electric—a cacophony of gasps, cheers, and disbelieving laughter rippling through the stands like a wave. Fans closest to you stood, craning their necks, phones raised to capture the moment.

Some screamed his name, their voices raw with admiration; others whispered in awe, “Is he going to her?” A group of teenage girls a few rows down squealed, clutching each other, one shouting, “That’s his girlfriend! Oh my God, he’s running to her!” An older man nearby chuckled, shaking his head, muttering, “Kid’s got his priorities straight.”

The energy was chaotic, a mix of reverence and frenzy, as if the entire stadium understood this wasn’t just a victory for the team—it was personal. The jumbotron zoomed in, your faces splashed across the massive screen, and the crowd roared louder, some chanting, “Jungkook! Jungkook!” while others started a new chant: “Lucky charm! Lucky charm!”—a nod to the bracelet glinting on his wrist, to you, the woman who’d been there through every storm. You felt the weight of their eyes, thousands of them, but it didn’t matter. All you saw was him.

He reached you in seconds, his hands grabbing your waist, pulling you into his arms with a force that knocked the air from your lungs. He was shaking, his breath ragged, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he let out a broken, gut-wrenching sob.

His arms were a vice around you, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go. The heat of his body, the salt of his sweat, the faint metallic tang of blood from his scraped knee—it was all real, raw, overwhelming.

“They said we’d never do it,” he choked out, his voice muffled against your skin, his tears hot against your neck. “They said I’d never do it. But you—” His words broke off, another sob tearing through him, and he pulled you closer, his fingers digging around your waist. “You stayed. Every fucking time I fell, you stayed.”

You were crying too, your hands sliding up to cradle his face, your thumbs brushing away the tears that mixed with the sweat and dirt on his cheeks. His eyes were red, glassy, but they burned with something fierce—love, relief, disbelief. “You did it, Jungkook,” you said, your voice trembling, barely audible over the roar of the crowd. “You fucking did it.”

He shook his head, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath hitching. “No. We did it. This is yours too. I did this for you.” His voice cracked, raw and vulnerable, and he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours like he needed to see you believed him. “Every practice, every shot, every fucking second I was out there—I was thinking of you. You’re the reason I didn’t give up.”

You kissed him, hard and desperate, tasting the salt of his tears, the grit of the game still clinging to him. The crowd went wild, a fresh wave of cheers erupting, some fans whistling, others shouting.

The girls from earlier were screaming, one yelling, “Marry her already!” You barely registered it, lost in the taste of him, the feel of his lips moving against yours, hungry and reverent. He kissed you back with a ferocity that made your knees weak, his hands tangling in your hair, pulling you closer.

“I was so fucking scared,” he admitted, his voice barely a whisper, meant only for you. “I thought I’d let you down again. I thought I’d let us down.”

“You could never let me down,” you said, your voice fierce despite the tears streaming down your face. You pulled back, cupping his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. “You’re my champion. Win or lose, you’ve always been my champion.”

He broke then, fully, his shoulders shaking as he clung to you, his sobs loud enough to be heard over the stadium’s chaos. The world watched—the “cursed captain,” the man who’d been mocked for years, sobbing in his girlfriend’s arms like a child who’d finally found home.

His teammates were still on the field, lifting the trophy, but Jungkook didn’t care. He didn’t even glance at it. The cameras zoomed in, the crowd chanted his name, but he was lost in you, his hands trembling as they gripped your waist, his lips brushing your neck, your jaw, your forehead, like he needed to memorize every inch of you.

A security guard approached, clearing his throat. “Jungkook, they need you on the field for the ceremony.”

Jungkook didn’t move, his arms still locked around you. “Fuck the ceremony,” he muttered, his voice muffled against your skin. “I’m where I need to be.”

You laughed through your tears, gently pushing him back. “Go,” you said, your hands still on his face. “You earned this. I’ll be right here.”

He shook his head, his eyes fierce. “I’m not going anywhere without you.” He grabbed your hand, lacing his fingers with yours, and pulled you down the steps with him, back toward the field. The crowd’s reaction was deafening—a tidal wave of cheers, whistles, and applause that seemed to shake the stadium.

Fans were on their feet, some crying, others chanting your name alongside his, a rare acknowledgment of the woman who’d stood by the captain through every storm. The jumbotron flashed your linked hands, and a group of fans near the tunnel started a chant: “Power couple! Power couple!”

As you reached the field, Jungkook’s teammates swarmed, their faces split with grins, sweat and dirt still smudged on their cheeks. The veterans clapped Jungkook on the back, but the younger players, the rookies who’d joined the team this season, were the loudest.

A lanky midfielder, barely nineteen, jogged over, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Noona!” he called, grinning at you. “How do I get a girlfriend like you? Teach me your ways!”

You laughed, blushing, and Jungkook shot him a mock glare, pulling you closer. “Yah, Min-ho, watch it,” he said, but his voice was light, a smile tugging at his lips.

Another rookie, a defender with a buzzcut, chimed in, elbowing Jungkook. “Captain, you’re whipped, huh? Ran straight to Noona instead of the trophy!” The others howled, and Jungkook rolled his eyes, but his grip on your hand tightened, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“Keep talking, Jae,” Jungkook said, smirking. “I’ll make you run laps tomorrow.”

The team laughed, and one of the older players, the goalkeeper, shouted, “Leave him alone, kids. If I had someone like her waiting for me, I’d ditch the trophy too!”

The teasing continued, a mix of playful jabs and genuine respect, as they pulled Jungkook toward the trophy stand. He didn’t let go of your hand, not even when the coach handed him the gleaming trophy, not even when the cameras swarmed, flashes going off like fireworks. He held you close, his arm around your waist, and when the reporters asked what this moment meant, he looked at you, not the trophy, and said, “It means I kept my promise to her.”

The after-party was a blur of champagne, flashing lights, and congratulations, but Jungkook couldn’t stay. He grabbed your hand, his fingers still calloused and warm from the game, and pulled you out of the crowded bar into the quiet of the hotel elevator. The second the doors closed, he was on you, his lips crashing against yours, his hands sliding under your jersey, fingers digging into your hips with a desperation that made your head spin.

“Need you,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, his breath hot against your neck. “Need you so fucking bad.”

You laughed, breathless, pushing lightly at his chest. “Jungkook, you’re a mess,” you teased, your fingers brushing over the dirt and sweat still clinging to his skin, the faint red of his scraped knee crusted with dried blood. “You should get refreshed first. Take a shower.”

He grinned, a wicked glint in his eyes, pulling you closer until you could feel the hard line of his body pressed against yours. “No need,” he said, his lips brushing your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “We’ll take a shower later. Together.” His voice was a promise, dark and heated, and you felt your core tighten at the thought.

The hotel room door barely clicked shut before he was lifting you, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the bed. He set you down gently, but there was nothing gentle about the look in his eyes—dark, feral, reverent. “You’re the only thing I wanted at the end of all this,” he said, his voice low, almost trembling with emotion.

He pulled off your jersey, then his own, his skin glistening with the remnants of the game—sweat, dirt, and the faint red of his scraped knee. “Let me thank you.”

He kissed you slowly, deeply, his tongue sliding against yours as his hands roamed your body, peeling away your clothes with a tenderness that contrasted the hunger in his eyes. He stripped you bare, his lips following every inch of exposed skin—your collarbone, the swell of your breasts, the dip of your stomach. When he reached your thighs, he parted them gently, his eyes locked on yours, dark with need.

“You believed in me when no one did,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. He kissed the inside of your thigh, his breath hot against your skin, making you tremble. “You’re my forever win.”

You moaned as his mouth found you, his tongue circling your clit with slow, deliberate strokes that sent sparks through your body. He took his time, savoring every gasp, every shudder, his fingers sliding inside you, curling against that spot that made your vision blur. “Jungkook,” you whimpered, your hands tangling in his damp hair, pulling him closer.

He groaned against you, the vibration sending a jolt through your core. “Say it again,” he said, his voice muffled, thick with desire. “Say my name.”

“Jungkook,” you gasped, your hips bucking as he sucked harder, his fingers moving faster, relentless. “Fuck, Jungkook, please—”

He didn’t stop until you came, your body arching off the bed, your cries echoing in the room as pleasure crashed over you like a tidal wave. He climbed up, kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his lips, his tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that made your head spin. “You’re my everything,” he said, his voice raw, almost broken. “Always have been.”

You pulled him down, your hands fumbling with his belt, desperate to feel him. He helped you, stripping off the rest of his clothes, his cock hard and heavy as he pressed it against you, the tip already slick. “Tell me you want this,” he said, his eyes searching yours, needing to hear it.

“You don’t have to ask every time,” you said, your voice steady despite the ache between your thighs. “I’ve always wanted you.”

He pushed into you, slow and deep, his eyes never leaving yours, his breath hitching as he filled you. “Fuck,” he groaned, his hands gripping your hips, fingers digging in just enough to leave marks. “You feel so good. So fucking perfect.”

You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper, and he started to move, each thrust deliberate, hitting every nerve just right, making you gasp. “You’re everything,�� he said, his voice breaking, his lips brushing your ear. “You’re my reason.”

The room filled with the sounds of your bodies—skin against skin, gasps and moans, the creak of the bed. His thrusts grew harder, faster, but his hands were gentle, one cradling your face, the other lacing his fingers with yours, pinning your hand above your head. “I dreamed of this,” he said, his voice rough with emotion, his lips brushing your neck. “Winning. Running to you. This.”

You came again, your body clenching around him, your nails digging into his back as you cried out his name. He followed, his release shuddering through him, his face buried in your neck, his tears mixing with sweat as he groaned, “I love you.” His voice was barely audible, raw and trembling. “I love you so fucking much.”

You held him, your fingers tracing patterns on his back, your bodies still tangled together. “I love you too,” you said, kissing his temple, your voice soft but sure. “Always.”

He fell beside you, his face pressed against your chest, his breath warm against your skin. The trophy sat forgotten on the table, glinting in the moonlight.

Later, when the haze of pleasure had settled, Jungkook stirred, his arm still draped over you. He lifted his head, a lazy, boyish smile tugging at his lips. “Told you we’d shower together,” he murmured, his voice husky from exhaustion, his eyes sparkling with that familiar mischief.

You laughed, swatting his chest lightly. “You’re still a mess,” you said, eyeing the dirt and sweat still clinging to his skin, the faint red of his scraped knee now crusted with dried blood. “We should clean you up properly.”

He grinned, pulling you out of bed with an effortless tug, his strength undiminished despite the game’s toll. “C’mon then, baby,” he said, leading you to the bathroom, his hand warm in yours.

The hotel’s shower was spacious, all sleek tiles and glass, and he turned the water on, steam quickly filling the room, curling around you like a warm embrace.

He pulled you under the spray, the hot water cascading over both of you, washing away the remnants of the game. His hands slid over your wet skin, gentle but possessive, tracing the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, his voice soft, almost lost in the sound of the water. He pressed himself closer, his chest against your back, his lips finding the curve of your neck, kissing softly, reverently.

You turned in his arms, your hands sliding up his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle under the slick warmth of the water. “You’re not so bad yourself, champ,” you teased, your fingers brushing over the faint scar above his eyebrow, then tangling in his wet hair.

He kissed you then, slow and deep, his lips soft but insistent, his tongue sliding against yours with a tenderness that made your heart flutter. The steam wrapped around you, thick and warm, amplifying every touch, every brush of his lips.

His hands roamed your body, not with the frantic hunger from earlier, but with a quiet adoration, like he was memorizing you all over again. He kissed your jaw, your collarbone, his lips lingering over the pulse point at your throat, making you shiver despite the heat.

“God, I love you,” he whispered, his forehead pressed against yours, water dripping from his lashes, his eyes soft and unguarded. His hands settled on your hips, pulling you closer, and you kissed him back, your arms looping around his neck, your bodies pressed together under the spray.

You made out like that, lost in each other, the water washing away the world outside. His kisses were slow, deliberate, each one a promise, a thank you, a vow. Your fingers traced the lines of his back, feeling the strength there, the warmth of his skin, and you smiled against his lips, your heart swelling with the simplicity of this moment—just you and him, no crowds, no cameras, just love.

“Think we’re clean enough yet?” you murmured, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, your lips brushing his as you spoke.

He chuckled, a low, warm sound that vibrated through you. “Not even close,” he said, kissing you again, softer this time, his hands cupping your face. “I could stay here forever.”

You laughed, resting your forehead against his chest, letting the water pour over you both. “My champion,” you whispered, and he held you tighter, like he never wanted to let go.

The next morning, you woke to sunlight streaming through the curtains, Jungkook’s arm draped over your waist, his breath warm against your neck. He stirred, his eyes fluttering open, and when he saw you, his face lit up with a sleepy, boyish grin that made your heart skip. His hair was a mess, sticking up in every direction, and you couldn’t resist reaching out to smooth it down, giggling as he leaned into your touch like a contented puppy.

“Morning, my love,” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep, nuzzling his face into your hand. He pressed a soft kiss to your palm, then your wrist, his lips lingering as if he couldn’t get enough. “Last night… it wasn’t a dream, right?”

You laughed, rolling onto your side to face him, your fingers tracing the curve of his cheek. “No dream, Kook. You won. Big time.”

He shook his head, his eyes softening as he pulled you closer, tucking you against his chest. “Nah,” he said, his voice warm and teasing. “I won you. That’s the real prize.” He kissed the top of your head, his arms tightening around you, and you felt your cheeks heat up, a shy smile tugging at your lips.

You lay there for a while, tangled in each other, trading lazy kisses and silly whispers about nothing and everything—how he’d tripped over his own cleats during practice last week, how you’d burned toast 3 days ago but he ate it anyway because you made it.

The trophy sat forgotten on the table, glinting in the sunlight, but neither of you spared it a glance. This—his warmth, his laughter, the way he looked at you like you were his entire world—was all that mattered.

“Love you,” he said suddenly, his voice soft but sure, his lips brushing your forehead. “Forever and always.”

“Love you too,” you replied, snuggling closer, your heart full. “My forever champ.”

Later that morning, you both joined his team for brunch at a sunny café near the stadium, the air filled with the smell of fresh coffee and pancakes. The team was already there, sprawled across a long table, their laughter loud and infectious. When you and Jungkook walked in, hand in hand, they erupted into cheers and whistles, drawing the attention of every patron in the place.

“There’s the lovebirds!” Min-ho, the lanky rookie, called out, grinning ear to ear. “Thought you two got lost after you ditched us last night!”

You blushed, sliding into a seat as Jungkook pulled a chair close to yours, his arm resting casually around your shoulders. “Yeah, what was that about?” Jae, the buzzcut defender, added, leaning forward with a smirk. “One minute you’re at the party, next minute you’re gone. Sneaky, sneaky, Captain.”

Jungkook rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched with a smile. “Mind your business, Jae,” he said, tossing a sugar packet at him, which only made the table laugh harder.

The goalkeeper, ever the voice of reason, chimed in with a grin. “Can you blame them? After a win like that, I’d sneak off with my girl too.” He winked at you, and you hid your face in Jungkook’s shoulder, your cheeks burning.

“Oh, come on, Noona,” Min-ho teased, leaning across the table. “You gotta tell us your secret. How do you put up with this guy? And when’s the wedding? You two are practically married already!”

The table erupted again, chants of “Get married! Get married!” filling the café, and you laughed, feeling Jungkook’s hand squeeze yours under the table. He glanced at you, his eyes soft but playful, and leaned in to whisper, “They’re not wrong, you know.”

You swatted his arm, trying to hide your grin. “Don’t encourage them,” you muttered, but your heart was racing, and the team’s teasing only made the moment sweeter, a perfect blend of love and laughter to cap off the victory.

Two years later, your shared home was a cozy haven, filled with warmth and memories. Jungkook’s jersey hung framed on the living room wall, a reminder of that unforgettable night, but the trophy was still tucked away in a closet, gathering dust.

He’d retired from playing, trading the field for a new passion—coaching kids at a soccer academy, he opened on his own. The children adored him, their eyes wide with hero worship as he taught them how to curve a ball or block a shot, his patience and encouragement lighting up their faces.

You were married now, the wedding a small, joyful affair a year after his big win. Jungkook had proposed on a whim one evening, dropping to one knee in your kitchen while you were trying to make dinner, his eyes sparkling with nervous excitement.

“I don’t have a ring yet,” he’d admitted, holding up a twisted piece of tinfoil shaped into a makeshift band, “but I can’t wait another second to ask you to be my wife.” You’d laughed through your tears, tackling him to the floor, and said yes before he could even finish.

Now, as you watched him from the sidelines of the kids’ practice field, your hand resting on the gentle swell of your pregnant belly, you couldn’t help but smile.

You were expecting your first child—a little girl, due in a few months—and Jungkook was already over the moon, talking to your belly every night, whispering promises of soccer lessons and bedtime stories.

“She’s gonna be a striker like her dad,” he’d say proudly, then add with a grin, “or maybe she’ll just steal everyone’s hearts like her mom.”

One sunny afternoon, a kid with messy hair and a missing front tooth ran up to Jungkook after practice, tugging at his sleeve. “Coach, what was your best moment ever on the field?” the boy asked, his eyes big and curious.

Jungkook didn’t hesitate. He glanced over at you, standing a few feet away in one of his old hoodies, your hair tied up in a messy bun, and his face broke into that familiar, heart-melting smile. “Running into her arms,” he said, pointing at you, his voice warm and sure. “That was my real win.”

The kids giggled, some making exaggerated “aww” sounds, and one bold little girl piped up, “Coach, you’re so cheesy!”

You laughed, walking over to join them, and Jungkook pulled you into his side, kissing your temple. “Yeah, but she loves it,” he teased, winking at you. The kids scattered, chasing each other across the field, and Jungkook leaned down to whisper in your ear, “And I love you. Always will.”

You rested your head against his shoulder, your hand finding his, the simple silver band on your finger catching the sunlight. “Love you too, champ,” you said, your voice soft, your heart full. “Forever and always.”

A/n: This is for my readers who love a good cry, a steamy scene, and a fluffy ending. I poured my heart into this one, so please let me know what you think! Reblog, like, and comment. 💕

Taglist: @the-djarin-clan . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172 . @stay-tiny-things . @micdropitlikeitshot . @softhaes . @littlebluhellfire . @niqueesthings . @nocturnalsingularity . @syudoeslove . @namjoonbaby17-blog . @mar-lo-pap . @naesarang07 . @diame93 . @themwordsblog . @crizoosblog

#jungkook fanfic #jungkook fanfiction #jungkook x reader #jungkook smut #jk fanfic #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #bts smut #bts x reader #jk smut #jk x reader #kittenanwrites

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solrburst · 2 days ago

Text

all the way, baby — tommy miller x reader

𝒮ummary: When you suspect you’re pregnant, you keep it from Tommy out of fear.

𝒲arnings: unexpected pregnancy, a little hurt before the comfort, joel and ellie still talk to each other here, ellie and dina <3, protective!tommy, established relationship, found family

𝒜uthor’s 𝒩ote: so you can see this as an part II of this one shot but as a standalone too

𝒲ord 𝒞ount: 3,5k

It started with a gut feeling.

Not the kind you got when a run was about to go sideways, or when a clicker was too close in the dark. This was deeper. Stranger. An ache in your bones, a twist in your stomach. The way your body seemed to move slower, heavier, like it was working overtime for something you hadn’t signed up for.

You hadn’t bled in over five weeks.

And that scared the ever-loving fuck out of you.

Tommy had noticed you were off—but he hadn’t pushed. Not yet. Which meant the clock was ticking.

You still played it cool. Mostly. Still wore his shirt in the mornings, still made smart-ass remarks when he teased you, still kissed him slow before he left for patrol. But your brain? It wasn’t in your mouth anymore. It was in your gut. In your chest. In the little drawer in the bathroom you kept staring at without opening.

You didn’t even own a test. And how the hell were you supposed to get one without someone noticing?

It’d been three days since you’d really slept.

The nausea was worse in the mornings now. Nothing dramatic—no running to the bathroom or puking over the sink—but enough to make you stare at your coffee like it was poison and push your eggs around the plate. You told Tommy it was just a stomach bug.

He didn’t believe you.

You could feel it in the way he looked at you when you weren’t looking. That quiet, worried frown he thought you wouldn’t catch. The extra time his hand lingered on your back when you passed by, the way his eyes narrowed when you said you were fine.

This morning was no different.

You sat at the kitchen table, staring at toast you didn’t want, Tommy’s mug warm in your hands. He was across from you, already dressed, tying his boots with that slow, thoughtful pace he only used when his brain was somewhere else.

“You didn’t sleep again,” he said, not looking up.

Your fingers tightened on the mug. “Didn’t feel like it.”

“Mm.” He didn’t press—but that quiet drawl was loaded. “You sure it’s just a bug?”

You shrugged. “I mean, it’s Jackson. Could be mutant flu. Or maybe your cooking finally caught up to me.”

He smirked, finally glancing at you—but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Smart mouth still works,” he said, voice light. “So you’re not dyin’. That’s good.”

You smiled, but it didn’t sit right. Your chest felt tight.

Tommy finished tying his boots and stood, crossing the room with that slow, easy walk that always made you feel like he was giving you the choice to run—like if you needed space, he’d give it. But if you didn’t… he’d be there.

He knelt beside your chair, warm hands coming to rest on your bare thighs, his thumb brushing circles into your skin.

“Baby.”

Just one word. Soft. Concerned. Heavy.

You swallowed hard.

“I’m fine,” you said again. Too fast. Too rehearsed.

He looked up at you, eyes searching your face. “You know I ain’t askin’ ’cause I don’t trust you.”

You didn’t say anything.

Tommy exhaled, leaning forward to press a kiss to your knee. “I’ll be back early today. If you need to talk…”

He didn’t finish it. Just stood, grabbing his jacket off the hook and heading for the door.

You waited until it closed behind him—then curled into yourself, fists clenched in your lap, staring at your untouched toast.

Something had to give.

You just weren’t sure if it’d be you… or the test you still hadn’t found a way to get.

It took you two more days to work up the nerve.

Two more mornings of dry heaving behind the cabin, two more nights of Tommy’s hand resting too gently on your stomach like he knew, even if you wouldn’t say it.

You didn’t go to Joel.

Too official.

You couldn’t face Tommy’s brother. Joel’s stare had a way of peeling layers off you when you weren’t ready to bleed.

So instead, you waited until Ellie and Dina were at the greenhouses, pulling compost and cracking jokes like they were the world’s least efficient work team, and wandered up the trail like you just happened to be passing by.

Ellie spotted you first. “Hey, look who’s finally crawling outta Tommy’s bed.”

Dina snorted. “Thought she’d been swallowed whole.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst way to go,” you muttered under your breath, half-smiling, half-shaking.

But your nerves didn’t let you joke the way you usually did. And Ellie saw it.

Her grin faded, eyes narrowing. “Alright, what’s up? You look like you’re about to puke or punch someone.”

You kicked the dirt at your feet, hands buried deep in your jacket pockets. “I… need you guys to do me a favor.”

Dina tilted her head. “If it’s body disposal, you’re gonna have to bribe Ellie.”

“If it’s Joel, I’m in,” Ellie added, only half-kidding.

You blew out a slow breath. “No, it’s—look, I just… need you to find something for me. Quietly.”

Both girls exchanged a glance—one of those short, wordless conversations you were pretty sure they had like a secret language.

Ellie looked back at you. “Define quietly.”

You stepped closer, dropping your voice low. “Like… not going through the front gate with it under your arm quietly.”

Dina folded her arms. “You’re being weird. What is it?”

You hesitated for a beat, eyes darting around to make sure no one was nearby.

Then you muttered it under your breath:

“A pregnancy test.”

Silence.

For three full seconds.

Then Ellie let out a choked sound. “Oh shit.”

Dina’s eyes went wide. “Wait—like, you think—?”

“I don’t know,” you snapped, then lowered your voice again. “That’s the problem. I need to be sure before I tell him.”

“Tommy?” Ellie asked. “You haven’t told Tommy?”

You shook your head.

Dina whistled softly, her teasing dropping away. “You scared?”

“Of what it means,” you said. “Of what it changes. And yeah, maybe a little scared of how he’ll react.”

Ellie nodded slowly. “Alright. We’ll get it.”

“Really?”

She smirked. “Yeah. Don’t worry. We’re stealthy as shit. Like pregnancy-test-ninjas.”

Dina rolled her eyes. “You’re literally the loudest person I know.”

They turned to head back toward town—already plotting who to bribe, how to sneak it, what lie would hold up best. You felt your shoulders ease for the first time in days.

And then—

A shadow moved behind the far end of the greenhouse.

You all froze.

Joel stepped into view, arms crossed, brow furrowed, that signature Joel Miller stare like a damn spotlight.

Ellie immediately looked guilty.

“…Shit.”

Joel’s gaze moved from Ellie, to Dina, and finally landed on you.

He said nothing.

Just stared for a moment too long.

Then turned and walked off without a word.

Your stomach sank.

Ellie grimaced. “…You want us to kill him before he tells Tommy?”

You covered your face with your hands. “Please do it quietly.”

You tried to act normal.

Tried to finish your errand, thank Ellie and Dina, pretend Joel hadn’t just overheard the most terrifying secret you’d ever let slip—but the burn in your throat was climbing faster than your legs could carry you.

You didn’t see him when you left the greenhouses.

Didn’t see him when you passed the tool sheds or the corral either.

But he was waiting.

Of course he was.

You turned the corner behind the mechanics’ barn—and there he was, leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, boots planted, and that unreadable Miller face aimed right at you.

You froze mid-step.

Joel didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t speak.

The silence stretched out like wire, tightening with every second until it burned.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” you said first, voice flat, the kind of deflection that usually bought you time with most people.

Joel wasn’t most people.

“That so?” he said, voice dry.

You gave him a sharp glance. “If you’re gonna lecture me, Joel, save it. I already feel like I’m gonna throw up half the day, I don’t need you adding to it.”

He didn’t snap back.

Didn’t even frown.

Just stared, long and quiet, in that heavy way of his that made people squirm.

But not you. Not anymore.

You lifted your chin, folding your arms. “If you’re gonna say something, say it.”

“I ain’t judgin’,” he said, calm. Too calm. “Ain’t mad. Just surprised.”

You snorted. “Yeah, well, join the club.”

Joel pushed off the wall, slow and deliberate, stepping close but not too close. “How long you been thinkin’ it?”

You looked away. “Few weeks.”

“You told Tommy?”

Your jaw tightened.

“Didn’t think so.”

You could feel his eyes on your face, dissecting every breath.

“I don’t want to say anything until I know, Joel,” you said, lower now. “I don’t want to dump that on him if it’s nothing. What if I’m wrong?”

He studied you for a beat longer.

Then, softer: “What if you’re not?”

You blinked. That was the part that got you.

Not the threat of exposure. Not the weight of maybe being pregnant.

But that question.

What if you weren’t wrong?

“I’m scared,” you admitted. Quiet. “Not of the test. Not even of being pregnant. Just… what it changes.”

Joel nodded slowly. His voice was gentler now, and gruffer for it.

“He loves you. That ain’t gonna change.”

You swallowed the tightness in your throat. “I know. That’s what scares me.”

There was a silence between you again, but this one didn’t press so hard.

Joel scratched the back of his neck, like the conversation had gone deeper than he meant it to.

“I ain’t gonna say nothin’,” he muttered. “Ain’t my place.”

You finally looked at him, a little surprised.

He met your gaze. “But don’t let him go on thinkin’ it’s just a flu or stress. You keep somethin’ like this from him too long, he’s gonna blame himself first. Then he’ll blame you. And he won’t mean it, but it’ll come out anyway.”

You nodded, slow. “I get it.”

Joel turned like he was about to walk away, then paused and looked back.

“You tell him soon,” he said. “Or I will.”

It was supposed to be a normal night.

You, Tommy, Joel, and a few others gathered around the long table. The fire crackled in the old stone hearth, someone passed around whiskey, and for a little while, it felt simple. Easy. Just a family night in a place that didn’t get many of those.

You sat curled into Tommy’s side, one leg over his knee, nursing your glass of whiskey more for show than anything else. You hadn’t touched much of it. Your stomach still wasn’t playing nice.

Tommy didn’t mind. He kept you close, his hand on your thigh, thumb stroking slow, distracted circles while he laughed at something Maria said about their neighbor’s godawful potato stew.

You tried to relax.

But across the table, Joel kept looking at you.

Not talking. Not smiling. Just those quick, sharp glances—like he was measuring something, bracing for it. Trying to see if you would say anything, maybe.

You avoided eye contact.

But Tommy noticed.

It wasn’t obvious at first—just a subtle shift in the way his fingers stopped moving on your leg, how his eyes narrowed just slightly when Joel went quiet again. His voice didn’t change, not yet. But you could feel it in his body, the way his arm pulled a little tighter around you.

Protective.

“Somethin’ wrong with your drink, Joel?” Tommy asked suddenly, breaking through the small talk.

Joel blinked, eyes flicking to Tommy. “Huh?”

“You keep starin’ like someone spit in it.”

Ellie gave a short laugh, catching the edge under Tommy’s words. Dina leaned over to whisper something in her ear.

But you felt it.

Joel’s mouth twitched—something between a grimace and a smirk. “Just tired.”

Tommy didn’t buy it.

His jaw flexed, just once, and his hand moved from your thigh to lace fingers with yours under the table. His grip tightened like a warning. Or maybe a question.

You didn’t squeeze back.

You couldn’t.

Tommy’s voice dropped, quieter now, not for the whole table. Just for Joel.

“You sure that’s all?”

Joel didn’t answer right away.

He just raised his glass, took a sip, and looked everywhere but at you.

Tommy’s hand pulled away from yours.

His posture changed—casual, but not relaxed. Like a man shifting from something easy into something uncertain. You saw it happen behind his eyes.

He laughed at something Dina said.

But his arm didn’t come back around you.

And he didn’t touch his drink again.

You didn’t talk on the walk home.

Tommy was quiet, his hand resting low on your back like always, but the warmth in it was different now. Like he was guiding you… but watching you, too. His eyes had softened around the edges, but his silence had weight.

You didn’t press.

He unlocked the door, let you inside first. The cabin was still warm from the fire you’d left burning, the quiet ticking of the wood stove the only sound in the room. You peeled off your jacket, kicked off your boots, but didn’t turn to look at him. Didn’t know if you could.

Tommy brushed past you toward the bathroom, pausing only to say, softly:

“G’night, baby.”

You stood there for a beat longer.

“Night.”

When you finally crawled into bed, the space between your bodies felt colder than it should’ve. His arm came around you eventually—automatically—but he didn’t pull you into his chest like he usually did.

You didn’t sleep.

You met Ellie and Dina behind the greenhouse just after sunrise—where no one would see, where the early light made everything feel quieter, like the world hadn’t quite woken up enough to judge you yet.

Dina handed over the test, a smirk tugging at her mouth, but her eyes were kind. “You ready?”

You weren’t.

But you nodded anyway.

Ellie handed you a thermos. “In case you, y’know, need to pee or puke.”

“God, you two are romantic,” you muttered, but the joke fell flat in your mouth.

You took the test into the staff bathroom—quiet, cold tile, harsh light. Sat on the edge of the bench with it in your hands for too long, staring like it might blink first.

Your hands were shaking.

You told yourself you didn’t care.

Liar.

You took the test.

And waited.

Two minutes. Felt like two hours.

When you looked down and saw the result, something inside you stopped.

Two lines.

Positive.

You stared at it.

Not breathing.

Not blinking.

Just… frozen.

Dina knocked lightly on the door. “Babe?”

You opened it, test still in hand.

They didn’t say anything right away. Ellie saw your face and knew.

Dina gently took the stick from you, confirming it herself.

Neither of them smiled.

Ellie rubbed the back of her neck. “Well… shit.”

You got home before he did.

Barely.

Your boots were still damp from the snowmelt outside, your jacket still unzipped when you collapsed onto the couch. The pregnancy test—still in your pocket. Still burning through the fabric like a brand.

You hadn’t cried in the bathroom with Ellie and Dina.

You’d held it together then.

But now, sitting here alone, your body shook with the need to do something—to run, to scream, to disappear before you had to say it out loud.

The door opened just before dusk.

You didn’t look.

Tommy stepped inside, brushing off snow, sighing low as he peeled off his gloves. You heard the boots come off. Heard the little creak in the floorboard by the coat rack. Heard the moment he spotted you, curled up on the couch, arms wrapped around yourself like they could hold in everything you couldn’t anymore.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

You didn’t answer.

He came closer, footsteps slow. No tension in them. Just concern.

He sat on the edge of the coffee table, facing you.

“Sweetheart…”

That’s all it took.

The tears started before you could stop them.

Your face crumpled, and the sob tore out of your throat like it had been locked in your chest for days. Your hands came up, trying to cover it, but Tommy was already there—arms around you in a second, pulling you into him, holding you tight.

“Hey—hey, hey, it’s okay—breathe, baby, c’mon—what’s goin’ on?”

You shook your head into his chest, fists clenching into his shirt. “I—I didn’t mean to keep it from you—I didn’t know for sure—I didn’t know how to say it—”

He stilled.

Didn’t pull back.

But his body changed—his arms holding you firmer, his hand going still on your back.

“Say what?” he asked, low.

You couldn’t look at him.

“I’m pregnant.”

The words hit the air and collapsed out of you like a dam breaking.

You said it, finally.

“I didn’t—fuck, I didn’t plan this, Tommy, I didn’t want to scare you or mess up what we have, I just needed time to think—”

His hand was already in your hair, guiding your face up gently, making you look at him.

Tommy’s eyes were wide, stunned—but not angry. Not cold.

Just searching.

“You’re pregnant,” he repeated, slow.

You nodded, chest heaving. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I was terrified, Tommy. I didn’t want you to think I’d fucked everything up.”

There was a long pause.

And then his hands came to your face, cupping it gently.

“Baby,” he said, voice shaking a little, “why the hell would I think that?”

You couldn’t speak. Just cried harder.

Tommy pulled you into his lap, like he had that first night on the porch, wrapping his arms around you like they were armor. He kissed your temple, your hair, your cheek—again and again.

“You think I’d walk away from this? From you?” His voice cracked a little. “You think I’d be anything but—fuck, baby—I ain’t never wanted anything more than what we already got, and if that includes a kid? Then I’m with you. Start to finish. No matter what.”

You gripped his shirt tighter.

“But I’m scared.”

“I know,” he said, holding you closer. “Me too.”

He kissed your jaw, slow and soft.

“But we’ll do it together. Every step. You hear me?”

You nodded, breath stuttering against his chest.

“I hear you.”

And for the first time in days, the fear didn’t feel so heavy.

Because Tommy was holding you.

And this time, you weren’t holding it alone.

You stayed curled in his lap for a long time.

No words. Just the sound of your breathing starting to steady, his hand tracing slow, warm lines up and down your spine. Tommy didn’t rush you. He never did.

When you finally pulled back enough to see his face, his thumbs brushed the last of the tears from your cheeks.

You gave a shaky laugh, still blotchy-eyed. “Bet this wasn’t how you thought tonight would go.”

He smiled, soft and crooked. “Had a feelin’ somethin’ was comin’. Just didn’t know it’d be… this.”

You nodded, your fingers still clinging to the hem of his shirt. “I didn’t mean to keep it from you. I just… I didn’t want it to be real until I could handle it.”

Tommy’s eyes didn’t leave yours.

“You don’t ever have to carry shit like that by yourself,” he said quietly. “Not anymore.”

Your throat tightened again.

“You think I’m just here for the fun parts?” he asked, brushing your hair back. “Sweetheart, I’m yours. All in. That means when you’re scared. When you’re sick. When your head’s runnin’ and you don’t know how to say the words.”

You looked down at your lap, voice small. “I didn’t know how to not be scared.”

He leaned forward, forehead resting gently against yours.

“Me neither,” he whispered. “But I’m still here. And I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

You stayed there, just breathing with him for a minute, letting the weight of his words sink in.

Then you whispered, “I don’t even know what to do. We don’t have a plan, we don’t have anything ready—”

“We got time,” he said, cutting in gently. “We’ll figure it out.”

Your eyes flicked up, wide and uncertain. “You’re really okay with this?”

Tommy gave you that slow, earnest smile that always seemed to crack something open in your chest.

“I’m scared,” he admitted. “But I’m happy too. Real happy. The thought of you carrying my kid? That’s not somethin’ I’m ever gonna be mad about.”

Your breath hitched.

“And you,” he added, voice softening, “are never gonna be alone in this. Not one step.”

You leaned into him, your forehead against the side of his neck, voice muffled.

“I don’t deserve you.”

Tommy huffed, tugging you tighter. “Bullshit. I’m the one thankin’ god every day you haven’t realized you could do better.”

You laughed—wet and real—and he kissed the top of your head.

“Whatever happens,” he murmured, “you come to me. Always. You feel off, you need time, you’re scared—I wanna know. No more hiding. Alright?”

You nodded against his chest. “Alright.”

He let out a slow breath, like something in him unclenched too. “Good.”

Then, quieter: “You thinkin’ about names already?”

You snorted. “I haven’t even thought about how to not throw up every morning.”

He grinned. “Guess we’re startin’ from scratch.”

“But you’re in it?” you asked, just to hear it one more time.

He tilted your chin up and kissed you—slow, tender, no rush.

“All the way, baby.”

#tommy miller #gia writes tommy ⋆ 𐙚 ̊.#tommy miller fanfic #tommy miller x reader #tlou #the last of us #the last of us fanfic

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respectthepetty · 21 hours ago

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When Khanin was hurt in the last episode of The Next Prince, both he and Charan were wearing gray, but once they get back to the room in episode six, Khanin is back fully dressed in white and gold.

And he continues that into the next day.

But just because he is out of Charan's silver doesn't mean he is out of Charan's hair.

He is going to get his Black Brooder bodyguard to succumb to temptation and taste the forbidden fruit one way or another.

And this gorgeous shot with Charan reflected in the mirror BEHIND Khanin beautifully depicts what resides in Charan's heart. Even if Charan can't face it directly, he wants Khanin.

So the boys set off on a color-coded journey in search of a treasured pearl starting with pink.

We then move to white which is "the color of purity, sincerity, freedom, and loyalty."

And land on yellow "symbolizing good friendship and good health" which are two interesting color choices considering Khanin is the white and gold (yellow) coded character.

But we also get red in the form of Paytai's lace blindfold and although red can mean danger and aggression is also represents strong emotions and passion.

That sounds about right.

The day after receiving the yellow pearl from Charan because they are such good friends, Khanin is back in silver.

And he continues to look at Charan in such a friendly way.

Like he could eat him up!

But this golden boy asks his "friend" what exactly Wasin meant when he said that his family stands like the sun over the other families. Because none of these people speak directly, Charan believes Wasin meant that his family provides life to him; therefore, he was expressing his loyalty, but . . . I got the hint of oppression in his comment, so let's all hope Wasin isn't trying to overthrow anyone because I have a gay agenda.

Back to the target point — Heavenly Human Khanin wants his man and much like his archery skills, his aim is getting better with practice.

So it's time for another adventure, but this time with our Blue Boy Prince Calvin.

They are going to visit our future queen Pink Princess Ava.

And for some reason, this Blue Boy opts out of staying in the castle (perhaps because he just wants to appear like a normal guy so *someone* doesn't find out he is royalty?), but our Heavenly Human doesn't.

The other Light x Dark Duo are magically also visiting, so the whole royal squad decides to participate in a team building exercise by going clubbing together.

But first Ramil must look to Paytai to know if it's okay. With a simple nod, Paytai tells Ramil he's a very good boy who should go play nice with others, and I am thrilled to know that even though Paytai is Ramil's pet, Paytai is a cat and Ramil is his butler.

So now, in this club, we all fam.

And the Light x Dark Duo are about to put their kink out on public display.

But Chakri, who Khanin tried to not invite (because he is a crappy boss!!!!), is about to live out Usher's "DJ Got Us Fallin' In Love" the way that pink lighting is hitting him once that man offered him a drink. Go on and get it!

Because after Ramil decides BRAT summer begins when he says it begins, he meets his pet in the Tunnel of Love.

And decides to show Paytai just how much he loves him.

So we get another Usher banger in the form of his hit "Love in the Club"

Basically, Usher sponsored this episode because he knows the power a club plays in making the magic of love happen.

Because once it starts raining, Charan's trauma is triggered, and he finally allows himself the comfort he has desperately desired in the shape of Khanin's arm, who is wearing all black.

And with that warm embrace, Charan finally gives in to temptation he has been resisting for so long.

BUT WHERE THE FUCK IS OUR BLUE BOY CALVIN?

#the next prince #the colors mean things #color coded boys in love #why is nobody worried about calvin?#somebody needed to stay sober and wrangle up these royals #they needed a buddy system #now Charan is going to taste the fruit only to get it snatched away because he is going to get in trouble #and it's going to be delicious!#episode six #long post

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screamofdespair · 2 days ago

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山本泰一郎 Yasuichiro Yamamoto is without a doubt, the most important figure in the history of the Detective Conan anime. He first joined the anime production on Episode 34 and quickly became a central creative force. He served as Series Director from Episodes 119 to 332, playing a key role in shaping the show’s tone, structure, and identity during its foundational years. He's left his mark on openings, endings, OVAs, directed special episodes, movies etc... After a long break, Yamamoto returned as Series Director starting from Episode 667 and he’s still in that role today. Over the years, the anime production has changed a lot, but through all of that, Yamamoto has remained the most steady and reliable figure in the series. Even as the workload increased and things became more fragmented, he managed, as a veteran, to keep the anime consistent and coherent.

Here’s an overview of his work.

Yamamoto’s direction is not driven by loud visuals or a fixed aesthetic. While he doesn’t treat direction as a personal showcase, his work is far from neutral. It is defined by a set of technical and structural preferences that shape the way scenes unfold. It’s a style that doesn’t draw attention to itself, but that leaves a mark through how strong everything feels. He stands out for his versatility. Whether it’s suspenseful, dramatic, or realistic, he knows how to shape the visual language accordingly. He lets the manga or the original anime script lead the way. He adjusts his style to serve the story. What sets him apart is his careful craftsmanship. He ensures that character drawings remain clean and consistent, prioritizing subtle character acting animation over loose or exaggerated animation most of the time. He often incorporates technically demanding sequences like background animation, character acting animation, he loves playing with layers. He always manages to keep scenes dynamic, even when the script doesn’t call for it. Dialogues rarely feels static, he finds ways to make it visually engaging. Compared to other directors known for dynamic or exaggerated animation, his work feels more controlled and deliberate. It's likely one of the reasons why, despite joining the production a bit later (compared to 佐藤真人 Masato Sato or 越智浩仁 Hirohito Ochi) he was eventually chosen as Series Director after こだま兼嗣 Kenji Kodama.

His framing palette is flexible, but his choices lean more toward technical than stylistic experimentation.

Close up shots (+ #178 if you want to see how he uses them : here)

Split-Screen composition

You get it

Rotation / 'Zoom-In'

During key moments, he often uses highly stylized background art : irregular textures, brush strokes, ink washes, even erosion patterns.

Yamamoto first worked on the notable Episode 34 of Detective Conan (Mountain Villa Bandaged Man Murder Case Pt 1 - Storyboard / Episode Director : Yasuichiro Yamamoto), an important episode alongside Masato Sato, who handled Episode 35. Even then, his ambition stood out, not as a drastic shift in style, but as a clear intent to push the visual direction further. However, it’s in Episode 40 that his full capability as a director truly comes through.

Episode 40 (Wealthy Daughter Murder Case Pt 2 - Script / Storyboard / Episode Director : Yasuichiro Yamamoto) shows a tightly controlled use of a specific and precise color palette, shifting gradually from black to purple, then deep red and burnt orange, a palette that closes in on the viewer, building a quiet tension and a sense of confinement. The scene uses candlelight as the only light source, and the lighting is handled with impressive accuracy. The glow spreads softly, fading into darkness, and the tiles shift toward orange while the rest stay in shadow. You can spot small linear reflections on the wall, placed in the opposite direction of the candle. The water reflects the light, and even the mirror on the right catches a bit of it. Behind the characters, total darkness takes over because there’s no electricity. Every glow, reflection, and shadow is carefully anticipated and placed with intent. It adds a sense of realism and shows how much planning and effort went into the backgrounds. Yamamoto often works with scenes that feel static in the manga. Gosho’s chapters rely heavily on dialogue and minimal movement, but on screen, Yamamoto finds ways to bring them to life. He reimagines spaces, adds depth and atmosphere. The bathroom scene lit only by candlelight is a perfect example : what was a simple conversation on the page becomes something rich and immersive in the anime.

A comparison with the manga :

Episode 68 (Night Baron Murder Case Pt 1 - Storyboard : Masato Sato / Episode Director : Yasuichiro Yamamoto) which I consider one of the best directed episodes in the entire series, is a collaboration between two major names : Masato Sato and Yamamoto himself. And it doesn’t take long to see why it stands out. While the storyboard is by Sato, the episode clearly shows how much direction can influence the final result. From start to finish, it’s dynamic, ambitious, and fully committed to its tone. Every scene feels thoughtfully shaped, and the entire episode holds together with an impressive level of quality and consistency.

Episode 74 (The Death God Jinnai Murder Case - Storyboard / Episode Director : Yasuichiro Yamamoto) is an anime original episode, and it opens with a scene inside a movie theater, where the characters are watching a movie on screen. The way this 'movie' on screen is handled reveals everything about the director’s approach : it’s far from minimal, and instead treated with full of cinematic weight : rich lighting, sharp shadows, polished art direction, framing, focus, detailled drawings, and even original character designs just for this small scene. Everything is polished to the level of a standalone cliché like horror movie. Technically, this level of care wasn’t needed, the scene could’ve been played straight and nobody would’ve questioned it. This is what sets the director apart. He doesn't just deliver what's required, he goes further. Eveything is given full treatment and it’s a clear example of his ambition and versatility, always pushing to elevate, no matter how small it may seem.

Like the two other directors who each worked closely with a specific Animation Director (Sato with 河村明夫 Akio Kawamura and Ochi with 大河原晴男 Haruo Ogawara), Yamamoto mainly worked with 佐々木恵子 Keiko Sasaki. Sasaki’s corrections are highly meticulous and consistent, closely aligned with the official character design sheets by 須藤昌朋 Masatomo Sudo. Her work doesn't aim to stand out stylistically, and that’s what defines it. It’s restrained, balanced, and technically faithful. In a way, her drawings feels 'neutral', not in a negative sense, but in how structurally correct it is. Over time and under the director’s guidance, Sasaki’s drawings gradually took on a more realistic tone. Without losing their adherence to the model sheets, they became more refined, less stylized, and more sync with the director’s serious and calculated tone. This partnership contributed to giving certain episodes a sharper visual identity, one that felt closer to realism, both in the drawings and the mood.

#40 > #52 > #68 > #91 > #128 (Animation Director : Keiko Sasaki under Yasuichiro Yamamoto)

There’s often a clear duality within the episodes he storyboard/directs, especially in how he uses color and tone to shape the atmosphere of each scenes. Each sections gets its own distinct mood, whether it’s bright and energetic or tense and heavy :

#82 (The Kidnapping of a Popular Artist Case Pt2 - Storyboard / Episode Director : Yasuichiro Yamamoto)

#128 (The Black Organization: One Billion Yen Robbery Case - Storyboard : Yasuichiro Yamamoto / Episode Director : Minoru Tozawa)

Episode 489 (Courtroom Confrontation III: Prosecutor as Eyewitness - Storyboard / Episode Director : Yasuichiro Yamamoto) stands out as, arguably, the director’s best work for me, and interestingly, it comes after the traditional animation era and under Masato Sato as the Series Director. While much of his reputation is built on his work from that earlier period, this episode proves that his strengths carried over into the digital age with just as much force. Here, the direction takes a turn toward something colder, more grounded, reminiscent of Japanese live-action police procedurals or courtroom dramas. The color palette is subdued, desaturated, and leans into steely greys, muted blues, washed-out greens, far from the warmer, saturated tones often used in Detective Conan. The episode is aiming to be taken more seriously than usual. The framing, photography and color palette support this tone completely. Wide shots of modern buildings, institutional interiors, and overcast skies give the episode a sense of distance, isolation, and heavy realism. There’s a kind of emotional stillness in the way scenes are framed, everything feels quiet, held back, deliberate, things we never hear about, that often take place in the middle of the night. It’s a very different tone from the usual, a bit more theatrical, more adult, and that’s exactly what makes it special. It may be a personal preference, but for me, this is his most refined and complete episode. A key factor in this episode is the presence of 宍戸久美子 Kumiko Shishido as Chef Animation Director. Her clean, grounded drawing style brings even more weight and realism to the characters. Paired with the director’s precise and minimalist tone, her corrections elevates the episode’s atmosphere in a way that feels completely different from the rest of the series.

Art Direction : ��久木孝将 Takamasa Nakakuki

A comparison between Episode 264 (Courtroom Confrontation: Kisaki vs. Kogoro) and Episode 489 (Courtroom Confrontation III: Prosecutor as Eyewitness) : Traditional Era vs Digital Era. Art Direction, Textures, Photography, Color Palette, Drawings etc...

Influences drawn from shows like Aibo (2000)

Animation Director : Kumiko Shishido

As Detective Conan anime production became increasingly complex over the years, with tighter schedules and a much heavier workload, Yamamoto managed to adapt the Kyoto Arc with remarkable control. Despite many limitations, he brought a clear vision and kept the pacing dynamic, using smart animation techniques to compensate where needed. It’s another reminder that in animation, pure creativity alone isn’t enough, you need the full package to pull something like this off. Episodes 926 and 927 combined make up 90 minutes, essentially the length of a Conan movie. I explain it in more detail in this thread : here.

Episode 927 (The Scarlet School Trip Pt 2 - Script / Storyboard / Episode Director : Yasuichiro Yamamoto) Close-up shots to build a sense of intimacy and physical presence, focusing on hands, movement, and subtle gestures. Something that wasn’t fully developed in the chapters due to pacing constraints. It feels like the director is filling in what Gosho didn’t have time to expand.

Yamamoto’s signature

Yamamoto's Storyboard sketches

He worked on almost everything : the Conan TV series, the movies, openings and endings (including the iconic Ending 10), OVAs (like the first Conan × Kaito × Yaiba special, which is an impressive piece of work - Storyboard / Episode Direction : Yasuichiro Yamamoto), Special Episodes (Episode One: The Great Detective Turned Small - Script / Storyboard / Episode Direction : Yasuichiro Yamamoto) and even magazine covers. For example, the recent AnAn issue featuring Kaito and Shinichi while the final illustration was by Iwao Teraoka and Sudo, the original layout was done by Yamamoto.

#名探偵コナン #detective conan #dcmk #conan edogawa #shinichi kudo #case closed #ran mouri #kaito kid #yasuichiro yamamoto #90s anime #heiji hattori #magic kaito

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