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blank-potato · 2 days ago

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I Love The Girl With Magic Ways

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Witch!Reader

Summary:

He’s there, standing at the foot of your bed, shadows clinging to him like silk. Those eyes, golden and curious, lock onto yours. Not threatening. Not kind. Just... watching. “You dream of me,” he says, not asking. You swallow, and the air thickens. “That's not an invitation to break into my room at night.” He tilts his head, taking a step closer. “You called me. You always do—when your thoughts stray, when your control slips. You think about me more than you care to admit.” You don’t respond. Can’t. Because he’s not wrong. Or When training with Bob goes awry, you come face-to-face with The Void, and he's interested in you; he wants to know what makes you tick.

WC: 2.5k

A/N: Title from Magic Ways by Tatsuro Yamashita (such a good song). I'll probably write a part 2 to this, methinks. Here's the link to the request here. Enjoy!

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Training with Bob wasn’t going well. It was frustrating, more for him than you, but still difficult. When you had tried to help him focus, to channel his power, you’d taken a gentle approach, even though gentleness didn’t come naturally to you all the time.

He’d broken the mirrors and the containment shields in the training facility and accidentally thrown you into a wall with his mind.

“I swear, I didn’t mean to.”

“I know…” You groan, brushing dust off your sleeve as you push yourself up.

You make your way back over to him. He’s sitting on the floor, hands in his lap, and anxiety is coming off him in waves.

“It’s okay,” You say softly, sitting beside him. “You’ll get it.”

You don’t know if the look on your face is reassuring or just tired, but judging by the way he won’t meet your eyes, it probably isn’t convincing. He doesn’t seem any more confident.

You sit next to him, trying to think of how to teach him control in a way he’ll actually absorb. You sigh, watching him.

“When I harness my magic, it’s like… holding energy, shifting it from one place to another—like water between cupped hands. Maybe if I show you how I do it, you can follow. How’s that sound?” You sigh, not meaning to sound tired, but you swear you still have a crick in the neck from hitting the wall.

“I’ll give it a shot.”

You nod, the light glowing in your hands, flickering softly like a heartbeat. Bob finds it beautiful, the way you shape it and mould it with such ease. He doesn’t fully understand it himself, not yet, but there’s awe in his eyes.

“Your turn,” You say gently, passing the moment to him.

He tries. Nothing happens at first, just stillness, but then there’s a faint buzzing in the air, a low hum that tickles the edges of your senses. He can feel it. So can you. His eyes glow as he concentrates.

He’s getting there, but—

“Just a little more…”

Your hand hovers next to his, almost touching, and suddenly, there’s a jolt—like a circuit overloading. Lights flicker, then short out, sparks raining from a fixture above. Half the room is thrown into darkness, the other half stuttering with flickering light.

Bob exhales sharply, his face contorting in frustration. “I messed up again,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face. It had been at least the tenth mistake in the last thirty minutes, and it was starting to wear him down.

“Control can be hard to learn, but it doesn’t mean it’s impossible…” You say, trying to keep your voice steady, calm, and reassuring.

“I’m hopeless…” Bob murmurs, the words heavy with self-doubt. His chuckle is bitter, empty, and the silence that follows feels louder than any explosion. His eyebrows knit together, and he looks away, shoulders slumping under the weight of his frustration.

You step closer, the glow still dancing faintly in your palms.

“You’re not hopeless. You’re learning. And that’s never a straight line.”

You feel a chill slide down your spine as something shifts, and darkness begins to creep in, curling at the edges of the room like smoke spilling through cracks.

“Bob?” You call again, more urgent now.

The room is fading into a thick, velvet black, seeping into every crevice, swallowing light and colour like a slow tide.

“Bob? Talk to me,” You say, your voice cutting through the dark, a single thread trying to reach him before the void does. It’s too late, though.

He keeps his head down. It’s clear the words aren’t even getting to him anymore. The darkness overtakes him, swallowing him whole. What emerges is a shadowy figure only being illuminated by the faint flickering light of the broken overheads.

You step toward him, slow and cautious, before you meet his gaze.

His golden eyes glint back at you through the dark, sharp and gleaming with something unreadable. A sinister smile works its way onto his face, deliberate, unsettling in its calmness.

“I’m curious about you,” The Void murmurs, voice low and unnervingly calm. “I want to know what you can do.”

“And I want to talk to Bob,” You retort, eyes narrowing.

“You are talking to Bob,” it replies, with a slight twist of amusement, mocking, almost cruel. “...a part of him, at least.”

You smirk, sharp and laced with sarcasm. “Charming.”

He steps closer and invades your space like a cold draft slithering under a door. The air tightens, heavy and bitter. You can feel his presence: not just beside you, but around you, coiling like smoke, probing.

Still, you hold your ground, looking straight into his eyes. You don’t flinch. “How interesting,” he muses, tilting his head. His darkness moves again, tendrils slipping toward you, tasting the air around your magic, your thoughts, your fear.

But they meet resistance. Your magic flares, and the darkness recoils, hissing as it brushes against your glow.

You remain standing, untouched.

“I’m not afraid of you,” You say, voice like steel wrapped in silk. “And Bob isn’t yours to keep.”

He studies you before letting out a low, curious laugh. “No,” he says finally. “Maybe not.”

“Could I keep you instead?” The Void asks, voice low, almost amused, but there’s something sincere beneath it. He reaches out to touch your face, fingers grazing the space between you.

But you grab his hand before he can. You laugh softly, a little disbelieving.

"I think I suit you quite nicely," he murmurs, undeterred.

"I can see what they can't," he continues, his eyes narrowing, glinting with something ancient and knowing. "The anger, power right at your fingertips and yet you try to play the hero. Why?"

“I’m not playing at anything,” You say firmly, voice steady, eyes locked on his.

He leans in, the shadows around him thickening, curling like tendrils reaching out. They’re dark, hungry, trying to pull you closer, to draw you into their world.

But you fight back. Not with every ounce of will you have, pushing against the invisible pull, anchoring yourself.

“I beg to differ,” he murmurs, his breath grazing your skin like a whisper, cold and intoxicating. “Such wasted potential. All for the notion of being good when you could be so much more.”

You reach out, your hand hovering near his temple. Your fingers glow, light pulsing softly, alive. He watches, unblinking, as your magic stirs in the air like smoke catching fire. It’s ethereal, coiling, licking at him, and it has him curious.

You're trying to see into his mind, but—

“I think the real question is…” he interrupts knowingly, tilting his head, “…are we inside your mind or mine?”

The words twist around you like a spell, and suddenly, the weight shifts. The darkness starts to peel away from your limbs, sloughing off like ash in the wind. You blink, feeling the ground under you change, reality sliding sideways.

The Void just smiles.

“I’ll see you soon.”

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You’re still thinking about it… about him.

Every time you’re training with Bob, he’s there, at the edge of your thoughts. You’re not in fear. You’re not scared of the Void, not really. It’s more like a wariness, a flicker of unease that one wrong move, one flare of power, might open the door again. Might bring him back.

It was wrong. And confusing. But a small part of you wanted to see him again.

Your mind drifts when you’re not paying attention—whether it’s during missions, training, or even in bed. He’s in your dreams when you fall asleep, and sometimes, you wake up imagining the ghost of his voice in your ear.

The Void hadn’t tried to hurt you. No, he watched you—studied you. And in some twisted way, he seemed to want you. Not to harm, not to destroy… but to possess, to understand. You just wanted to know why. What did he see in you? What was it about you that drew something like him in?

One night, you’re in bed, the day heavy on your bones, the world finally going quiet around you. You’re slipping closer and closer to sleep…

But you sense it, that shift in the air, a pulse of dark presence curling at the edges of your senses. You feel him before you even open your eyes.

“This is bordering on obsession,” You sigh, eyes still closed.

You hear him laugh, low and amused. The sound crawls down your spine, equal parts unsettling and intimate.

“Not bordering. It is obsession,” he replies, and you can hear the smile in his voice, like he’s proud of it.

Reluctantly, you open your eyes.

He’s there, standing at the foot of your bed, shadows clinging to him like silk. Those eyes, golden and curious, lock onto yours. Not threatening. Not kind. Just... watching.

“You dream of me,” he says, not asking.

You swallow, and the air thickens. “That's not an invitation to break into my room at night.”

He tilts his head, taking a step closer. “You called me. You always do—when your thoughts stray, when your control slips. You think about me more than you care to admit.”

You don’t respond. Can’t.

Because he’s not wrong.

“You’re speechless,” he teases, voice like velvet laced with static. He sits on the edge of your bed, casual, as if he belongs there.

You shift away instinctively, creating space, as if a few more inches could keep him from seeing straight through you.

“Biding my time. There’s a difference,” You reply, keeping your voice even, though your pulse betrays you.

The Void watches you closely, amused by your defiance. Or maybe by the fact that even now, you're still trying to guard yourself. Still playing the game.

His eyes flicker, a faint glow blooming within them like embers. “You may say you don’t want me here, but you keep opening doors.”

“I’m not doing it on purpose,” You bite back, sharper than intended. He smiles, but there’s something beneath it, something hungry. “That’s the best part.”

His hand twitches slightly, not reaching for you, but close. Waiting.

“You’re more than you think. More than they let you be, more than you let yourself be.”

The air thickens again, and you’re feeling him again, his presence threads through the room like smoke.

“What do you want from me?” You ask, tired of circles.

Suddenly, he sounds less teasing, more honest.

“To see you become more than this,” He leans closer as if observing you, “You’re no hero. You’re something else entirely.”

He almost sounds in awe of you.

You want to lie. You want to turn away, pretend you don’t feel it, the weight of his words, the strange reverence in his voice.

But in some weird, completely twisted way…you felt seen.

“Show me what you can do,” he says softly, like a challenge… or a plea.

Against your better judgment, your hands move. Fingers lift with purpose, glowing as your magic rises like a tide. Not to attack. Just to beckon. To draw him in that fraction closer.

And he comes.

He leans in, unflinching, until his lips hover just a breath away from yours. The air between you hums with tension, your power brushing over him.

He doesn’t flinch. He invites it.

He looks at you, eyes gleaming. They weren’t cold, but burning. Goading.

“Do it,” he whispers. “Manipulate me. I want to see you try.”

Your magic coils, crackling faintly between you both, held barely in check. It licks at his skin like fire starved of air. You could push. You could twist something in him, see what bends and what breaks.

That thought strikes sharp and fast, and then you remember.

Bob. Somewhere beyond this darkness, behind the weight of The Void’s presence, he’s there. You couldn’t do this. You couldn’t risk hurting him.

You lower your hands slowly, magic fading from your fingertips. The crackle in the air dies with it, and you feel the release.

The Void sighs dramatically. “What? You don’t want to hurt me? I’m disappointed.”

You vanish from in front of him, slipping through space in a blink, reappearing beside him, your lips by his ear, breath warm and taunting.

“I live to disappoint,” You murmur with biting sarcasm.

He chuckles, low and amused, the sound vibrating in your chest more than your ears.

“So you’re playing with me then?” he asks, a smile curling through his voice, teasing and predatory.

You teleport again, this time behind him, close enough to feel his back press against your body like the edge of a knife.

“Something like that,” You say, voice calm, almost bored.

This little verbal spar you had with him was… addictive. A dangerous dance on a wire stretched taut between temptation and control.

But then he shifts, turning around to face you.

His expression darkens—not angry or violent—but filled with intent. He turns, slowly, deliberately, and starts walking you back with that same quiet pressure in the air that makes your skin prickle.

You don’t step away. You should, but you don’t.

Then, his hand reaches out, and in a second, you’re pinned against the wall. The cold wall meets your spine, and again, before you can blink, he lifts you effortlessly with his mind, sliding you up until your feet leave the ground. His body never touches yours, but his presence crashes over you like a wave.

“I don’t want to play games,” he says, voice low and electric. You meet his eyes, your own burning with something halfway between challenge and adrenaline.

“But this one is so much fun,” you quip back, your tone reckless, like flicking sparks into a powder keg.

His jaw clenches, just slightly. Not in rage. In restraint.

“I came to see you,” he says, eyes scanning your face like a puzzle he hasn’t yet solved. “But all you do is run and hide behind your clever little words.”

“Maybe you need to chase me,” You reply, breath shallow but steady. The Void pauses, his voice surprisingly soft when he answers, “And how long would you make me chase you?”

You meet his gaze, your heart skipping.

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you disappear from his hold, reappearing right in front of him, so close you can see the sweep of his eyelashes. You lean in just a little more, the space between you charged.

“Until I think you’ve had enough.”

His eyes widen a little, but he stifles it.

“Until I’ve had enough…” he repeats to himself, quietly, like he’s tasting the words. He searches your eyes, there’s something in you, something he needs. Finally, a slow, dark smirk spreads across his lips.

“We’ll see.”

The energy between you crackles, thick and electric. You both want this; he wants to pull you into the darkness, to make you lose yourself. Sure, you wanted to play with him, but you could kiss him and still keep him at bay.

But just as your eyes flutter shut and you feel the weight of his presence drawing near, then suddenly there’s only air.

You open your eyes, breath catching. You turn and he’s standing by your door, smiling at you again.

“I’ll see you soon.”

With that, he fades away, leaving you standing alone, still in your mind.

Masterlist

#bob reynolds x reader #the void x reader #bob reynolds fanfic #thunderbolts fanfic #the void #x reader #witch!reader #bob thunderbolts x reader #thunderbolts*#thunderbolts x reader #thunderbolts #bob thunderbolts #robert reynolds #bob reynolds #mcu fanfiction #marvel fic #marvel fanfic #robert reynolds x reader

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danidrabbles · 2 days 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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milkymiks · 2 days ago

Text

Danny can’t find Jason, he’s too young of a ghost, powerful, but inexperienced. He knew that Jason is from another universe, but he can’t access that Universe, having been relying on the fenton portal for going in and out of the ghost zone. Sam and Tucker can only do so much but they did what they can and Danny is grateful for their efforts.

Years went by, longer than how long Jason had been with them, They’re in 2nd year college now and Jazz is graduating. Danny had been crowned the King of Infinite Realms despite his futile attempts at prolonging it, ‘A year after your legal maturity day is the perfect time’ As Clockwork had said. Still no sign of Jason.

It happened a year later.

Danny, drowning in bureaucratic shit that the ancients had decided to set aside despite their own ability to solve those problems themselves only to dump them in an inexperienced newly unwillingly crowned King. Danny is also in his third year of college that means his human identity is also drowning in fucking thesis papers, He’s getting nightmares just by looking at parchment and office papers.

Jason would probably laugh at him.

Jason, who has been missing for more than five years…

God Danny misses Jason, He misses sitting at the roof of a random house with him Stargazing. He misses Jason’s excited babble whenever he discusses some difference with the classic literature in this world to his’. The feeling of his core synchronizing with his…

Was he even real? No, Sam and Tucker remembers him so he wasn’t some hallucination.

Danny glances down on the paper before him, rereading the thing three times before it registered in his mind and promptly throws the parchment away from him, and because it’s paper, it only flapped pathetically on the air before smacking him in the face. He sighed.

___

“Fuck we were too late! they’re almost complete with the chanting!” Constantine curses, sees the runes etched on the floor and pales.

“What exactly are we dealing with here?” Batman grunts, They’re a good feet away from the cloaked figures. The warehouse is dark, the only light source coming from the green flamed candles surrounding the runes.

“I wasn’t sure at first, but the sudden shift in the atmosphere earlier was heavy, I thought they were summoning demons, That we can deal with. This is so much worse”

“Get to the point” Batman turned to the other’s “apprehend the cloaked figures, especially the one in the middle, we need to know their intentions” Dick nodded and saluted “Roger that” He and the other bat’s got to work. Zatanna started to seal the area around the runes to keep whatever was about to be summoned inside.

“They’re summoning the High King of the Infinite Realms, The infinite realms is the border between all universes and where everyone that dies, ends up to. I don’t know how they managed to conjure all the materials needed to but they’re summoning a GOD!” Constantine is panicking “And I don’t even want to touch the shit that’s happening inside there with a ten foot pole but I do know the king is a tyrant!”

“Hah! It’s too late! This is as fated from the scriptures, Pariah Dark will free us and govern the world with his greatness!” The deranged leader said, laughing in his binds as Red Robin easily kept him down. In front of them the runes lit up with a bright green, the ground shook as the cloaked leader’s deranged laughter increased.

A large black whispy arm shot out from the ground in the middle of the summoning circle, followed by a head, A flaming crown on top, then a body, its jagged rib cage outside framing his torso. everything about it looked off, apparently even for the cult leader that summoned it.

“Wha-?! You’re not Pariah Dark!” He screamed and thrashed in Red Robin's hold, who held him down with a foot on his back.

Its white eerie eyes darted down to him, It seemed to take full offense as it bent down and hisses “Do I look like Pariah Dark?” Its voice is like fork grating on a chalkboard, every mortal in the room winced, especially Red Robin who is closer in proximity.

The King straightened up and swept its cold eyes across the room “Why am I called here?” It sounded annoyed, like they’re just ants wasting its time, which in retrospect they were.

“I swear I changed the summoning requirements…” It muttered, which was heard by everyone. A hint of humanity, they could use this. It’s obviously a new King but they have to thread carefully.

Constantine stepped forward and bowed “High King of the infinite realms, we deeply apologize on behalf of these cult for wasting your time. We want nothing of the sort from you and we only wish to be on your good side”

It looked and stared at Constantine for a good moment before it lunged with rage, only stopped by the summoning circle and Zatanna’s barrier “YOU!!!!”

Constantine stumbled a step back in shock at the absolute hatred brimming the King's eyes.

“You’re the major cause of my headache’s! Who the fuck sells their soul to different entity’s when you only got one?! You whore! I have a special cabinet just full of your paperwork shit! I ought to just kill you and slice your core into ten so I’ll have one less ton of paperwork to deal with!”

It smashes its fist on the barrier and a resounding ‘crack’ echoed across the warehouse.

Constantine can feel Batman’s glare on the back of his head, Zatanna’s strengthening the barrier but the King doesn’t seem to care.

The other bats have gathered the cultist to one side of the room far away from the summoning circle and they stood waiting for orders dealing with their new problem.

Danny sighed, he wanted to finish up until section J but he still has to deal with this. He looked consideringly at the flimsy barrier keeping him, the only reason he stayed was so he wouldn’t scare the superhero team gathered around already securing the cult that was the cause of this shit. Also this is a new universe, not unheard of as he knew a lot of ghosts from this universe and other variants, Just that he hasn’t had the time to visit as many universes as he would’ve liked.

Ever since taking the crown his powers grew exponentially and he gained the ability to cross other universes as he liked. It’s just that the few Universes he managed to visit didn’t have His Jason in it. And there are infinite universes, it’s like finding a microscopic needle in a pit of hay.

He shifted from his eldritch form to something more fitted for royalty. It wouldn’t hurt to check this universe out. The cult summoning him had been knowledgeable but not enough, They only bound their souls to him as an offering so he isn’t required to grant whatever wishes they would have liked.

Danny flew out of the summoning circle and the barrier, He could make acquaintances with the people here. The guy in black and blue spandex looks friendly.

Batman and the other’s watched as the King turned into a more human form and tore through Zatanna’s barrier with no problem, floating down and seemed to say something before he froze, eye’s widening, and then he shot off.

“Nightwing, Robin, I trust you two to finish this up and hand them over to the GCPD. The rest of you let’s go, we can’t trust an unknown entity to roam free”

“It’s headed towards the docks” Zatanna informed them, already ahead in locating their wayward King.

Batman frowned, The docks, It’s where Red Hood currently is, he turned down the emergency call claiming he already had other plans. He caught wind of another unauthorized drug trade starting to circulate when the alley kids helpfully informed him of unfamiliar men trying to sell them drugs and a few attempts of kidnapping. Everyone knew each other in crime alley and one of the main rules Red Hood has is to not involve kids.

#dead on main #danny fenton #jason todd #danny phantom #red hood #dpxdc #dc x dp #dp x dc #dcxdp #jason todd x danny fenton #Constantine and the others r prolly ooc but at this point idc #And Danny's powers? idk I'm only halfway thru Danny Phantom im just winging it

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mommyslittlebird · 3 days ago

Note

ok remember that funny time when i did the biting request? hear me out now, muzzle. do with that what you will :3

- 🦊💕

Yes! I’m still working on the biting request but this one is a little shorter so I’m posting it first.

“Mamaaaaa!” You whined, rubbing your face with your paws and against the carpet, trying to get the dark black muzzle off.

“Puppy,” Wanda chided, grabbing you by the wrist and hauling you upwards. From how you were acting, you’d think she’d put you in a saw trap. It was a far stretch from the softest and most comfortable muzzle she could find at the store. “You’re going to hurt yourself. Cut it out.” She was firm, but not unkind despite having wrestled with you for almost half an hour about this now.

“Mama, I don’t wanna wear it!” You pouted, yanking your paws out of her grip and crossing your arms over your chest. You schooled your face into a sneer, ears pitifully sagging from the top of your head.

“Awww, baby,” she cooed, scratching behind your droopy ears. “Don’t give me that look. It’s just for the party. There’s gonna be a lot of people here, and sometimes when we excited by all the people we can get a little bitey, can’t we?”

“That was one time!” You grumbled. Wanda shot you an amused glare. You turned away, shifting uncomfortably. “And the other… couple of times.”

“You can take it off as soon as everyone leaves. It will only be for a little while, I promise,” Wanda reassured. “And we’re still gonna have so much fun.”

You pouted grumpily, continuing to look unconvinced. You refused to even look at her.

“Natty and Bowie are gonna be there, and Yelena and Kate are bringing Franny,” Wanda explained, trying to cheer you up.

You sat in unamused silence, seething and angry like a defiant toddler. You didn’t even bark when the doorbell rang. You just stayed firmly planted on the couch.

“That’s Nat and Bowie right now! Come on let’s go give Natty a hug. Just this once I’ll ever let you jump on her, yeah?” Wanda said, trying to get you up off the couch.

You huffed, not budging.

“Alright, suit yourself,” Wanda sighed, leaving you to stew while she greeted the guests.

You were still sat in the same position 5 minutes later, when Natasha came into the living room.

“Oh, there’s my favorite puppy,” she said, sitting down next to you. “What’s got your tail in a knot?”

“Mama’s being mean…” you grumbled. “She’s makin me wear a muzzle!” You leaned on Natasha, crawling into her lap.

“Oh,” Natasha cooed sympathetically. “That is very mean. I bet she’s the meanest mama in the whole world.”

“Yeah!” You pouted, curling up against Natasha’s chest.

“Well,” she started, rubbing your back in soothing circles, “since she’s the worst mama in the whole world, you probably wanna come home with me and Bowie, right? You wouldn’t want to snuggle with that mean old mama, would you?”

She felt you tense as you looked up at her. There was a slight crack in your resolve.

“We can set up a crate for you, since there’s no puppies on the bed at my house, and you can sleep all by yourself. No mean mamas allowed. You wouldn’t have to worry about slimy goodnight kisses, or silly little bedtime songs, or anything else,” she continued.

You froze starting to think you’d made a mistake. Still you didn’t speak up.

When Wanda walked in the room a moment later, Natasha started to scold her. “Wanda! How dare you make this poor angel wear this… torture device. Clearly they need to be removed from your home immediately. From now on, they’ll be living with me, right puppy?”

“B-but…” you started to protest. You look to Wanda, staring at her for a long moment before reaching your arms out for her to pick you up. “I’m sorry, mama! Please don’t send me away.”

“Aww,” Wanda chuckled, pulling you into her arms and carrying you on her hip. She kissed your forehead and rested your head on her shoulder. “You’re okay puppy. You’re not going anywhere. You’re stuck with mama’s snuggles and slimy kisses until the end of time.”

You sniffled into her neck. “Are you mad at me? For being a bad puppy earlier?”

Wanda laughed and rested her head on top of yours. “You’re not a bad puppy,” she assured you, rocking you gently. “You’re my good puppy. A very very silly puppy sometimes, but you’re my very silly puppy. And not even Natty can have you. You’re all mine.”

She smothered your head in kisses, making you squirm and wiggle in her arms. “Now, go have Bowie help you get your toys ready. Your friends are gonna be here soon.”

She set you down, winking at Natasha and mouthing a ‘thank you’ before patting your bottom and sending you off to prepare for the party.

#🦊 anon <3 #puppy reader x mama wanda #puppy!hybrid!reader #puppy reader #wanda maximoff #wanda x reader #wanda x you #wanda x y/n #wanda maximoff x reader #mommy wanda #mommy!wanda #wanda maximoff x y/n #mama wanda

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aeribbon · 3 hours ago

Text

target acquired | oscar piastri

requested here

summary; the only thing more dangerous than your job is dating an f1 driver in secret and oh...! oscar is just trying to survive lando's gossip group chat

featuring; f1driver!oscar piastri x bau agent!f!reader

fc; karina (yu jimin)

warnings; english isn't my first language + not proof read YET ! i have my finals exams next week hurfezpIPFJ

an; i tried lol i don't really know a lot about bau/fbi hope you like it

navigation masterlist request

texts between lando, charles, carlos, george, ollie, pierre, max, alex → oscar

texts between oscar → you

instagram post

f1paddocktea - miami gp

liked by yourusername, yourfriend and 98k others !

f1paddocktea a mysterious girl was seen arriving at the paddock with a part of oscar's team and then headed to the mclaren motorhome ! could this be oscar's girlfriend 💌 ? if you have any more info please send us an email.

view all comments

username she didn’t even look lost. first time in the paddock and she knew where to go. that’s suspicious

username someone said she flashed a badge at some haters. IS THIS A JOKE

username this is giving criminal minds x drive to survive crossover energy and i’m living for it

username she's the badass girl we all want to be omg

username she gave the vibes of someone who has disarmed a man before. with one hand. while texting.

username we have nothing on her. no tagged pics. no pap shots. no soft launch. WHO IS SHE ??

username for real though, never seen someone with zero to none presence online this is so suspicious.

anonymouswagupdates unconfirmed but someone from hospitality said she “doesn’t eat during cases” WHAT DOES THAT MEAN 😭

username i saw her. black boots, dark sunglasses, zero expression. that’s not a random plus one, that’s a mission...

texts between charles, george, ollie and lando

instagram post

kymillman - miami gp

liked by lilymhe, oscarpiastri, yourusername and 298k others !

kymillman a first official appearance for oscar piastri and his girlfriend in the f1 paddock ahead of today's race !

view all comments

username DAMN

username nvm oscar i don't want you but YOUR GF ??

username never knew oscar had the game to pull of this beauty

username SO YOU’RE TELLING ME SHE’S BEEN IN THE PADDOCK THIS WHOLE TIME?? she's giving secret agent fr

landonorris what you know about that ?

oscarpiastri lando please behave

username she blinked and ferrari fumbled a strategy call. coincidence?? I THINK NOT.

username this explains the sudden confidence boost this season 😌

mclaren our driver’s safe and emotionally supported... and also heavily protected apparently

username she shows up and he wins once again ?? pls come to every race from now on

username YES PLEASE

georgerussell plot twist: oscar’s actually the emotional support boyfriend in this relationship

olliebearman be careful on your words with oscar she might come and get you

username i love how we are all acting as if she’s not here for the grid drama but she’s here to assess threat levels and kiss her man after podium.

username i meannnnnn

texts between lando, charles, carlos, george, ollie, pierre, max, alex → oscar

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letthemkook · 2 days ago

Text

🂱 ACE jeon jungkook (one)

18+

Pairing: Yandere!Crimeboss! Jungkook × Detective!Reader

Themes: Obsession, power imbalance, cat-and-mouse tension, psychological warfare, forced proximity, dark seduction, corruption

Genre: Dark romance, crime thriller

Warnings: Dubious consent, manipulation, possessiveness, graphic language, coercion, criminal themes, stalking, dark erotic content, emotional degradation, SMUT

“He was just another criminal on your list — cold, untouchable, dangerous. But the moment you walked into that room, Jungkook forgot every crime he ever committed and started planning a new one: making you his.”

part two

—————— 🂱———————

He wasn’t just a rumor on the streets — he was the kind of name whispered in locker rooms and back alleys, in morgues and in the untraceable lines of cartel accounts. No fingerprints. No face. Just stories. Gruesome ones. A man who could vanish in the blink of an eye and reappear in the form of another dead informant. Another burned-out safehouse. Another officer “gone rogue.”

Jeon Jungkook.

Your first case as lead investigator was small — an arms deal gone wrong in Busan, two bodies in a warehouse, both shot through the heart. What caught your attention was the precision. Two shots, one for each man. Bullet casings wiped clean. No signs of forced entry. The cameras had been cut thirty seconds before it happened.

The only trace left behind was a single white playing card on the floor, bleeding into the pooling crimson beneath the bodies.

The Ace of Hearts.

There’s a moment in every detective’s life where things stop being about justice — and start being about survival.

Your moment came in the form of a manila folder, dropped onto your desk with a thud and a muttered, “Good luck.”

You didn’t look up right away. Just stared at the stamped name across the top like it might bite.

No face. No verified voice. Just a trail of shattered lives and dead witnesses. His file was thick. Thicker than any you’d seen. Most of it redacted. Every page screamed warning, even the pages that said nothing at all.

Drug trafficking. High-tech weapons. Political blackmail. A hundred aliases. But one signature — left behind like a calling card, stained in red.

Some said he was born into the criminal world, son of a now-erased syndicate boss. Others believed he carved his empire himself, a ghost who learned how to hack his name out of the shadows. Either way, no one had ever seen him. Not clearly. The only known image was blurry, snapped through shattered glass mid-explosion.

He looked young. Too young to be behind so much blood. But something about the tilt of his head, the laziness of his posture, the way he stared directly into the lens — it made your skin crawl. Like he knew he was being watched. Like he wanted to be.

You were officially assigned his case as lead profiler. The youngest ever brought onto the division. You didn’t ask why they gave it to you. Maybe they thought you were expendable. Maybe they thought he’d underestimate you.

——————-

They brought him in at 3:17 a.m.

You were already waiting — coffee long cold in your hand, eyes glued to the monitor as grainy footage played on a loop. A blacked-out car. A familiar walk. He’d exited the vehicle like he didn’t have a care in the world, shoulders relaxed, hands in the pockets of his long dark coat. Even with a team swarming him, Jungkook didn’t flinch. Didn’t fight.

He smiled.

The bastard smiled like he was right on time.

“Are you sure you want to be the one to interrogate him?” your commanding officer asked as he handed over the file. “He’s not like the others.”

“I know.” You didn’t say the rest: That’s exactly why I have to.

You’d been tailing him for six months. Always one step behind. Surveillance footage here, wiretap audio there. The pieces never quite added up. No matter how many hours you poured into his case, the deeper you dug, the more he vanished — like smoke curling just out of reach. He wasn’t a man. He was a myth.

Until now.

You took a deep breath before stepping into the room, heart hammering with anticipation and a dread you didn’t want to name.

And there he was.

The second interrogation started before you stepped into the room.

You could see him through the mirror.

Jeon Jungkook — uncuffed, seated loosely in the chair, one leg stretched out like he owned the ground beneath it. He wasn’t doing anything. Just staring at the empty seat across from him. Like he knew you’d be there soon. Like he’d been waiting.

When the door opened, he didn’t turn.

But when you walked in — when your heels clicked on the concrete and the air shifted around your scent — he moved.

His head turned slow, then his eyes lifted.

And they devoured you.

Not with awe. Not with admiration. With hunger. Sharp, unrepentant, and barely contained.

The cuffs had been reattached at your request — short chain, anchored to the table.

You sat down without flinching.

But your hands tensed on the file.

He didn’t say anything. Just kept watching.

His gaze flicked over your eyes, your lips, your throat. A slow drag. Calculating. Carnal. Every inch of your body felt cataloged, peeled back layer by layer — and not in a scientific way. No, this wasn’t a profiler’s stare.

“So it’s you,” he said, voice low, thick like honey laced with poison. “The little shadow.”

Your spine straightened. “Excuse me?”

Jungkook chuckled, leaning in like you were sharing a secret. “You’ve been on my trail for half a year, detective. I knew someone was watching me. But I never expected you.”

His gaze dropped — slow, deliberate — tracing your form, lingering where it shouldn’t.

And then he smiled like something divine had clicked into place.

“God,” he murmured, “you’re beautiful. They didn’t put that in your file.”

It was the kind of look men wore before they ruined something soft.

“Jeon Jungkook,” you said calmly, forcing your voice steady. “Do you know why you’re here?”

His tongue slid slowly across his bottom lip.

You looked down. You had to. Even one more second of eye contact and you might’ve flushed.

“We have a forged ID. You were in the passenger seat of a car linked to last month’s arms deal. The driver was seen leaving a drop site in Gangseo. You’re being held while we investigate further.”

No response.

You tried again. “Do you deny knowing the driver?”

His mouth twitched at the corner. Not a smile. Something more base.

You knew, without looking up, that he was still watching your mouth.

“You understand this is serious?” you continued.

Still no words. But you could hear his breathing. Controlled. Deep.

He wasn’t ignoring you.

He was soaking you in.

You glanced up again, only for a second — and there it was. The glint. The flicker of movement, the jerk of his fingers against the cuffs. He wanted to reach for you.

The way his gaze had locked between your lips and your collarbone… it was like instinct was fighting him with every breath.

The cuffs were the only thing stopping him from moving.

He shifted slightly, and the chain strained.

The sound was loud in the silence.

“You’re not going to say anything?” you asked, voice sharp now, snapping to protect your own pulse.

His throat worked once.

And then, finally — “You were just a name on a screen until five minutes ago. Now that I’ve met you I feel like I’d burn down the world to keep you looking at me like that.”

Your heart stilled.

He didn’t say it with fondness. He said it like a man crawling through a desert, finally reaching water.

You didn’t respond. You didn’t dare.

Jungkook leaned forward until the cuffs yanked him back with a quiet metallic click. His smile curled slow — dark, knowing, primal.

You wanted to move. You should’ve moved.

But you didn’t.

Not even when he said, softer now, “What perfume is that?”

You opened your mouth to answer, then stopped yourself. You were not here to play. You were not here to entertain fantasies.

But something told you this man had already started building them.

The rest of the interrogation went nowhere.

He answered nothing. Said little. But his eyes never left you. Not even once.

You left feeling like your body had been touched without ever being reached. Like your bones would remember this encounter long after the bruises of his gaze faded.

You needed a break. A shower. Silence.

You got none of those.

Instead, five hours later, you were summoned to the deputy chief’s office.

“He’s being released,” they said flatly.

Your mouth dropped open. “What?! On whose orders?”

“Everything we had is gone. Witnesses walked. Evidence scrubbed. Whoever’s backing him has reach. Judge signed off five minutes ago.”

You were still arguing when the elevator doors opened downstairs.

And there he was.

Jeon Jungkook, fresh clothes, no cuffs. Walking out as casually as if he’d just finished a spa day.

But when he saw you — he paused.

Paused like the sight of you had just punched the air from his lungs.

Then he smiled. Not politely. Not smug.

Like was about to devour you.

You didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

But he crossed the distance slowly, calculated, until he stood just close enough that your shoulders nearly brushed. The same way a man might pass someone at a crowded bar — only this wasn’t crowded. And it wasn’t by accident.

His eyes dragged across your face. No shame. No mask. Just heat.

Then, as he passed, his voice ghosted behind you:

“Next time… you won’t have a table between us.”

And he was gone.

_____________

You told yourself it was over. That he’d disappeared back into whatever empire he ruled from the shadows. That he had more important things to do than fixate on the woman who couldn’t even get him charged with a forged ID.

But logic didn’t help when you looked over your shoulder too often in grocery stores.

Didn’t help when you kept locking your door twice, even though you’d never forgotten once in your life.

Didn’t help when you kept waking up in the middle of the night with your heart racing — from nothing.

From something.

From whatever was now living in the silence.

Because the truth sat deep in your gut, heavier than you could admit even to yourself.

Jungkook had looked at you like you were already his.

And men like that didn’t forget.

You went back through every note in his case file. Every surveillance photo. Every redacted line of intel. You looked for signs that he’d ever taken an interest in one of his investigators before — any woman, any name, any pattern.

But there was nothing.

Nothing but the way he had looked at you across that interrogation table. Like he hadn’t just noticed you. Like he recognized you. Like the universe had finally handed him a shape he’d been waiting to see — and it just happened to be yours.

Attention from a man like Jeon Jungkook felt like heat under your skin. Like a fuse had been lit somewhere deep in the walls of your life, and now you were just waiting for the spark to reach the core.

He wasn’t making a move.

And that’s how you knew he was serious.

You started carrying a weapon off-duty. You started varying your commute. You memorized exits. Not because anything had happened.

But because you felt it.

Like breath on the back of your neck in an empty room. Like the echo of footsteps one beat behind yours on a quiet night. Like an eye watching through a scope you couldn’t see.

And now he knew exactly what you looked like when you weren’t behind a badge.

_______________

You didn’t want to go.

But your friends insisted.

“You’ve been working nonstop,” Hari said, looping her arm through yours. “You’re barely sleeping. You’re paranoid.”

I have reason to be, you wanted to say. But you bit your tongue.

“Just one night,” Minji added. “We’ll dress up, drink too much, dance a little. No cops. No crime scenes. Just fun.”

So you gave in.

The club was new. Lavish. Private. The kind of place where you didn’t walk in unless your name was on a list or your dress cost more than your rent. You didn’t ask how your friend got the hookup — some cousin-of-a-cousin situation, she claimed — and you didn’t push. You were too tired.

Too worn thin.

The second you stepped through the velvet-draped doors, it hit you: the money. The power. The heat.

It wasn’t a place people came to unwind.

It was a place people came to be seen.

Crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceiling. Music pulsed low and dark, more bass than lyrics. Everything gleamed — marble floors, glass staircases, sharp-dressed men and women with too much perfume and too few inhibitions.

You felt out of place immediately.

Still, your friends pulled you to the bar.

“Something expensive,” Minji told the bartender, grinning. “She’s a cop. She needs it.”

You didn’t correct her. Not anymore. You weren’t sure what you were now.

You took the drink. Sipped. Smiled when they cheered.

And for one moment — one brief, suspended moment — you let yourself relax.

Until you noticed something.

A man. In the far corner. Near the VIP mezzanine.

Watching.

You looked away. You looked back.

He was gone.

You told yourself it was nothing.

Just nerves. Shadows. The trick of a crowded room.

But the unease grew. You scanned the layout — exits, guards, mirrors angled too carefully.

And then it hit you. All at once. The subtle perfection. The impossible security. The air of controlled chaos, polished to an art. The Ace of Hearts on every wall.

You’d studied this style before. In reports. In background intel.

And then you knew.

This place wasn’t just owned by someone like Jungkook.

It was his.

You stood so suddenly your barstool scraped back.

Your friends blinked. “Whoa—hey, are you okay?”

You were already walking.

The hall toward the private wing was guarded, but no one stopped you. Not one hand lifted. Not one voice called out.

Like you were expected.

The hallway grew darker. Quieter.

You turned the corner too fast — heart pounding, fists clenched — and slammed into someone.

Hard.

You stumbled back. Hands reached out.

Caught you.

You looked up—

—and froze.

Jungkook.

He wasn’t dressed like he was last time. No cuffs. No chains. A white dress shirt unbuttoned at the top covered by a black suit blazer with the matching trousers, expensive watch glinting, a ring on one finger you’d never seen before.

But his eyes?

Exactly the same.

Still dark. Still quiet. Still piercing into yours like they knew something that could end the world.

He didn’t speak.

He just looked at you.

And for the first time, you couldn’t look away.

Not because of fear. But because you saw something worse. Satisfaction.

Like this moment — you here, alone, in his domain — had already happened in his mind.

Like he’d imagined this exact scene a hundred times.

“Did you follow me here?” you breathed.

His head tilted slowly. “No,” he murmured. “You came to me.”

You stepped back. “I didn’t know—”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t have to.

The hallway seemed to shrink around him.

“You’ve been waiting for this,” you whispered, pulse racing.

And then came the smallest smile.

“Not waiting,” Jungkook said softly.

“Planning.”

You didn’t move at first.

When Jungkook said planning, you froze. Not because of the word — but because of the way he said it. Calm. Measured. Like this wasn’t a surprise to him. Like tonight, this hallway, this very breath between you, had all gone exactly the way he knew it would.

“I’m not here for you,” you said, but your voice cracked halfway through.

He raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you?”

Your fingers clenched at your sides. “Let me go back to my friends.”

“I didn’t stop you.” He leaned casually against the doorframe, one hand in his pocket. “You came this far.”

You swallowed. “We shouldn’t have come here.”

But even as you turned to leave, his voice stopped you. Quiet. Controlled.

“I wouldn’t go back that way.”

You turned slowly. “What do you mean?”

He tilted his head, eyes dark and steady. “Do you know who the man is sitting two tables behind your friend with the ponytail?”

Your stomach dropped.

“You’ve been watching us?”

“I always watch what’s mine.” He took a step forward — not fast, not loud. Just close enough that you felt it. “And what I want.”

You tried to swallow the panic in your throat. “You wouldn’t hurt them.”

“No,” he said simply. “I wouldn’t.”

And then his voice dropped.

“But other people might. People who owe me things. People who’d do anything to earn back my trust.”

You stared.

Jungkook didn’t look away.

He wasn’t gloating. He wasn’t bluffing.

He was warning you.

“I don’t want to see your friends in a tabloid headline,” he said softly. “Not when you can stop it.”

You didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe.

He stepped back then — gave you space — and nodded toward the stairs at the end of the hallway.

“I just want to talk. Upstairs. Just us.” A pause. “Ten minutes.”

He let that linger.

Then: “Unless you’d rather go back and roll the dice.”

You hesitated.

And that hesitation was all it took.

You followed.

The club blurred behind you. The bass dropped away. You heard nothing but your own heartbeat echoing in your ears as you followed him up the glass staircase and down a private corridor lined with black marble and gold trim.

He opened a door. Waited.

And you stepped inside.

The second it shut behind you, he moved. Fast.

You didn’t even have time to turn before his hands slammed against the door on either side of your head — caging you, pinning you, his body pressed full against yours.

The click of the lock was the last sound you heard before you felt him.

Breath hot against your neck.

Hands skimming your waist, possessive but slow

His lips found your throat before you could reply — warm, wet, desperate. Kisses turned to nips, his teeth grazing sensitive skin like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to kiss you or mark you.

And God, you hated the way it lit your nerves on fire.

He kissed just beneath your ear. Down the side of your throat. The curve of your shoulder. His grip tightened on your hip.

“I’ve thought about this,” Jungkook murmured against your pulse. “Every night. Every time I closed my eyes, it was this. You. Right here.”

You sucked in a breath — not from fear, not from resistance.

From the heat.

The terrifying, suffocating heat of being wanted like this. Devoured like this.

“You should hate me,” he whispered. “I know you do.”

His hand slid higher, curling against the side of your neck, not squeezing — holding. Like you were something delicate. Like you were already his.

“But you came,” he said. “That’s all that matters.”

He kissed you again — harder now, teeth dragging.

And you knew this wasn’t about seduction anymore.

It was about claiming.

And he wasn’t going to stop until every inch of you remembered who you belonged to. Your body was frozen.

Not by choice.

Not entirely.

You weren’t sure if it was fear or instinct or the terrifying awareness of how close you were to destruction — but you couldn’t move.

Not with him that close. Not when you could feel how real his hunger was.

His voice ghosted over your skin.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he said, quiet and rough. “I haven’t been able to think about anything else since that room.”

You flinched, but he smiled like it was affection.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered. “Are you scared of me?”

You didn’t answer. He didn’t wait.

Suddenly, his hands found your thighs, gripped tight, and he lifted you — clean off the floor, like you weighed nothing. Your arms flew around his shoulders on instinct, legs locking around his waist, and then—

Then you were on the bed. Still wrapped around him.

His mouth crashed to your shoulder as he pressed you down into the mattress, still clothed, but pressed so tightly you could feel every twitch of his body.

“I need you,” Jungkook muttered, voice wrecked now, desperate. “Right now. Can’t wait. Can’t—”

He was unraveling. Coming apart at the seams from the fantasy he’d waited too long to touch.

And that’s when you knew you had one shot.

You forced your body to relax. Gave a soft, breathy hum near his ear. Let your fingers smooth along the back of his neck.

“Jungkook,” you whispered sweetly. “Let me take care of you.”

That made him still.

You shifted your hips gently beneath him, fingers brushing his jaw. And when his head lifted just enough, you leaned in and gave him the softest kiss on the lips. Barely there. Just a taste.

He melted.

Eyes fluttering shut, mouth parting slightly as if he didn’t know how to handle that kind of softness.

You smiled.

“Good boy,” you purred, brushing your lips across his. “Let me worship you a little.”

Another kiss, teasing, light, just enough to keep him drunk on you. Then down his throat. His collarbone. His chest.

His hips jerked slightly.

You smirked.

“Sensitive,” you teased. “Didn’t expect that.”

He growled under his breath, but you slid your fingers down his chest slowly, tenderly, like you were tracing a masterpiece.

You kept your voice honey-sweet, just enough to stroke his ego. “You’ve been patient with me, haven’t you, Jungkook?”

He nodded, breath shaky.

“All that time watching. Waiting.” You dragged your nails over his shoulders. “It must’ve been so hard.”

“Every fucking day,” he rasped.

You kissed him again — etting your lips barely part against his, teasing the tension. He moaned into your mouth, hips pressing harder, arms trembling as he held himself above you.

When you pulled back, his lips chased yours instinctively. And that was when you knew you had him.

“You dont understand what it’s been like,” he murmured, voice low, thick. “Knowing your name. Your face. Having to wait.”

He kissed the corner of your mouth — soft, reverent — and your hands curled into fists, not from fear, but from restraint.

Because if you wanted to survive this, you couldn’t play defense.

You had to seduce the devil.

So you tilted your head slightly, lips brushing his jaw. “Then why wait?” you whispered. “You’re the one who locked the door.”

That made him pause.

His eyes darkened, pupils expanding, lips parting just a little. You brought your hands up slowly, grazing the sides of his chest, kissing down his neck and unbuttoning his dress shirt, then trailing them down, down, until your fingers curled into the belt at his waist.

“Tell me,” you said softly, “is this how you imagined it?”

He swallowed.

“I bet it was filthier in your head,” you teased, nails dragging just slightly. “Harder. I bet I was already begging. I bet you thought about me choking on that big, big cock.”

“Don’t,” he warned, voice shaky.

“Don’t what?” You leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Say what you want me to say?”

He hissed under his breath. His whole body leaned forward slightly, chasing the heat of you, and you knew then: you had him.

Of course you did.

Because in his mind, this was always inevitable.

His eyes devoured you like he didn’t know where to look — your mouth, your thighs, your hands as they slowly found his shoulders. His shirt was completely unbuttoned now, revealing the toned hard skin of his chest, and his abs.

His eyes were now fluttering shut, mouth parting slightly as if he didn’t know how to handle that kind of softness.

And while he was distracted—you moved.

Quick, fluid, practiced.

You rolled your hips, shifted your weight, and in one smooth twist, flipped the both of you.

Now you were on top, straddling him.

He blinked in dazed surprise, chest rising and falling, letting you guide him like a man under spell.

You pushed him to lay all the way down, and he groaned, head falling back, and you took that opportunity to press soft kisses along his throat. Each one slow, teasing, calculated. You dragged your lips along his jawline, whispering between them.

“Thought about this too, didn’t you? When I walked into that interrogation room? I bet you touched yourself to it.”

His breath hitched.

“You didn’t want to hurt me. Not really,” you lied, sweet and syrupy. “You just wanted to know what I taste like.”

He nodded, barely breathing.

And then your hand slid down between you — slowly, confidently — and palmed him through his pants.

The sound he made was broken. Half-groan, half-whimper, head falling forward to your shoulder as his hips arched into your touch. His hands found your waist — not gripping, just holding. Like he thought he finally had you. Like this was real.

“That’s it,” you whispered against his throat. “You like being touched, don’t you? Bet you’d let me do anything right now.”

“Yes baby, don’t stop—,” he gasped. You smiled against his skin.

And then you pulled back.

Your hand moved fast — a sharp, sudden strike straight to his groin, the heel of your palm hitting hard through the expensive fabric.

He choked out a grunt, body curling forward in reflex.

Before he could recover, you shoved him back onto the bed.

A ragged, wounded sound tore from his throat as his body curled toward the pain.

And you ran.

You bolted from the bed, flung the door open, and didn’t stop to look back. His cursing rang in your ears, low and strangled, full of disbelief and pain and fury. The sound of it should’ve satisfied you.

But it only fueled the adrenaline in your blood.

You barreled down the stairs, through the corridor, chest heaving. The music from the club below pounded like a heartbeat.

Your friends were still at the bar.

“MOVE!” you shouted, breathless, just as the guards began turning your way.

You slammed into a standing table, sending bottles, glasses, and bodies flying.

A blur of chaos.

It gave you seconds.

Just enough.

You grabbed your friends, who were still too stunned to scream, and dragged them toward the side exit as shouting broke out behind you.

And when you burst into the alleyway and sprinted into the street—

You knew one thing.

You escaped tonight.

But the look on Jungkook’s face as you left him breathless and in pain?

He wasn’t going to forget it.

And he sure as hell wasn’t going to forgive it.

#bts imagines #bts #imagine #bangtan #bts updates #love #yandere #jeon jungkook #jungkook #yandere jungkook #jungkook imagine #bts jungkook #possesive love #jjk smut

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witchingwithscissors · 3 days 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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akisteahouse · 1 day ago

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Hiiiiiiii!!!!!! How you dooooiiinnnnn?????

I saw your requests are open, and I've never requested anything before, but I thought I might give it a shot<3

Siren reader with "immune to magic charms" pirate Leona? Thought it would be cool if reader tries to charm him using their voice to eat him and he's just like- "You done?"

Please and thank you <3

-Axolotl Anon

Thinking about siren! Reader and pirate! Leona Kingscholar…

Who had been sailing the seven seas with his crew for quite a long time no, as expected - being immune to magic had certainly been a major help.

Who was the one steering the ship during a particularly turbulent storm, waves crashing into each other, sending a few of ship’s goods into the dark abyss of the sea, before a strange humming sound reached his sharp ears - hm?

Who looked down to see you, a mermaid, with shimmery scales and a sickeningly serene smile, arms outstretched and wide, singing a… lullaby?

Who turned to see each of his crew members seemingly possessed, taking long strides to the edge of the boat, eyes empty and hollow, all ignoring his shouts of protest to cover their ears already, Sevens above - a siren.

Who decided the best course of action for you to shut your trap and to save his men from going overboard was to hurl a chest filled with gold to your head, and it was rather success - if not for the fact that this agitated you so much that the two of you engaged in a verbal fight for the following twenty minutes, with Leona get irritated soon after and chucking another chest at you, causing the argument to escalate further.

Who found himself begrudgingly talking to you more after he found out that it was you causing the stormy waves, though it always ended up with the two of you bickering more than negotiating for you to stop making the weather terrible.

Who, oddly enough, began to become… fond, of your presence, ‘keeping watch of the ship’ late at night, despite the fact that practically the entire crew already knew that their sleazy captain just wanted an excuse to bicker with you <333 (“Shishishi, not slick at all, Cap’an Leona.”)

Who was the one who ordered the crew to lift you up from the sea when you were clearly hurt, in spite of some of the crew’s fervent protests against allowing a siren on board - snarling at them to shut their traps, and to call for the ship’s doctor.

Who sat by your bedside daily, offering you much less venomous arguments and more debates to bid your time stuck in the ship’s infirmary, grinning as he taught you how to play chess, pleasantly surprised when you beat him for the very first time - “Don’t get too cocky now, fishbrain.”

Who sat by the deck for a long time as you swam away, fully healed, and no longer interested in keeping him and his crew captive - huh. Took long enough. (And if any of his crew questioned why he sat there, watching the waves crash into each other for so long, they’d be met with nothing but silence, his eyes never drifting away from the spot you used to sit at.)

Pirate Leona who’d always drifted from one place to another in his voyage, yet simply couldn’t bear to stay away from the part of the sea where he’d met you for too long, always visiting every month or so, waiting for the arrival of that irritating fishbrain to come back - his patience was wearing thin now, so you’d better make that trip back, quick ;)

turned out way longer than I'd originally planned... sorry for the the long wait, axolotl anon </33

#twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #disney twst #twst x yuu #k #leona kingscholar x yuu #leona kingscholar x reader #leona x reader #leona x yuu

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rekilover · 3 days ago

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Sieun x reader draft? idk.

Tiring—that was Sieun’s daily life.

Even though he now had a new group of friends, whenever he had to walk to school alone, the feeling of loneliness and guilt never left him. There was nothing he hated more than remembering those fight, and the accident that left Suho laying in that hospital bed.

—Sieun! —Juntae appeared in front of him, waiting at the school entrance. Sieun barely reacted, muttering a nearly inaudible “hi.”

—Y/N is already upstairs in the classroom with the others. We have to do a group project, hurry up!—He made a pleading motion with his hands and a small pout on his lips.

Sieun looked at him with slight confusion, and for a moment, his mind recalled when Juntae dragged him into a classroom full of anime posters—just the memory sent a shiver down his spine.

Once they reached the classroom, some desks were grouped together. Sieun looked for his empty seat and noticed that now there were other desks around his. Y/N’s seat was right next to his, with Baku and Hyuntak seated in front, and Juntae beside him.

Sieun silently analyzed the scene and sat down.

—Hey, Sieun, we’re betting on who can score more in basketball. Who do you think’s better me or Hyuntak?. —Baku asked in a tone that was serious but almost teasing, his expression practically begging for Sieun to pick him so he could boast about it with a huge grin.

—I have no idea. — Sieun glanced up for a second, not really seeing the point of answering a question that would only end with both friends fighting like children and trying to surpass the other on the game.

—Honestly, I think Baku would win. When it comes to strength, maybe they’re both about the same—but willpower is something Baku has a lot of, and that’s what you need to win. So, yeah, he’d definitely take it in a match. —Y/N jumped in on the bet, supporting Baku.

Sieun kept his eyes on the project guide, but paused for a moment to listen to her response.

—You guys shouldn’t compete! You’re both awesome in your own way. I wish I had your strength. — Juntae laughed softly and made punching motions in the air.

Laughter came from the three watching him, except from the boy still focused on the project. Y/N glanced sideways at Sieun. She loved how focused his gaze looked. His eyes seemed like they were made of tapioca—dark and sweet.

Her heart, the traitor that it was, started beating quickly. Her cheeks turned a soft shade of pink. Baku noticed and shot her a playful look, raising and lowering his eyebrows suggestively, urging her to talk to Sieun.

But what could she say?

“How are you? Did you sleep well?”

He always answered with short replies. If she wanted the conversation to last more than a few seconds, she needed to ask something with more depth.

“What do you think happens after death? Do you think God exists?”

Y/N sighed loudly, overwhelmed by how hard it was to think of a simple topic to bring up with the boy she liked, who was sitting just inches away.

Luckily for her, Sieun had heard that sigh and turned to look at her, setting his pencil down on the desk.

—Are you okay?

His gaze now held a sense of concern—his eyes so deep they seemed to weigh on the person they looked at.

—Ah, yeah. Just nervous with exams coming up, that’s all.— The girl stumbled over her words, waving her hands as if to calm him down, but avoiding eye contact.

Sieun tilted his head slightly in confusion. He sometimes had a hard time reading her.

—You should try these vitamins I gave to Sieun! They help with sleep. — Juntae handed Y/N some melatonin gummies, which she inspected with curiosity and decided to taste.

—Don’t eat them now! —Juntae panicked and snatched the pack back. —You’re supposed to take them before bed.

—Relax, it was just two. I wanted to try the flavor.—She laughed, trying to calm her flustered friend.

Hours passed, and the effects of the gummies started to kick in. Classes now felt twice as boring. The project class had ended, and the desks were back in their usual layout.

Y/N laid her head on her arms, turned slightly toward Sieun, who was still diligently taking notes. Yet, every time she closed her eyes for a second, he’d sneak a glance at her, curious about that steady gaze she gave him.

And before long, Y/N fell asleep, her body resting on her desk, which now felt as comfy as a bed.

She dreamed of trying a new candy she’d seen on TikTok, opening the wrapper, and just as she was about to take a bite—

—Y/N, class is over.

Someone gently shook her right shoulder to wake her.

Still half-asleep, she stretched and wiped away the drool from her mouth. —Baku, is that you?

—No, it’s Sieun.

“Shit, shit, shit.” she panicked inside, horrified by the state he’d seen her in.

—Looks like I fell asleep. That’s bad, haha, stuff like that happens.— Y/N shot up quickly, staring at the desk, avoiding looking at the boy behind her.

—Hey… are you really okay?

Sieun’s voice was a bit softer now, soothing enough to make the girl finally turn and look at him—and those deep eyes.

This time, she didn’t let nerves overwhelm her.

For the first time, the rest of the world faded away, and it was just this boy with deer-like eyes in front of her.

—Sieun… what’s your type of person? —The question escaped her lips before her mind could stop it.

He let out a small sound of confusion, and the faintest hint of blush appeared on his ears.

He looked away, his gaze wandering over the board and walls, before finally resting on her again.

—I don’t have a specific type, but…— He scratched the back of his neck, uncertain.— I guess someone who’s honest with themselves is nice. I don’t know… it’s not something I think about much.

Y/N smiled—gently, cheerfully. It was a simple answer, one she could relate to. Feeling hopeful, she gathered some courage and quickly leaned in to kiss his left cheek.

Surprised, Sieun’s eyes widened—he stopped breathing for a second.

Before he could say anything, Y/N had already rushed out of the classroom.

His heart was pounding strangely, fast. Not knowing how to handle the unfamiliar sensation, he lightly punched his chest.

—Stop it. This isn’t right. —he muttered to himself. —They’ll hurt her if they see her with me.

He stared at the floor, his hand clutching his school shirt in frustration.

The helplessness and bitterness ran through his thoughts and body, so he simply sat in silence for a while in that classroom—his gaze trembling.

He hated feeling this way.

#weak hero class 1 #yeon sieun #weak hero #yeon sieun x reader #weak hero class two #weak hero x reader #weak hero kdrama #weak hero fanfic #weak hero season 2 #sieun fanfic #sieun

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respectthepetty · 3 days ago

Text

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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yanderes-galore · 1 day ago

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Pure vanilla with a darling who knew him as healer cookie.

Have fun with this one. Pick if it's headcanon, one shot or whatever.

There was two ways I could write this. You being a part of Gingerbrave's group or you being part of the Raisin Village. I decided to cover the second version after finishing the first one since the first one had more content.

Yandere! Pure Vanilla wirh Darling who knew him as Healer! Cookie

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Overprotective behavior, Delusional behavior, Clingy behavior, Paranoia, Possessive behavior, Kidnapping, Isolation, Dubious/Forced relationship.

Ah, PV as Healer Cookie is such a sweet soul.

Iirc, Healer was the name PV took after being inflicted with amnesia.

Since the Dark Flour War he's become a nomad, soon settling in the Raisin Village to be their healer.

Being a healer is all he knows... All he remembers.

He doesn't mind... He enjoys seeing people happy when he heals them.

You most likely first met him while going to find the Vanilla Kingdom with Gingerbrave and the others.

You were injured due to a scuffle with some rogue Wafflebots and needed to he tended to.

Healer was quick to do so, taking you into a medical tent to work on healing you.

Your first meeting with each other is during an emergency... a life or death experience.

It... sticks with him more than it should.

Healer is very kind when he tends to you, often making sure you get food and water.

He tends to your companions too, although they seem more like children you're looking after since you're older....

Healer stays around you more though.

He feels oddly... drawn to you, especially in such a weak state.

He likes the idea of you needing him... of you trusting him.

Which... makes Healer a bit fond of you.

When he hears of your group's goal of exploring the reason behind the Wafflebot attacks, he nearly tries to dissuade you from pursuing it.

It's too dangerous with just you and your inexperienced crew!

At least let him come with you... He wants to help!

In reality... He wants to look after you.

This ends up with Black Raisin and Healer joining you all.

Black Raisin tried to say Healer was more needed in the village... Yet he declined.

He needed to come with you.

He needed to make sure you... and the others... are okay!

This was how the bond between you and Healer went.

As you traversed the lands leading to the old Vanilla Kingdom and fought monsters along the way... Healer provided support.

Whenever you got injured, Healer was always by your side to look over the nasty wounds.

Black Raisin may scold you for not being careful... But Healer always defends you, he's... protective.

You'd probably make the joke that he has a crush on you light-heartedly.

Which makes you notice the light pink tint on his face when you make the comment.

You reassure him you're just teasing, you just want to be playful.

But it still affects him more than you thought it would.

Imagine Healer, despite being an amnesiac, feeling drawn to you due to his old life.

As Pure Vanilla, he was surrounded by friends.

He was a caring hero and king in those days... surrounded by others he could trust.

I'd imagine your personality reminds him of one of his old friends, or maybe even a few of them....

You give the cookies you're traveling with a sense of direction... You help guide them from harm.

Healer doesn't like that sometimes that means putting yourself in danger...

But he still finds you just as endearing as his old companions.

Perhaps by the time you get to the Vanilla Kingdom, Healer starts to recover some memories.

He begins to realize just who he is... a great healer and leader who disappeared after the war....

He seems uneasy and tends to wander off to try and chase memories, but you always manage to catch up to him and ground him.

Maybe another thing that adds to his obsession is the fact you seem genuinely interested in who he was.

You're curious of Pure Vanilla, often asking Wizard Cookie about the history of this old kingdom.

You act like you look up to the ancient hero... Even going as far as to vow to protect your traveling companions.

It leaves Healer a bit flustered that you want to protect him...

Even more so when he realizes you looked up to and cherish him... He's that hero, after all.

Protecting you is in his instincts even when he doesn't have his memories.

No doubt partially because you remind him of the friends he once wanted to protect.

Essentially, I feel for most of your journey you're protecting Healer/PV.

You're caring for him and treating him like he's vulnerable, you're pampering him...

Some may view it as insulting to be treated as weak...

But Healer finds himself craving that care from you.

Things of course change when you encounter Dark Enchantress and Pure Vanilla is revealed.

By the end of the encounter you're left shocked.

The healer you were caring for... was the Pure Vanilla?

You don't have much time to fully process this before PV rushes over to you, a concerned look in his heterochromatic eyes.

He's looking you over for wounds, murmuring about how he hopes he protected his dear friends this time.

I have a feeling once his true identity is revealed, PV feels like he needs to 'repay' you or just 'protect' you.

He's a healer and protector at heart, a true hero meant to support.

But he takes it too far, of course.

He can never be normal about his feelings in these kinds of HCs.

You defended him in combat before... and you've shown that you're reckless when looking out for others.

Now that he's at his full strength due to obtaining his Soul Jam... It's about time he returns the favor.

Your journey would get more difficult as time goes on... Not only due to the stronger foes...

But also Pure Vanilla growing more... strange.

Since you encountered him at the Raisin Village and helped him get back to his old kingdom... He's been paranoid.

Even the sight of blood (jam?) just being on you sends PV into a spiral.

He knows he shouldn't be worried... That you're well looked after in your group... but...

Well... He can't help but think you'd be much safer with him.

He thinks back to your playful banter... how you said he might have feelings... how you protected him...

He wants to do the same... He felt safe around you... He wants you to feel safe around him too.

Then there's the alternative version of these HCs I thought of.

Instead of traveling with Gingerbrave, you're simply a citizen in Black Raisin Village.

For the longest time you've known Healer as a traveler who showed up here one day.

He'd treated everyone here at least once, all smiles as he eagerly sees to the wounds of your fellow villagers.

He's even treated you, you had gotten a few wounds from wild animals... or even crumbled a bit....

Healer made sure you didn't worry though, soothing you with medicine and wrapping your wounds.

He'd watch you day and night in the medical tent to heal, well... as much as he could with the bandages covering his face.

You appreciate him and everything he's done for you and your friends.

Such sentimentality ended up with you befriending the healer.

You two would often talk with one another, you even learned a few tips and tricks from Healer.

Perhaps your friendship even blooms into a mutual curiosity... leading to Healer falling for you.

You and Healer may even test your feelings one night.

While Healer finished tending to someone, you two had begun to talk.

You barely noticed his mostly innocent plotting... The healer blushing softly when you're around.

While you were distracted, probably by checking how much supplies he had, Healer pipes up.

"My friend... Look at me for a moment?"

By the time you turn, he kisses you softly.

It's soft, sweet... and tastes oddly like vanilla.

You remember such an encounter fondly since you had been curious about him too.

But before you could pursue something further, Healer left with some travelers to solve the Wafflebot problem.

You didn't mind, he had always wanted to make sure you were safe....

You didn't expect to see him again, that kiss and sweet night together no doubt a one time encounter.

Then... days later, someone came back.

The presence was... familiar yet foreign.

An ancient hero came back with the travelers, a smile on his face.

"My dear friends...! I’ve returned to offer you a new home...."

It's, of course... shocking to learn what your crush actually was.

Or... Who he was.

Pure Vanilla stands in his place, soon meeting you and looking rather excited.

"My dearest friend... I am sorry for leaving. Do not worry... I'll never leave you long ever again. Come... let me show you our new home~!"

Regardless of which story you meet... Pure Vanilla progressively gets obsessed over your safety and health.

Be it you leaving for missions... or himself doing it... It comes to a head eventually.

Imagine Pure Vanilla inviting you to his council room, claiming he has something to talk to you about.

It's not too out of the ordinary... Something PV just likes to speak with you over a drink or dinner.

You're a companion in his eyes.

He offers for you to sit in his council room once you arrive through the large doors, a nervous yet eager look on his face.

Then he asks you the question...

"How do you feel about me, my dearest? As in... Would you accept a proposal of mine?"

It confuses you, what was he asking?

'What kind of proposal?' You ask... making the hero clear his throat.

"I... wish to be your lover officially. I want you to marry me, my love... To be mine."

It's... a lot to ask. You have a feeling he knows that.

Yet even after you decline, the hero presses.

"No, my love... Please... consider it? I could give you everything... I'll protect you, I'll care for you, I'll love you... I just ask you to stay by me, in my kingdom, where I can watch you."

It soon becomes clear that his intentions are to... restrict you to his castle.

Even if you turn him down again, the hero seems a bit irritated.

"My love... I'm sorry... but I can't have you in danger anymore... You need me... I NEED you... I'm afraid I can't let you leave if you're not going to listen."

Pure Vanilla, while typically submissive compared to his fellow Ancients... is willing to be assertive when it comes to you.

He's seen you hurt... He's experienced special moments between you... Even if you say 'No' now...

He knows you're meant to be.

Imagine Pure Vanilla locking you in his castle, convinced you'll hurt yourself if you leave.

He's paranoid, in a constant anxious feedback loop when he doesn't have you close.

So he shares a room with you, one where he can make sure you're safe and comfortable.

His past where he failed to protect his friends certainly doesn't help... his past trauma corrupting the relationship he wants with you.

But... he ignores all that... and pretends you aren't glaring at him as you're locked away in a room.

This way... You'll be safe... and all his...

Ironically though, he'll lose you emotionally.

You'll hate him for what he's doing and has done.

Sure, he won't kill... but his own emotions are dangerous to you both.

PV will keep you with him one way or another since you mean so much to him...

He plans to be your loving husband... The one meant for you...

Yet he'll always be too focused on that, on the moments that are in the past, that he'll be blind to the betrayal you feel now due to his isolation.

#yandere cookie run #yandere cookie run x reader #yandere pure vanilla #yandere pure vanilla cookie #yandere pure vanilla x reader

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greenwitchfromthewoods · 1 day ago

Text

"I fucking love you, okay?! I don't want to, but I do." Javier Peña

Angry Confessions ❤️‍😠

bio : this story is part of the Angry Confessions series (you can still be a part of it)

requested by : @lover-of-books-and-tea thank you!

warnings: angst, fuck buddies, jealousy, alcohol, one girl, fight, tears

He wasn't husband material, barely boyfriend material. But as a sex buddy - Javier Peña was perfect. However, things didn't go your way and fate decided to laugh at you.

The first time you felt this strange feeling was when he complimented the nails of the new girl who started working a few desks away. Nothing special, you gritted your teeth and simply decided to ignore it.

The second time he didn't show up at your place, even though he promised. You drank a bottle of wine by yourself, honestly hating yourself for how disappointed you were and how much you wanted Javier to show up.

It was just sex, nothing more. He didn't promise you anything and you never expected it. However, being in Colombia, working and being alone made people stick to each other, and you came across Peña. Did he take advantage of that? Maybe. But you were also an adult and you decided on such an arrangement.

Quick sex, when adrenaline was pumping through your veins and you had to stop thinking, or when the day was really hard. A sweet and lazy morning in bed, when he woke up next to you. Sometimes in the car, or in some closed office.

"You're just perfect, hermosa..." he whispered, pounding into you with all his might, and you tightened your fingers around his broad shoulders.

And there you were. In one of the bars, with a drink in your hand and your gaze fixed on the girl on the other side. Peña was standing right next to her, wrapping her long locks of hair around his finger and smiling like he did many times in your direction. God! You hated him so much.

He must have sensed you, because he looked your way. He kissed the girl's hand, then walked over to you with lazy steps.

“Well, hello hermosa.” he greeted, leaning against the bar next to you. “I didn’t expect you here.”

“I noticed you already had company. I didn’t want to intrude.” You replied, taking a sip of your drink.

“You could always intrude.” His dark eyes slowly raked over your body. Shivers ran down your spine at the sight, it was sickening. “Maybe I should keep you company, huh? Or maybe you’d prefer I get a bottle and we could…”

“No.”

Your response was a shot, and Peña stopped mid-sentence. The smile disappeared from his face. He glanced around the bar.

“You didn’t come with anyone, did you?” he asked, leaning slightly toward you.

“Would you care? I think you were busy with someone.”

Javier glanced at the girl who was still standing where he left her, but his gaze quickly returned to you. “You’re the brightest diamond here, hermosa.”

You rolled your eyes. The alcohol only made your frustration, which had been building up in you for a dozen or so days, grow to enormous proportions. At that moment, you hated everything about him, from his raven hair to the tips of his shoes. Javier Peña was the sin you committed most often and for your own good, you should have stopped.

You didn’t answer. You grabbed your bag and quickly headed for the exit. But you should have known that Peña didn’t give up that easily. He was like a wolf hunting a lamb, and just outside the door you felt, in addition to the fresh air, his hand tighten on your shoulder.

“What’s that supposed to mean, hermosa?” he whispered in your ear. “You’re not jealous, are you?”

You looked at him defiantly. “I don’t have anyone I could be jealous of.” you replied.

“I think otherwise.” he smiled slyly. “You’re always so mad when you see me with someone else, and then we have amazing sex. That’s where this is going, right? You need me. Does she need me too?”

You wanted to punch him in the face. But at the same time, you felt like his words were hitting exactly where they were supposed to. You were dependent on him, he knew that perfectly well.

“You know, baby, you’re my favorite. I love teasing you, because then you turn into such a furious kitten.” His hand ran down your back, a shiver running through it. “I can feel it. You smell of desire... I can smell her all the way here.”

But then he saw it, the change in your eyes that made his heart stop for a moment. Tears were glistening, and you were looking at him in a way that made Javier feel like a fool.

“Fuck, I can’t believe I let you into my bed, Peña.” you hissed quietly. “I was so stupid…”

“What are you talking about?” he wondered. “We both wanted this, right? I didn’t force you to do anything.”

“I was just... stupid and naive.” you mumbled. You pulled away and Javier let go of you, watching you closely.

He didn't understand much. You were one of the closest people to him in the office. Yes, you had slept together. No, you hadn't talked about a relationship or feelings, but he thought that wasn't really what you expected. You knew what he was like. The office gossip was loud enough to get through to you, and you weren't stupid. Besides... You were out of his league. He was already lucky to have gotten to this point with you.

"What's gotten into you?" he asked a little louder, since you were already a few steps away from him, clearly heading home.

You stopped and turned to him. "Excuse me?"

"You've been walking around like crazy for the past few days. And when I get close, you're ready to sting me." He put his hands on his hips, watching you carefully. “What got into you, hermosa? I thought we were-”

“Fuck, I love you, okay?! I don’t want to, but I do.” You blurted out, blushing. “And I hate myself for how I feel when I look at you and those… those girls… Because I know I’m one of them.”

Javier’s eyes widened in understanding. He quickly rubbed his hand over his mouth, feeling his heart speed up. “This is a really bad idea, hermosa…” he finally said, “You know that-”

“I know.” You cut him off, “That’s why I’m mad.”

Javier looked around and slowly walked over to you. You felt so bad you just wanted to disappear. But when he spoke, God, you wanted to die.

“I’m not the guy who’s going to give you what you deserve, hermosa.” he said, “I’m sorry, but… You deserve better.”

You quickly wiped away a tear that rolled down your cheek. Your ears were ringing. "I know that perfectly well, Peña." You snorted. "That's why I'm not even asking you for anything. Just... foranget I said all that."

He knew he wouldn't forget, but he nodded. A moment later, he was watching your silhouette as you disappeared into the crowd of people, and he was still standing like an idiot where you left him.

This wasn't supposed to happen like this. He had screwed up.

#pedro pascal #javier pena x reader #javier peña x reader #javier peña #angry confessions #narcos #angry confessions series

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totallynotslothhh · 2 days ago

Note

Hiiiii I absolutely love ur one shots especially the snoring or sucking one,so cute!!!!!!

Soooo I wanted to request a joostxreader where joost is tired from all his work and the reader is also tired from her work,so the reader decide to take turn in massaging each other but when it comes to joost turn to massage the reader,her back is very sensitive so she keeps moaning and it escalates into something more than a massage 😍

Feel free to ignore this if u don’t like it!!!!

Also I absolutely love when someone is crashing me with their weight so I like the massage scenario cause well he’s sitting on the reader back (idk😔)

NECESSARY TIREDNESS

pairing: joost klein x fem!reader

word count: 3,279

warning: fluff, smut, spanking, dirty talking, fingering

description: just the request!!

author’s note: I had to make it up to you somehow, and most importantly I had to start working of some requests (i’m sooooooooo slow).

thank you so much anon for this request and the compliments, i love youu!!! your freaky minds mirror mine, don’t worry.

enjoy your reading!!! hope you like it, let me know what you think!

big kisses!

(sorry if there are grammatical errors, I tried my best, English is not my first language!!!🙏)

——————————————————————

The book I had promised myself I’d read -the one that had been buried in the old bookshelf of the apartment I shared with my boyfriend- ended up shamefully abandoned in the rumpled sheets, right next to the spot my body had occupied just seconds before I got up, lured by the sound of keys turning in the front door lock.

I tiptoed to the living room, peeking silently from the hallway and catching a glimpse of my boyfriend’s exhausted figure as he finally made it home.

He locked the door behind him and let out a curse under his breath, making me stifle a giggle as I tilted my head to watch him better: Baggy jeans, the heavy jacket, and the cap he’d been wearing constantly lately.

The scent of his arrival filled the house, that familiar smell that always managed to calm me, the one I found myself searching for everywhere and that I only ever truly rediscovered in our love nest.

His tired eyes landed on my hidden silhouette, and his face slowly gave way to a soft smile.

“Hey, baby” he murmured toward me, before setting the house keys down on the usual cabinet, shrugging off his heavy coat, and taking off the dark cap, as if even the fabric against his skin had started to bother him.

He was left in just his jeans and a plain black t-shirt, which you could tell from a mile away had survived the chaos of the music world.

It was a really stressful time for Joost: barely home, juggling the release of his new album, the tour, and a bunch of video shoots that kept him busy for entire days.

I missed him and we often ended up slipping into small arguments born out of that tension.

-“You were supposed to do the dishes and forgot.”-

-“You said you’d text me after work, but you didn’t.”-

-“You didn’t hang the laundry like you said you would.”-

-“You said you’d buy more detergent, but if I don’t do it, no one will.”-

You know, the everyday stuff couples bicker about.

I’d been pretty busy myself lately: work was overwhelming, stress piling up on my shoulders and the only thing I wanted the moment I got home was to disappear into my boyfriend’s arms, laugh about nothing, count the moles on his skin like they were stars in a constellation.

And more often than not, those weren’t wishes that could be granted.

But apparently, that day, luck was on my side.

I’d left work early, treated myself to a relaxing bath, and now I got to watch my boyfriend come home before ten at night. A miracle.

“I’m so tired” he mumbled with a sigh, heading toward me and down the hallway, running a hand through his hair in an attempt to fix it, only to mess it up even more.

I walked barefoot to meet him, wrapping my arms around his shoulders as his hands instinctively settled on my hips, both of us still moving forward, unwilling to let go.

Our clumsy steps brought us to the bathroom door, where Joost looked down at me with a smile and brushed a hand against my cheek.

“I was hoping you’d be home” he admitted, nudging his nose against my forehead before catching my lips in a kiss. I hummed quietly, rising on my toes and letting my hands glide over his warm shoulders, savoring the closeness.

“I was hoping you’d come home early” I whispered back, playfully nipping at his lower lip and pulling him even closer. Like if I let go, he might disappear.

I was wearing only a pair of panties and one of his white shirts, every time I hugged him or stood on tiptoe, the thin fabric slipped and revealed patches of bare skin, giving Joost’s hands all the room they needed. He gripped my bare waist, sending shivers down my spine and leaned in again, trailing soft, lingering kisses on my lips, savoring the moment between each one just to look at me, to admire me.

“Mmm, you stink” I teased with a giggle, sticking my tongue out playfully, which he caught gently between his lips and bit without pressure before replying.

“Thanks for the heads-up. Had really no idea” he said, letting his hand sneak down to grab a bare cheek.

“If my favorite little leech lets me go for just a second, I’ll take a shower and then I’m all yours” he whispered warmly, his voice scratchy with fatigue but softened by the love that laced every word.

“Without this leech, who knows under which bridge you’d be living” I shot back, my teasing clear and his laugh that followed proved I’d hit the mark. I relaxed my arms and let him go, planting another kiss on his lips before I stepped away.

“I really should thank you” he said with the same playful tone, taking advantage of the fact that I’d turned to walk back to the bedroom: his hand landing gently on my exposed butt, the soft slap echoing faintly. I giggled and let out a dramatic little groan, pretending to complain as I made my way back to our bed, crawling under the sheets and trying to pick up the thread of the book I’d abandoned.

After what felt like endless minutes, I saw him walk into the room wearing a bathrobe wrapped around his body and a towel draped over his hair. He threw me a glance with those soft, little eyes of his, carrying with them a familiar kind of tenderness.

“So tired you turned to reading?” he said as he rummaged through the underwear drawer, eventually grabbing a random pair of boxers.

I shifted my legs under the blanket and rolled my eyes toward the ceiling, biting back a smile by pressing my lips together.

“Wanna bet my plan to give you a massage is slowly disappearing?” I raised an eyebrow, closing the book and letting it rest on the nightstand , this time for good. The only thing on my mind now was indulging in some well-deserved affection with the Dutch man standing by our bed.

“Oh my God, yes please baby, I need it” his eyes practically lit up as he looked at me, almost pleading, before dropping the towel and slipping into the pair of boxers he’d just picked up.

“What now? You begging the leech for a shoulder rub?” I teased, sitting up on the mattress while he groaned in protest, mumbling some incoherent mix of words as he let himself fall onto the bed.

“You’re submissive for a massage” I whispered with a smirk, lowering my tone, running a hand through his damp hair before leaning down to press a light kiss to his cheek.

“I’ll give you one later” he muttered, letting his eyes slowly roam over my half exposed body. He reached out and let his thumb trail gently along my bare thigh.

I nodded, recognizing the unspoken agreement and caught his rough hand with mine.

“Come here” I said softly, moving my hand away from his messy hair. I sat cross-legged, waiting for the slow, lazy bear to settle himself in front of me.

I placed my hands on his tense shoulders and helped him relax into me. I loosened my legs, resting them on either side of his torso, comfortably against my abdomen. His arms wrapped around my knees, his hands lazily caressing my calves and his face tilted up to meet my gaze.

“Relax, love” I whispered, my fingers kneading the muscles in his shoulders, pulling a low, guttural moan from his throat as he inhaled and exhaled slowly, letting the tension melt from his body.

“yes baby” I breathed out, letting my thumbs travel to the nape of his neck and then down along his arms. Every spot I touched, I moved gently, slowly, not forcing anything, just trying to work out the stress and exhaustion that had built up over the long, relentless days behind us.

The room was filled only with the sound of our steady breathing, and the occasional soft smack of kisses I leaned down to give him: on his face, often on his lips. I kept massaging him for a solid ten minutes, while his hands caressed from my ankle to my knee, mimicking the pressure I was applying to his shoulders, as if to hint at what he was planning to do next.

“Turn around, baby, and take off your shirt” he murmured, letting go of my legs and shifting on the bed, now kneeling on the mattress. His eyes lingered first on my face, then slowly dropped to my body which didn’t hesitate to obey, slipping off the shirt and collapsing face down onto the bed with a soft sigh.

“Be gentle” I warned, resting my arms at my sides and almost instinctively pressing my breast into the plushness of the mattress to hide it.

“As if I don’t know that already” he replied with a breathy chuckle that cradled my ears and gave me the reassurance I needed to close my eyes and trust him. He straddled me, and I felt the weight of his hips settle against the curve of my backside, his hands placing themselves on my back, right between my shoulder blades.

He began to move his tattooed fingers gently, drawing from me nothing but soft moans and light sighs. My muscles tensed beneath his touch, and my shoulders curled in reaction.

“Breathe, you’re a bundle of nerves” he said, his voice dangerously close to my ear, a clear sign he had leaned down against my body. A cascade of shivers ran down my spine, and Joost’s hands took that as encouragement.

He kept gliding them down the length of my spine, reaching the dimples just above my hips, then pressing softly but firmly as he traced his way back up toward my shoulders. A louder moan slipped past my lips, echoing like a quiet confession that reached his ears.

The more he realized he could draw those sounds from me, the more he caressed and kneaded my back. I could feel the full weight of his body pressing into the curve of my ass, and that pressure only intensified the heat pulsing through me, settling insistently between my thighs and dampening the fabric of my underwear.

“A massage isn’t the only thing you need to relax, huh?” he muttered, halting the movements of his hands as his lips brushed over the sensitive skin of my neck, stealing a sigh that had been caught in my throat.

I bit my bottom lip and arched my back just slightly, barely grinding against his hips.

“Answer me” he whispered again against my skin, gradually leaving a trail of teasing bites that marked a chaotic path down my back. I opened my eyes for a second, catching a glimpse of him from the corner of my gaze, only to close them again when he rose off me and then came the smack. A sharp slap to one cheek, followed by a firm squeeze.

“You already know the answer” I mumbled, the words muffled against the pillow I was now gripping tightly with one hand. Another slap landed, this time on the other cheek, followed by the soothing stroke of a palm, easing the sting with gentle pressure.

“Tell me you want to be fucked” he said, voice oddly calm, as he leaned down with the full weight of his body pressing into my ass. I could feel his erection, growing and insistent, the need between us undeniable and building fast.

I let out a quiet, breathy laugh and clenched the pillow harder, feeling exposed and feverish.

How long had it been since we last had sex? A week? It felt like it.

Suddenly, his hand tangled shamelessly in my hair, yanking my head back and forcing me to arch my spine.

“Say it” his voice rasped close to my ear, and I let out a sharp moan at the tight grip, clutching the pillow even harder and wetting my lips.

“I want it. Fuck me..” I breathed out the words in a half-whisper, barely more than air in the room but they reached him, completely.

He let go of my hair only to bring that same hand around my neck. He didn’t squeeze too hard, just held me steady as he kissed me open-mouthed along my shoulder and into the hollow of my neck, licking hungrily and adding sharp bites that would soon bloom red on my skin.

I closed my eyes, parted my lips, and let out obscene sounds from the overwhelming stimulation prickling through every part of my body. He began grinding slowly against my ass and gently guided my head back down to the pillow, loosening the hold on my neck as his lips traveled the length of my back.

I bit down on my lower lip and released a hot, sex-laced sigh that seemed to stain the white walls of our bedroom. He grabbed the edge of my panties and pulled them slowly upward, creating delicious friction between the soaked fabric and my dripping sex. I squeezed my thighs together and lifted my hips slightly.

“Please, Joost” I murmured, right before the third slap landed on my ass. I jolted from the sensitivity and held my breath.

Without another word, I felt him rise off me and walk to the bedside drawer. He pulled out a condom and tossed it onto the bed near my nearly naked body.

I watched him: the way his hands moved, his flushed cheeks, his heaving chest, his hair almost completely dry but still messy. Our eyes met, and he gave me one of his warmest smiles, the kind that made me curl inward and bury half my face into my hands.

Every time, it felt like the first time. I was so deeply in love with how he loved me.

“You’re beautiful” he said as he climbed back onto the bed, leaning over me to reach the side of my face.

His hand slid between my legs, under my panties and began moving his middle and ring fingers over my entrance, which clenched around nothing the moment I felt his touch.

I muttered something chiding, overwhelmed by how he made me feel, only to be answered with a kiss on my shoulder and a soft laugh, followed by a playful bite.

Then he slid those two fingers inside me from behind, and I tensed, eyes rolling back as raw, instinctive moans left my throat.

“One day, I swear I’ll sample these sounds in one of my songs” he groaned against the tender skin of my neck, never stopping the slow thrusting of his fingers.

I blushed hard, letting the heat flood my face.

“You perv” I whispered through a breathless laugh, cut off by a loud, guttural moan as he smacked my already flushed right cheek, harder this time.

“The same perv you’re begging to fuck you, that’s some real consistency” he teased again, but I let his words slip through my fingers and answered only with more needy, gasping moans.

He pulled his hand out of my panties that didn’t take off, just moved them to the side, revealing what he wanted. I turned my head as much as I could to look at him, and our eyes locked again.

My heart stuttered in my chest from the sheer love I felt for him in that moment.

He knelt on the bed, gripped my hips, and lifted them slightly, making my back arch on instinct. I heard him let out a sigh of pleasure at the sight, probably one of his favorites, since he never failed to tell me how much he loved it.

He pulled off the boxers he had just put on, freeing his erection, painfully hard and throbbing. I shifted my hips, waiting for him to bury himself inside me while he was putting on the condom. Finally, we connected and though our mouths were apart, our breaths merged into one long, trembling sigh. I tightened around his length as he began to move, slow at first, sweet, careful but deep.

He leaned over me as he thrust deeper, our bodies echoing with wet, shameless sounds.

His fingers tangled in my hair again, gently turning my head to the side: my lips spilled moans and my eyes fluttered halfway closed from the pleasure flooding through me. He kissed my cheek, my lips as best he could, then focused on my neck and shoulders, biting and kissing with hunger.

He tugged my hair tighter and pressed my face into the pillow, increasing the force of his movements. They were messy now, hard and fast, driven by something deeper than lust. Our moans grew louder, blending into one another. My lower back ached but I didn’t care. It only amplified my arousal, building the climax that was beginning to form in my core.

“Let go… it’s okay” he groaned against my shoulder, leaving a bite there that I knew would last for days.

I was overstimulated, lost in him and his thrusts grew harder, matching the rhythm my body needed to fall apart. I shut my eyes tight, my leg muscles tensed and Joost’s hands now held firmly onto my hips, gripping hard enough to leave red marks.

“I love you y/n… I’ll never stop loving you”he whispered and that’s what pushed me over the edge.

My orgasm crashed into me. My hands gripped the bedsheet, my face buried in the pillow, my hips locked tight while his length kept pounding into me without pause.

I rode the wave, trembling and didn’t relax until I felt him finish too, thick and deep into the condom, slowing his thrusts as he collapsed over me. One of his hands clenched the bedsheet, the other sought mine.

“Fuck… fuck” he breathed, his mouth open, staying buried inside me for a few seconds longer before pulling out, removing the condom and tossing it in the bin beside the bed.

I let my hips go slack, groaning from the soreness in my lower back.

“You okay?” Joost’s completely spent body slid beside mine, his hand brushing softly through my hair as he motioned for me to come lie against his chest.

I accepted his invitation immediately. I moved with a bit of pain, wrapping an arm around his torso and resting my head on his chest, tangling our legs together.

“Yeah… I’m perfect” I murmured, lifting my eyes to him, taking in the sweat on his forehead, the exhaustion in his eyes and the smile still tugging at his lips.

“I love you too” I replied in the same low tone, leaning in a little to silently ask for a kiss. He lifted a hand to gently caress my cheek, and met my lips with his.

He pressed a few quick kisses to my lips, each one landing with a loud little pop that made me laugh.

“I should put this beautiful laugh in a song, too” he murmured against my lips, not stopping the soft rhythm of them brushing against his.

“Don’t even think about it” I warned, pulling back gently just enough to look him in the eyes, trying to pass off a serious look.

It only made him laugh: that sweet, boyish laugh of his.

Not that it mattered. He was going to do it anyway.

Sooner or later he would come home with a song made from my moans and laughter, only to see me embarrassed.

#joost klein x reader #joost x reader #joost fanfic #joost x you #fanfic #fanficz #joost klein smut #joost klein x y/n #joost klein fluff #joost klein x you #joost klein fanfic #joost klein rpf #requestz

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touchtheinvisiblestars · 2 days ago

Text

Drowning

It was supposed to be a simple trade.

You and Joel had done a dozen like it before, meet the group, hand over the ammo, take the meds, walk away. No drama. No unnecessary chatter. Just business.

But something about this group felt wrong the second you stepped into the warehouse.

Too quiet. Too polite. Too still.

Joel’s posture shifted subtly. You caught it out of the corner of your eye, the slight tightening of his jaw, the way his hand drifted just a little closer to the pistol at his side.

A glance passed between you and him. Silent understanding. This wasn’t right.

Then came the twitch, one of them, standing too far back to be part of the trade, fingers brushing over the safety of his rifle.

That was all the warning you got before hell broke loose.

Gunfire erupted like thunder, the air splitting open with sound and heat. Joel moved first, fast and brutal, pulling you down behind a pile of broken crates. Splinters flew. Bullets screamed. You barely had time to raise your weapon before the first man was on you, close enough to smell the sweat and blood on him.

You shot him in the gut. Joel put a bullet through his head.

Then it was just chaos- smoke and shadows, shouts that became screams, the metallic tang of blood already in the air. You barely noticed the shot that clipped your shoulder. Not at first. It was the warmth that drew your eyes down, the spreading red on your sleeve. Your legs buckled, but Joel caught you with one hand and fired with the other, his aim steady even as yours blurred.

He didn’t ask if you could keep going.

He just made damn sure you didn’t have to.

When the last man dropped, the silence hit like a punch. Your ears rang. Your breath came in short, shuddering bursts. Blood dripped onto the concrete, some yours, most not. You leaned back against the cold wall, blinking through the fog as your hands trembled around your pistol.

Joel stood over one of the bodies, chest heaving, his arm bleeding through the torn sleeve of his shirt. For a second he just stared at the corpse like he was trying to burn it out of his memory. Then he turned, and his eyes found you.

"You okay?" His voice was rough. Tight.

You nodded, but your lip trembled. “Yeah,” you said, though it sounded like a lie even to you.

Joel’s eyes flicked to your shoulder. “You’re hit.”

“So are you,” you said, trying to sound steady, but your knees were on the verge of giving out.

He took a step toward you- cautious, like you were a wounded animal that might bolt or bite. His hand hovered near your arm, not quite touching.

You stood there, toe-to-toe, close enough to see the blood drying on his cheek. His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lifted again, eyes dark with something you didn’t have the words for. Not relief. Not yet. Just... shock. That you were both still breathing.

The air between you crackled. Hot. Heavy. Your pulse thudded in your ears.

Then you moved. You didn’t think. Didn’t plan. Just grabbed him by the collar and kissed him hard.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t pretty. Your lips were split, your hands shaking. Blood smeared between you, his or yours, you didn’t know, but your mouth crashed against his like you were drowning and he was the only breath left in the world.

Joel didn’t move at first.

Then his arms snapped around you like a vice.

He kissed you back, and it was devastating. Nothing held back. It was all desperation. His hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your waist like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go. He kissed like a man who’d been starving. Like he hadn’t let himself want anything this badly in years, maybe ever.

And for that one burning moment, there was no past, no future. Just now. Just this.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours. Both of you were shaking. Breathing like you’d run a hundred miles.

“We shouldn’t’ve done that,” Joel said, his voice hoarse, eyes shut like it hurt to say.

You didn’t let go. You were still holding on to his shirt like a lifeline. “Do you want me to pretend it didn’t happen?”

Joel opened his eyes.

Looked at you like he didn’t know how to answer. Like the words physically hurt coming out of his mouth.

“No,” he said quietly. “But it scares the hell outta me that it did.”

You swallowed. Your shoulder throbbed, your knees weak, but you nodded once. “Me too.”

There was a pause. A breath. A beat between heartbeats.

Then he kissed you again.

Slower this time. Softer.

The kind of kiss that lingered. That asked a question and gave an answer in the same breath. His hand brushed your jaw, thumb gentle where the rest of him had been rough. And when your lips parted, it wasn’t because you needed air- it was because you both needed to feel it.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel x reader #the last of us #joel miller imagine #joel miller au

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saintagron · 3 days ago

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strangers in the night .

an. the best type of young love is between older women cw. strangers to lovers. retired business owner!reader, business owner!ambessa. vetting disguised as flirting... which turns into actual flirting. sneaking off like teenagers (because love makes us all young again). age gap; reader is in their early 30s, ambessa is in her mid 50s.

The Christmas Gala, once a ironically-named event held in your small, two-floor office space, had evolved. Greatly. No longer were you organizing the simultaneous potluck or hiding Secret Santa lists—you weren’t even organizing it at all. Despite the hefty royalty checks you cashed and the occasional memo sent your way, you’d pulled out of business and sunk into leisure.

So now, along with the company’s—corporation’s, to be precise, as of a few years ago—rapid proliferation, the Gala, in turn, had snowballed and grown to fit its name. No longer were your five employees shuttered into the break room, no. Now a river of investors, your successors, and upper management floods a grand venue once a year, to chat and consort each other and wheedle deals over seemingly unending champagne.

What was once an ugly sweater contest had turned into black tie, suits fitted and dresses ankle length. Heels are high and cufflinks are shiny, speaking to each person’s apparent wealth and influence. You, yourself, also look the part; dressing up is uncontrollably enticing, no matter if it’s your first or fiftieth time.

Pearls round your shoulders, clinging to the satin that plunges shallowly at your chest and pools low at the bottom of your spine. Each shift of your shoulders etches shadows and reveals highlights, making you an unending piece of art. Whether it be the dimples that sit low on your back or the shallow lines of your shoulder blades, they reflect beautifully in the venue’s glittering lights.

You’re greeted as you enter, but thankfully most understand your desire for observational solitude. The high, curving ceilings are a better greeting—silent, beautiful, glimmering. They meet at a point in the center of the room, the domed glass segmented and exposing the sky’s winking stars. Their light calls you, and it’s more welcome than anything that you’ve ever heard audibly. You tear your eyes away, though. Stargazing can come later, when your task is wrapped up in a tight bow.

Deal-making is not your job anymore—you’ve left that to your successors. Yet, every once and a while, they come to you with a plea. Unintentionally, you’ve become their “vetter.” They send you to speak with potential business partners, often without educating them on the company’s history and your part in it. An unaware person is an honest one, and your judgement has always been the sound law of the land.

Tonight you have another mark. It feels like a shot of lightning, thinking about it. You accept a glass of champagne but don’t sip, buzzing with too much energy. Perhaps it reflects badly on your life’s level of excitement that a faux-investigation, reminiscent of a 90’s spy film, is enough to make you fuzzy with adrenaline. Ah, well. Tonight isn’t the night to scrutinize yourself—instead, it’s time to investigate another.

You spot her from across the room, and it makes you stop. Pictures pale to the way the bare light makes her glimmer, smooth and dark and defined. Initially it looks as if she’s in a dress, the crimson fabric loose at the legs, until she moves and reveals the pantsuit’s disconnect. The golden accents shine just as her skin does, each shift of her restless stance revealing new divots for your gaze to explore.

Her eyes flicker towards you. They don’t meet, but it’s much too close for comfort. You relieve yourself of your drink, placing the untouched flute on a passing tray, and tug your CMO into a dance. She laughs against your hair as she obliges, curling her hand in yours and resting the other at your waist.

(She used to be so small—not in stature but in confidence. It’s sweet that she leads, after so many years of you taking up that role.)

ᰔ

Miss Medarda is popular. You watch her while you’re drawn, pulled, and guided through dances—reveling in the orchestra’s swell, as well as her subtle glances. She’s swarmed by people, most dwarfed by her height and beautiful musculature. They vie for her attention like minnows around a scrap, tugging helplessly in so many directions she does not move at all.

You’ll never tear through the swarm. But your gaze will.

You allow it to drift lazily, naturally towards her. The slower dance, spins less vertigo-inducing, grants ample time to meet her eyes. She glimpses you. You meet it. Unintentionally, there’s a quirk to your lips—not meant as a challenge, but merely an instinct of politeness and a show of mild amusement. But she takes it as such, meets the challenge, even though you’re an unknown from across a crowded room. You can see it in the sudden, subtle clench of her jaw.

She joins the dancing crowd not soon after, seemingly drawn in by a slightly-drunk, over-eager business partner. They hold her clumsily through the song, and you can see every wince as they stumble over her feet. Every time you glimpse her again you’re laughing silently, smile so wide she can spy the white gleam of your canines.

Thankfully for her feet’s wellbeing, the next dance is one that incorporates switching partners. She maneuvers closer and closer to you, even as you spin on the arms of others. It’s predatory in its intensity—even with other men and women in front of you, all you can pay attention to is the burning of her gaze at the back of your head.

She’s coming for you.

It’s stupidly thrilling. It feels like a spy movie—you the secret, mysterious operative and her, the intense, almost-desperate government agent. Your heartbeat picks up every time you’re passed off, wondering if you’ll be scooped up at the next switch.

The song rises to its crescendo. The flutes guide the melody, high and melodic, the rest of the woodwinds following after; the strings follow suit, rumbling bass and cello supporting the croon of the violas and violins. It climbs higher and higher, the breathtaking sound amplified by the hall’s high ceilings and far-reaching walls. You’re already breathless when she scoops you up, driven more by your heart, the muscle beating in the music’s rhythm, than by your own mind. You can’t help but laugh, the sound falling warmly between you; your hands curl around her shoulders, they roll under your palms.

“Why are you watching me?” She rumbles, low and unintentionally curious. The words are pressed into your cheek—she leans down to kiss the skin like she’s a friend. Femme fatales curled together. Who needs a James Bond or a Jason Bourne?

However, there’s no high stakes to the question, unlike in the movies. Revealing your identity wouldn’t be a detriment. But that’s not what you’re here for, and so you charm your way through a lie. It doesn’t matter if she believes you, really. It’s all just a bit of fun now.

“Because you’re beautiful.” You breathe, low and drawn out, hopelessly enamoured against her dark cheek. The skin is oh so soft, luminous and flush to your own. And her fragrance—oh, how wonderful she smelt up close. A hint of something spicy, sharp, before it melted along your tongue like tangy cherry and a morning rose.

Your breath hitches, because how could it not.

She chuckles; lets her hand venture further down your back. It presses, large and warm, into the base of your spine.

“You’re too blatant to be malevolent.” She murmurs, and drops her head like she wishes to nose at your hairline—lingering just far enough that you can feel the cool brush of every inhale and the slow release of every exhale. “But I don’t think you’re telling me the whole truth, either.”

You exhale then—one slow, delicate, shaky breath. And then again, another breath, this one half-laughter. You’ve laughed more tonight than you have in the past month. It’s the full-body type that makes your cheeks hurt and your chest burn, not the half-hearted sort of chuckle you give to an almost-funny joke. It’s wonderful. Your eyes squeeze shut with the gentle force of it. “I guess I’m transparent.” You murmur, pressing your own hands into her spine. This isn’t the first time you’re grateful her pantsuit is backless, and it surely won’t be the last. The skin at her spine, thinly covering the most defined muscles you think you’ve ever had the pleasure to lay your hands on, is as warm as the rest of her. Those muscles ripple under your fingers—every shift, you feel; every movement is cataloged and marked with your prints.

It’s quite distracting.

She spins you, then; you go turning past who was probably your next partner, their hands decidedly empty of either you or her. Their wide expression makes you feel guilty for about half of a second before she’s breathing against your ear again and nope, you’re totally willing to do another rotation with her.

“So, who are you, then?” She hums, the barest quirk of her brow following. A lie sparks across your tongue—one of the many aliases you’ve used brimming—but it fizzles and dies under her gaze. Something in it says that she’ll know. So you give her your name then, the words only loud enough for her.

She gives no reaction. There’s not even a shift in her gaze. But you know she’s heard of you. Just like everyone’s heard of her.

“Ambessa Medarda.” She offers in return, as if anyone here—or in the business world you soar above—doesn’t know who she is.

“Pleasure.” You murmur. It’s the most genuine thing you’ve said all evening. It’s not surprising—she’s warm and flirtatious, a natural conversationalist who’s not overwhelming. She appeals to your withdrawn sensibilities, not borne naturally but created through your lax early retirement. So when she smiles just a hint and starts to (not-so-subtly) ease you off the dance floor, you go with her.

ᰔ

The first thing you realize when you breach the perimeter is that it was warm in the venue. It wasn’t clear when you were in there, but the rescinding heat and subsequent brushing chill is enough to make your shoulders tense.

“Cold?” She hums, passing over a flute of champagne—two of them dwarfed by her hands, one in each palm. You didn’t even see her grab it.

You hum a denial, accepting the drink. The venue’s set on a beautiful piece of land—sprawling, manicured fields of grass intercut with intimate gardens. It’s always been a dream of yours to see it at night, ever since you first came here as a child. The light pollution that covers most other places is gone, especially further out on the grounds. If all the electricity went out, you’re sure you could see galaxies long forgotten.

Your heart pulls you again, guides your feet—not your head. She trails after you, curiously quiet, intelligent enough to read the silence and enamoured enough to sink into it.

The grass is cool, slightly misty. The sprinklers had long since gone off, leaving just a gentle sheen of water; it’s barely enough to wet your skin. You ease down to sit in it, the short, even stalks skimming your wrists and curving gently at your ankles. She sinks down next to you as you take your first sip of champagne all night, letting her long legs splay out and the crimson fabric of her pantsuit separate. Your wrist tilts, offering your flute at a subtle angle, and she bumps her own against it with a gentle tink.

“I’m not made for that anymore.” The idea has been growing in your mind for a long while. You once relished in it—in the networking. In meeting people, growing your business, and fighting to keep your principles cemented at the forefront of it.

Now you’re just tired of it. Perhaps it’s retirement (the one you swore was just a break) seeping into your bones, or maybe the ache for connections outside of coworkers, subordinates, and business partners caught up for you.

All you know is it’s not for you anymore.

There’s no sure reason why you’re sharing this with her of all people; it’s well known she’s made for this. Groomed since birth, now an eternally cemented figure. The businesswoman of the generation before you. In the years where you were struggling to scrape together salaries and your own rent, she was already there—and she’s outlasted you.

(Rumor says she’s never taken a day off. You think they’re so bullshit, but… sometimes you wonder.)

“I’m not sure you ever were.” She responds, champagne swirling in her glass. She’s never quite still. As if noticing your gaze, she takes a sip. Wets her lips, and then continues. “But you did very, very well, in a world not made for you.”

Your eyes tighten for just a second—not suspicious, but scrutinizing. She knows who you are, obviously, if not your face than your name. But everyone knows your name. She seems to know you.

So of course you ask. Burning curiosity was one of the things that got you so far, after all. Among other things.

“How do you know me? We’ve never met before.” She takes another sip from her flute, red lip printing on the rim.

“...I saw you present at a conference once. I’ve been keeping track ever since.” She may be unabashed and honest, but the words make your face hot.

“That was—” you huff, mentally searching through the years. When was the last time you presented—?

“Seven years ago. You were just getting off the ground.” Her tone is even. Soothing in its smoothness, but overwhelmingly calm. Especially with the information she’s divulging—speaking as if it’s nothing more than an itinerary.

Your mind spins. Seven years.

“Why?” Is all that comes to mind—bubbling on your tongue worse than the champagne.

“My children have never been as ruthless as I… thought they needed to be.” The words ease out—slow, controlled. As if admitting her misstep was a challenge. She turns to gaze at you, open hand coming to cover your own. “You gave me hope. That they, too, could succeed in this cruel world.”

You let the moment simmer. Watching her gaze deepen is a pleasure—the quietness allowing you to really observe her.

“...did you just attempt to flirt by comparing me to your children?” She blanches, and then bites back a laugh when she spots your wry grin. Her teeth bare with the effort, but the lines in her cheeks sink in regardless.

“You’re evil. So very evil.” Her laughter is soft. Who else gets to say they saw her laugh like this? It’s a privilege you tuck close to your chest.

“Why didn’t you talk to me that day?” That question makes her quiet.

“...you were so young.” Your head tilts, an eyebrow raising. You’re old and experienced enough to spot a half-truth—with enough younger cousins to know, instinctively, the tone they carry.

Her lips press together, caging the confession. But under your gaze, she relents. “...and very pretty. I was… different, then. I had just lost my husband. I knew I couldn’t resist, and that you’d get pulled into my grief. I wanted to let you bloom, unimpeded by anything.”

“It would have been very controversial.” You quip.

“Completely.” Her lips twitch.

“A scandal. At least your children are a… well. One of them is younger than me.” Comes your hum, your lips pursing.

“That… really wouldn’t have helped, I don’t think.” She huffs—but she’s smiling.

“...I would have been into it.” That makes you both break, falling into laughter. The motion pulls you into each other, the humor like a vortex. Her shoulder bumps yours, and your hand curls purposefully into hers. It’s heart-pounding, juvenile.

“You’re a character.” You’ve spent enough time around older people—both socially and in the business—to know that means you’ve got attitude, but I like it. It makes you beam.

The silence settles comfortably, your cheeks aching when your smile slowly melts into something softer.

“I always wanted to see the stars here.” You confess, eyes tilting up towards the midnight-smeared horizon. The sky isn’t black, here, the darkest color still carrying a tint of blue or purple, the colors only further illuminated by every bright star. “I loved this place when I was a child… but they closed the grounds at night. Even before the sunset.”

“It really is wonderful.” She hums, the sound rumbling from the back of her throat and coated with understanding. “This is my first time here; I’ve never been one for historic buildings. I’d rather frequent the war museums, or stroll through the parks. Old, rich houses are beautiful… but they’re empty of people.”

War museums.

“Your father was a veteran, wasn’t he?” You question, suddenly reminded of it; you’d learned it years ago from some stray magazine article, bored and half-asleep in some waiting room. Thank you, Vogue, for having insightful interviewers.

“Yes, yes he was.” Her huff is surprised, a subtle raise of her brow following your question. “And I’m the only one who’s been watching?”

You can’t help the grin that splits your face. “You’re everywhere. Whether you like it or not.”

She laughs brightly. You can feel her breath rush, warmly contrasting against the cool night air, against your hairline, and instantly you’re aware of how close she’s pressed. Through the conversation you’d both migrated close, until your shoulders hover just an inch apart.

The flush that settles over your entire body is juvenile. It feels nostalgic and foreign all at once, the feeling an old memory—like the lightness you felt at prom, heels digging into your ankles and dress heavy as you danced. The pain and happiness, joined, had all diminished into sparse reflections you had to grasp at. This feeling was no different, yet now it was back with a vengeance.

“...god, you make me feel young again.” You scoff, temple pressing to her solid shoulder.

“Isn’t that my line?” She teases, but her smile is soft. “I’m supposed to be revitalized by a younger lover, not the other way around.”

“I’m already retired. We could argue that I’m older in spirit.” Your words make her laugh again—a quiet thing, exhaled over your hairline.

“Sure.”

You sit there, side by side, twined for a while. It’s not clear how much, the moon’s shifts your only gauge. When someone comes to find you it’s already peaked, heading down towards the horizon, yet still with a while to go.

The house’s doors have never been quiet; oiled and maintained, yet the sound of age still echoed when they opened. Music and quiet conversation spills out over you the few seconds it’s open.

“Miss Medarda? You have—” Their breath stutters, before they regain momentum. “—um. You have people looking for you; the night’s winding down and they’d like to talk once more before it ends.”

She grumbles something unintelligible, but moves to rise. You catch her forearm, stopping her halfway.

“One second.” You slip your hand into the dress’s pocket, tugging out an old relic—a business card. It’s an old habit, but you still find yourself sliding a few of them into whatever pocket, purse, or bag you have that day. You procrastinated cancelling the continuous orders for too long, and now you’ve got about a million. But you’re thankful for that in situations like this. “Take my card.”

“...you’re asking me to call you?” She hums, looking mildly amused and wholly appreciative. “Why not?” You quip back, brow raised subtly. Two can play at that, hm?

“...I’ll be in touch.”

ᰔ

They call you then, the next morning, after you’d completely forgotten why you were actually at the gala.

“We couldn’t find you before we left. What’d you think?” Your successor’s voice crackles over the line, half-groggy.

“Too much whiskey?” You tease instead, biting your lip to suppress laughter. You’re not successful in the slightest. “Shut up, please. The sooner you answer the sooner we can both go back to nursing our hangovers.” They groan, and it makes you give up on holding back your mirth.

“Okay, okay.” You hum, still exhaling chuckles. “She was wonderful. I think she’d be a good partner.”

They breathe out, relief palpable even through the phone. “I was hoping she’d be good. She’s a wonderful businesswoman; she’d be a great asset.”

“Mhm.” Your phone vibrates against your ear. When you pull it back, you’re met with an unknown number. “I’ve got to go, okay? But let me know how it goes.”

You hang up before they can respond, perhaps too quickly. But there’s only one person who would be calling you right now.

“Hello?”

“Good morning.” She hums, sounding much more awake than you. “How are you?”

“...I’ve got good news for you, actually.”

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