#A Script At Stake au

[insert-the-4thwall-entity]

silly stuff i drew for my 'A script at stake' AU -

Main trio on the run

2. Main character(s) energy

3. He's quite the bastard, innit?

4. BREAKING NEWS - Local Big rig monster truck gets stuck in a shopping cart at a mall. More at 9pm.

[asriels-college-life-dr]

Asriel's College Life - Update + Teasers!

“Newly-independent Asriel Dreemurr navigates the highs and lows of college life with his delinquent roommate Baphi and her slacker human friend Clyde. Asriel's College Life is a slice-of-life sprite comic that tells low-stakes, character-driven stories with college-aged monsters and humans. It is set in our interpretation of the world beyond Hometown, years before the events of Deltarune.”

It's been a while since the last update! I wanted to share some progress with you guys since you're at least interested in what this project is all about.

Art-wise, our concept artists have done very well with bringing our upcoming cast to life. You've seen Asriel, his roommate Baphi, and her human friend Clyde, but there's more folks in Ebott College than you've seen so far: both monsters AND humans!

We're working on a pilot episode for this sprite comic project that will establish Asriel and the rest of the cast, as well as the world and the overall vibe of the story. I hope you look forward to it!

Writing-wise, has admittedly been slow going. I work in short bursts, which is why having other writers to talk story and scriptwriting really helps get the script done.

If you're a writer and have experience with script for screenplays or even novels, also reach out to us!

We're also looking for concept artists, especially those who can draw backgrounds! If you can draw buildings and nature and maps and concept art of towns and campuses, please reach out to us!

Teaser Time!

Meanwhile, our art team has been doing well in bringing our cast to life! I hope you enjoy this look at the monsters and humans that study at Ebott College for the rest of this post!

"One of them becomes important to him, can you guess why?" (art by @MrBendyFeathers & @luztechnowitch)

Party slime! Fun fact: They're both Simley.

Someone who is happy in a way he isn't.

Someone who becomes important to him, despite their differences. (art by @heartlessmushr1)

A history professor.

A friendly face.

An antagonist.

That's all for this update! If you'd like to follow this comic for when the pilot comes out, check out our server!

[sparklingchim]

too hot to handle;m | jjk

pairing: jungkook x reader

word count: 5.3k

rating: 18+

genre: hockeyplayer!jungkook, richgirlie!oc, brother’s best friend, college!au, fwb

warnings: belly button smoochies !!!!, they banter a lot hihi, oral (m receiving), protected sex, dick slaps on the face 🫢, mentions of underage drinking, spanking, spitting, dirty talk, oc loves reality tv shows & jk just puts up w it, groping, praise, a sprinkle of jealousy😋, INTRODUCING A KITTY CAT !!!! pls she is the cutest <3

summary: pov: it's a hot summer day, and naturally, your brother's best friend can't take his eyes off your scantily clad body.

a/n: wow it's been so long!! but here's a lil summer fic!! love u hope u like it MWAH 😙

⭒☆━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☆⭒

“I can’t believe those people can’t keep their dick in for just a little while.” Jungkook tilts his head in a disapproving way. “There’s so much money at stake and you're risking it just cause you’re horny?”

You silently giggle at the way his brows knit. The judgement that contorts his face is the exact opposite of his earlier claims that he doesn’t care about silly reality tv shows that are obviously pre-arranged and scripted.

“Oh, don’t act like it’d be easy for you.” You poke his calf with your foot. “You’re a very horny person, Jungkook.” You look up at him with your chin resting against his bare chest and give him a pointed look.

His bottom lip juts out as he ponders your words. “I don’t think so,” he finally says.

You gasp in mock surprise, pushing yourself away from with your palms against shoulders. You lie nearly completely on top of him, one leg thrown across his body. “That is a bold statement coming from you.”

Jungkook toys with the strap of your lacy camisole. “Honestly, I think you are hornier than me.”

You blink multiple times. “Me?” You point to yourself. “No, it’s you.” You nudge his bare, husky chest with your nail – you got your nails done for summer, the tips are painted in the cutest pastel colours.

He catches your finger and swiftly interlaces his hand with yours. “Nuh-uh. It’s not me,” he denies. “Who was the one to initiate things between us?”

“That has nothing to do with this,” you argue. “You just never initiated anything because you’re scared of my brother.” A mischievous twinkle unfolds in your eyes. Jungkook should be paid for the obnoxious number of times he has to put up with your bratty ass.

Jungkook rolls his pretty eyes. “I wouldn’t be on his fucking couch cuddling with his sister if I was scared, hm?” He looks across the hallway, pointing with his chin to Taehyung’s room. “Where even is he?”

“I dunno. Said he’d come home late.”

His fingers slip away from yours and he holds his palm against yours.

“You’ve got long fingers,” you say, staring at the size difference.

“Your nails are pretty.” He mindlessly brushes his fingers over them.

You excitedly tap your fingertips against his hand. “I know, right? Thank you!” You lean down and give his belly button a kiss.

“Another one?”

You giggle foolishly, planting another smooch on his tummy. Then you rest your head on his belly and refocus on the show playing on the television.

His palm lies on the small of your back, thumb gently stroking your exposed skin. “You were, like, all over me, though. Last year, I mean.”

“Excuse me?” you turn your head.

“Last year during summer break, when Taehyung and I surprised you.”

“I know what you mean,” you tell him. You drop his hand on his lap, a frown blossoming on your face. “But that was not the case at all.”

Okay, perhaps he is correct – but to your defence, you were struggling with your first real heartbreak around that time and needed a little distraction.

“I just wanted to get the charger and leave,” he argues with a pout, playing all innocent with those damned doe eyes

“No.” You give him an appalled look. “You were literally standing in my room staring at me.”

“Well, I didn’t expect to find you like that.”

“You barged into my room, what were you expe-”

“I didn’t barge into your room,” he clarifies. “Your door was ajar, so I assumed you’d be decent.”

You shake your head disapprovingly. “Knocking is basic etiquette.”

“Whatever,” he sighs and his hand on your back sneaks beneath your top. “You initiated it, though. Practically threw yourself at me.”

You scoff, frowning up at him. “Need a trip down memory lane?”

Jungkook smirks amusedly. His dimple pops out adorably. “What?” He twirls a strand of your hair around his finger. “Wanna show me what we did?”

You roll your eyes, despite your heart skipping a beat. “You wouldn’t last a second on the show.” You tilt your head towards the flat screen tv.

“I have a hot girl in my arms – gonna blame a boy for trying?”

Jungkook clearly knows how to get you. And you hate that he knows when he’s got you. His smile grows bigger and his hand wanders down to your ass, barely covered with your tiny shorts, and delivers a little smack.

“C’mere,” he whispers and pulls you on top of him. “Wanna make you scream louder than you did earlier.”

~

one year ago

For you, summer doesn’t quite begin until it’s the perfect day to lie on the sun lounger in a cute bikini, sipping on a cold drink and bask in the gentle warmth with good music in your ears. It’s the perfect way to relax and unwind.

Lucky for you, today is one of those summer days – just perfect enough to spend the entire day resting by the pool. The sun is high in the sky, casting a warm glow on your skin.

Better than Revenge by Taylor Swift is blasting through your phone while you placidly flip the page of a memoir about love.

As you look up from the book, you notice that your little grey cat Moon has left your lap. She was sunbathing with you, lying flat on her belly with her limbs outstretched, but she must’ve slipped into the house a while ago. You dog ear the page and place the book on the small table beside you.

The sun dances on the water, creating a beautiful mosaic of light and shadow. A little slice of heaven on earth, you think. You love spending time in the backyard. It’s peaceful and tranquil.

And that’s when you hear the patter of feet running across the grass from behind, and before you’re able to realise what’s happening, two bodies jump into the pool, the water splashes everywhere – including you.

“What the-” You shut your eyes closed despite the sunglass perched on the bridge of your nose. Water droplets hit your face. You pull your sunglasses up to your forehead.

Two heads pop out of the water. “Hi.” Jungkook is the first to speak up. He sends a sweet smile in your direction, his hand doing a little wave.

Your heart beats faster at the sight of him. Unthinkingly, you slowly mimic the wave with your hand. Your gaze wanders over to the tattoo wreathing his shoulder, peeking out of the water, and the way the droplets run from his face to his neck before your eyes shift to your brother.

Taehyung is fixing his hair, a huge grin plastered on his face.

“What are you guys doing here?” You grab the towel next to you to dry yourself off. “Isn’t it Thursday? I thought you were coming back on Friday?”

“Surprise!” Your brother yells from the pool. When Taehyung notices the pout on your lips, he gives you a quizzical look. “You’re not happy to see me?” He pushes himself out of the pool and walks over to you.

“I had planned to bake you a cake,” you explain sullenly and stand up.

“A cake? For what?”

“Just a little welcome back cake.” You shrug. “Mum bought me the pink Smeg stand mixer and I wanted to try it out.”

“Well, that’s fine. We could bake together?” He opens his arms, and despite him being wet everywhere, you rush into the hug.

“Missed you,” you mumble into his arm. Immediate comfort surrounds you. "But it’s no fun being in the kitchen with you.”

“Yah.” He shoves you away. “Be grateful that I’m letting you ruin my kitchen with all your stuff.”

“Ruin?” you repeat offended. “As far as I know you barely even have anything in your kitchen – let alone your apartment. I’ll decorate everything really pretty, just trust me.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Jungkook pushing himself out of the pool. Taehyung restricts your sight a little, so you take a subtle step to the side. But the second you have a clear view of Jungkook, you instantly regret it.

His arms have gotten bigger – stronger, buffer, just everything – and the water running down his sculpted body is pitifully failing at making this scene less salivating. Oh, and his thighs. His wet swim shorts cling to them, leaving exactly nothing to the imagination.

You hastily look away when Jungkook catches your eyes.

“You missed me too?” Jungkook chips in, standing next to Taehyung. Jungkook wears a cheeky grin and stretches his arms out.

With faux reluctance, you give in. “I guess,” you mutter and gingerly hug him. Jungkook’s big hands are on your back and you feel the slightest tingle.

“You guess?” he scoffs.

He pulls you back and peers down at you beneath his wet locks. You’re a little blinded by the proximity of his gorgeous face. His piercings twinkle in the sun just like is eyes do when he looks at you.

When his hands clasp your waist, you know exactly what he’s scheming.

“Jungkook, don’t.” You try to push him away, but he obviously won’t budge.

“When are you gonna learn that teasing me by the pool never ends well for you?” He cocks his head.

You feel Taehyung’s hand on your shoulder. “You did this to yourself.”

You huff, trying to plead with your eyes. “Jungkook. I really don’t want to get my hair wet.”

“You don’t want me to throw you into the pool?”

“No.” Your mouth twists into a pout. Maybe he’ll spare you for cuteness. Your hands travel to his arms. Or maybe you can distract him enough to let you go.

“Too bad.” Jungkook throws you over his shoulder with an annoying grin. You kick his back with your fists, but it’s hopeless. “That’s, like, one of my favourite summer activities.”

And then he leaps into the pool with you.

~

You admit, you did indeed have fun goofing around with them in the pool – you're still pissed at Jungkook for tossing you into the water though.

“You’ve been alone the whole day?” Taehyung asks when all three of you are out of the pool.

“Yeah, mum and dad said they’d come home later.”

“Why haven’t you invited someone over?”

“Just wanted to enjoy some me time.” You point to your copy of Everything I Know About Love. “I was reading a little.”

“How are thing with Doyoon? Haven’t heard from him in a while.”

It is a reasonable question, given that you haven’t updated Taehyung on your relationship status for, like, a month now. But you’d rather talk about anything but your ex.

“I don’t know,” you reply indifferently. When you spot little Moon plodding around the garden you swoop her up into your arms. “Have you greeted Moonie yet? She’s missed you.” The tiny grey kitty purrs in your hold.

“I spent like 20 minutes cuddling her in the living room when we got here.” Taehyung pets her under her chin and her purring intensifies. “So, what’s with Doyoon? You two had a fight?”

Jungkook joins the kitty cuddles and gives Moon belly rubs.

“I broke up with him.”

Both boys stop their movements. Moon complains meekly at the sudden lack of petting.

“You broke up with him?” Jungkook asks perplexed.

You’re aware it sounds shocking that the girl with huge separation anxiety and attachment issues broke up with her boyfriend of nearly a year, but that is exactly what you did.

“What did he do?” Taehyung's eyebrows are knitted, flashing you a glowering gaze.

You know he is not mad at you – even though he doesn’t particularly like when you keep things hidden from him – but mad at the fact that someone hurt you and he wasn’t there to protect you.

You just shrug.

“How long ago was that?” Taehyung continues his inquiry.

“Uh, like a month ago or so?” You let Moon hop onto the grass. She immediately goes to rub her head against Jungkook’s leg.

“___, if you want me to-”

“Tae, I’m fine. Really.”

“We’ll talk about this later.” In Jungkook’s direction he says, “I’ll get us some towels.” And then he disappears into the house.

Jungkook steps closer to you, now with Moon in his embrace, and changes the subject. “Watchu been up to?” He pinches your cheek. “Senior year was fine without us?”

Frowning, you shove his arm away. “Believe it or not, but school was actually more peaceful without annoying boys in the hallways.”

Jungkook snorts a laugh at your jab. His dimples popping out distract you a little and all you think about is cute and how badly you want to poke them. But instead, you cross your arms in front of your chest.

“So, everything’s been fine?” he asks. “You’re excited for college? Being roomies with Taehyung?” Jungkook’s eyes shimmer teasingly – how could they not, his doe eyes look the sparkliest around you.

Now, you don’t want to seem rude. But when you thought about moving out and finally having the freedom you had dreamed of for so long, you didn’t reckon with the fact that your parents had already arranged your move out without you. You had tabs of pretty apartments near campus saved on your laptop when your mum nonchalantly asked at dinner a few months ago if Taehyung had already removed the furniture from his guest bedroom so you could furnish it to your liking.

You were a little upset – still are upset, but there's nothing you can do.

It’s a sore subject, so you bite the side of your lip sulkily. “Why? Do you wanna move in? I heard you only got a tiny dorm.” You keep your nose in the air.

“Oh no, I love my apartment. I love having my own space and not having to share it with anyone.” Jungkook shakes his head at your wrong assumption, all innocently. “It’s not big, but perfect for one person.” He shrugs. “Will you be fine with only one room to yourself, princess?” He actually flashes you a smile – taunting you with those sickeningly wicked lips and round eyes – but you just roll your eyes at his silly remark and turn on your heel, sashaying your way back to the sun lounger.

“I’m good.” You pick up your towel from the small table to dry you off. “I’ll be perfectly fine. I don’t think I’ll be home much anyway.” You imitate his smile from just a moment ago. “Wanna have the full college experience.” You think you see his face falter for the tiniest second before he recovers.

“Told Taehyung that too?”

You purse your lips in naivety. “Of course he knows.”

“Oh, yeah?” He quirks his brow. You catch his eyes as they dip down to watch you drying your chest.

You blink. “What do you mean – yeah, of course I told him.” You have to contain your laughter when perplexity falls over Jungkook’s face. “What are you thinking of?” Your head falls sideways, mouth curving upwards.

“No, what are you thinking of?”

“Oh, I’m thinking of spending my time in the library to study, maybe explore some cute cafes nearby to study in – oh, creating study groups and having study buddies would be fun!” you exclaim. “And obviously cheering for Taehyung and you,” – you give him a pointed look – “at your games.” You throw the now damp towel back on the lounger. “What were you thinking of?”

He shakes his head, pouty mouth denying that he was thinking of something else. He’s guilelessly rubbing Moon’s back, who has quickly fallen into a little nap in his arms.

“Cheering us on, hm?”

“Just like old times,” you say. “Think I should apply as a cheerleader again?”

Jungkook toys with his lip ring and you hate when he does it because you already have a hard time not blatantly staring at his mouth as it is.

“You-” He stops abruptly.

“What?” you ask, trying to pull the words from him, the tip of your tongue pressing against your top lip.

“You looked good in your cheerleader uniform.” His eyes dart mindlessly over your body.

A short giggle escapes you. “I know, right? Thank you!” You give him a sweet smile over your shoulder as you walk pass Taehyung, who just stepped outside with two towels in his hand.

“Where’re you going?” Taehyung halts next to you.

“Thought I’d make us some drinks,” you reply.

Taehyung gives you a long stare. “That’s what you’ve been up to the past weeks?”

You wave dismissively. “No, not at all.”

But Taehyung can tell when you lie – can smell it from anywhere. It’s something you hate and love at the same time. Sometimes you just want to be left alone, and sometimes, when your guard is up high, he allows you to feel vulnerable through his endless poking and snooping.

“Maybe a little.” An apologetic smile forms on your mouth, eyes going rounder when you hear Taehyung sigh.

Okay, maybe you did drink a little more than you’d like to admit – you got your heart broken. What’s a girl gonna do? – but never too much. And never when you were on your own. Being drunk alone is no fun.

“I promise it’s not that serious,” you say. Nothing a little crying, cuddles from Moon and journaling at night can’t cure. Your visits at stationery stores have been a tad bit excessive this past month – but for good reason.

His eyes tell you that he’s going to confront you about this later. He nods his head to the kitchen inside. “Don’t go too overboard, yeah?”

“Oh, I’ll make you one of my specialties!”

Taehyung doesn’t join your enthusiasm. Instead, he scowls. “Specialties? ___, when did you-”

You hop into the house, not listening anymore. Once he gets a taste of your drink, his grumpy face will ask for another one instead of grumbling about your recklessness.

~

You don’t know what Taehyung and Jungkook are up to, but you hope they took your advice seriously when you told them to put on sunscreen if they want to spend more time outside.

You’re fresh out of a shower. The steam in your bathroom follows you into your bedroom – despite the hot temperatures, you can’t bring yourself to shower with cold water.

With a fluffy towel around you and your kitty ears headband on, you poke your head into your wardrobe to search for clothes.

You just fetched a cute pair of panties when you hear your door fly open.

“Taehyung needs a charger can you-”

Jungkook immediately shuts up.

Your panties slip from your fingers. His eyes move aimlessly over your body until he realises what he’s doing. Flustered, he turns his head around and sees the door wide open. Jungkook quickly closes it, and you don’t know why – maybe he doesn’t want anyone seeing you like this, you think he mentioned earlier that Namjoon was gonna come over too, or maybe he doesn’t want someone seeing him in this untimely situation.

Your cheeks feel on fire. “He needs a phone charger?” you ask when he shifts his gaze back at you.

“Yeah.” You almost giggle at the way he tries not to look down at your body. He already had trouble with that in the backyard.

You pad through your room to find your charger.

“I’m not sure where I put it.” You feel his eyes on you and inevitably, your entire body gradually starts feeling hot. You bend down to take a peek under your bed, tightly holding the towel in front of your chest to keep it from sliding down, but you come up empty-handed.

Jungkook clears his throat. “You know – I think he’ll be fine. If he doesn’t find his I can get mine from home.”

Returning to him, you quickly snatch your panties from the ground and throw them back into your wardrobe.

“Maybe I left it in the living room,” you say, eyes trailing over his bare chest. If he’s not subtle about staring, you won’t be either.

“I’ll tell him to look there.”

You nod. And he nods. But no one moves.

“That looks cute.” He nods towards your headband.

“Oh.” You touch the soft material of your headband. “Thank you.”

“I probably should head back.”

“You really want to leave?”

That elicits a surprised snort from him. “Do you want me to stay?” His eyebrows shoot up.

“I dunno.” You toy with the front of your towel. “Maybe?”

The crooked smile that appears on his face gives you the last push. You’ve got Jungkook alone in your room in nothing but his swim shorts – you'd be a fool not to try.

His eyes are locked on your fingers playing with your towel. Jungkook takes a step towards you. When he raises his tatted arm and gently outlines the curve of your waist with his fingertip, you let go of your towel. With a dull thud it pools around your feet.

“I-” Jungkook is speechless as he stares at your exposed body His doe eyes are wider than you’ve ever seen them. He averts his gaze to your face, pointing his thumb to the door. His mouth parts, but no words come past them.

“Don’t leave.” A little frown scrunches your face. “Do you want to leave?”

“We shouldn’t-” Jungkook shakes his head, eyes furtively glimpsing at your body again before lifting them up. “You sure?” he asks. “You want this?” Hesitantly, his tongue fiddles with his piercing.

You nod and reach for his hand, grabbing a few fingers to drag him closer to you.

“You want this?” he repeats. “Need you to say it. Please.” He’s staring deep into your eyes and you see the desire and restraint striving against each other in his. His question lingering in the air controls his mixed emotions.

“I want this.” You tug him even closer.

His longing glances are all over you – he can’t seem to dwell too long on one curve, he needs to memorise it all.

“Fuck it,” he whispers. And then he cups your jaw, roughly going in for a messy kiss.

You stumble a few steps back, but Jungkook catches you, his fingers dip into the soft skin of your waist. A sigh from you mingles into the kiss. You didn’t think kissing Jungkook would feel so good. But his lips are ridiculously smooth, and he moves his mouth in a fashion that has you yearning for more. Your hands vanish in his hair, teasingly pulling at his damp locks.

He pulls back, breathing heavy. “This is so wrong.” He nuzzles his head into your neck.

“He won’t know.” When you feel his teeth sinking into your skin, you yank him back. “He will if you're gonna suck hickeys on me.”

“You just taste so fucking good,” he mumbles.

You pepper kisses along his jaw before you slowly sink on your knees. The bulge in his shorts stares right at you. Giddy sparks flash through your eyes while you look up at Jungkook.

“You’re not doing this because you drank, right?” His knuckles brush over your cheek.

“Huh?” you feel dizzy, little pink hearts swell up in front of your eyes, the longer you stare into his dreamy face. When you register his question, you deny it with a strong shake of your head. “I’m not drunk.”

He tips your chin up. “You promise?”

“I didn’t put anything in my drink,” you assure him. “I promise.”

With a smile playing on your lips, you place a kiss on his belly button before pulling down his swim shorts. The pink hearts grow even bigger when his cock pops out. It’s a pretty cock – veiny and thick, his tip glistening with a teeny tiny dab of pre-cum. You’ve never been more excited to put a dick in your mouth.

You have one palm around his cock and guide his head to your mouth. You stick your tongue out and sweep it over his slit. The muscles on his abdomen tense. Even the slightest reactions from him excites you, cheeks turning warm in eagerness.

A breathy moan escapes Jungkook at the feeling of your warm lips wrapped around his head and his fingers slide over your kitty ears headband to the back of your head. You like the feeling of his hand on you. It elicits a tingly sensation in your tummy. You take more of him, relaxing your throat as you go.

“Good girl.” His hushed praise has wetness pooling between your thighs. Your fist curled around his cock tightens fleetingly.

More quiet moans fill the room as you bob your head, tongue swirling around his length. You pull off his dick with a lewd sound and pump his cock while you suck on his balls. Jungkook’s head falls back, flaunting his pretty throat you’d die to adorn with your love bites all over.

Dragging your lips over his cock again, his palm pushes your head forward. Almost his entire length vanishes in your mouth and the corner of your eyes start shimmering with tears.

“Fuck, that’s right.” He holds you there, savouring the feeling of your lips pulled taut around his swollen cock. “Taking my cock so good.” When you retract with a gag, his thumb brushes your tear away. “But still too big, huh?”

“You wanna teach me how to take all of it?” You bat your eyes.

Jungkook grins, flashing you his bunny teeth. He glides his tip over your plush lips and to your cheek. “Think you could take it all?”

“If you teach me well enough.” Your palms rest against his muscular thighs. You squeeze them and your mouth turns round in awe of their firmness.

He taps his cock on your face a couple times. “Another time, princess. Just wanna fuck your mouth right now.” Jungkook presses his dick on your mouth. “Open.”

With his cock back in your mouth, he starts moving his hips. He doesn’t force his cock in too far, just enough to have you teary eyed.

“Scoot over there.” His voice his husky as he pulls his dick from your mouth, it distracts you a little from what he’s instructed you to do until Jungkook nudges your shoulder and nods his chin to the back. You crawl backwards on your knees, palms on his thighs. When he’s satisfied, he leans in for a short kiss and you kneel comfortably on the plush carpet beneath you.

He strokes himself, eyebrows drawn together as he ogles your body through his hooded eyes. You could sit here for hours watching him play with himself. He’s just so hot. You love watching hot men do anything.

“Wanna fuck you,” he rasps, words laced with thick, deep lust. He pushes his hair back before it falls prettily into his face. “Can I fuck you?”

Unbeknownst to him, you would do anything he asked you to do now.

When you raise to your feet Jungkook asks, “Can you keep quiet?”

Offence is written on your face as you pad to your nightstand. “Don’t worry. This isn’t the first time I’ve snuck a boy into my room.”

“Who would’ve thought you’re such a dirty girl, hm?” He snatches the condom from your drawer before you can reach for it. He’s practised in tearing the wrapper open and rolling it over his cock. “Bend over your desk for me.”

You prop yourself up on your elbows, arching your back for him. He shoves two fingers up your pussy and you have to bite down your lip to stifle a moan.

“So wet for me already.” Jungkook curls his fingers, and you can’t believe how fast he has your thighs trembling.

Withdrawing his fingers, he aligns his tip to your entrance. Jungkook gradually sinks his cock into you.

“Fuck, you’re big,” you whine, brows pinched together.

“You can take it.” Jungkook moves his hips while his fingers grip your ass, kneading the supple flesh. “Your pussy feels so fucking good – fuck.”

Jungkook fucks you fast – fucks you good, you think you already feel your high building up. He sneaks his around your body, pressing his palm on your tummy.

“You like this?” He puts pressure with his hand and your walls clamp around his cock. A moan escapes you. “Good girl,” he coos. “Wanna make you cum for me.”

“Don’t stop – please don’t stop,” you pant, shutting your eyes closed. Your elbows give in and you rest your arms on the desk.

Jungkook’s cock feels undeniably good, rubbing against your sweet spot and making you see stars while you uncontrollably utter tiny moans.

“Gonna cum around my cock?” Jungkook hand collides against your butt. “Be a good girl and cum for me.”

Your climax consumes you in lightning speed. It swamps your wholly, tears well up in your eyes. Your legs are wobbly, but Jungkook has a safe hand around you.

“That’s a good girl,” he whispers.

His hand on your tummy flies up to your tits, rolling them around in his palm while relentlessly fucking you through your high.

“Has any sneaky link made you cum this fast before?” His voice is tinted in something you can’t quiet pinpoint. It’s deep, fierce.

“Nu-uh.” You’re dizzy and breathless, can’t think straight.

“Good.” He lands a smack on your ass.

His breathing intensifies, cock throbbing in your pussy. Pressing his forehead against your shoulder blade, his husky moans fill your ear. Your eyes roll. There’s nothing hotter than men moaning – especially when it’s Jungkook.

With a final thrust he spills his cum inside the condom. He exhales shakily and the tiniest whine falls from his lips. “Fuck.” Both his hands run over the slope of your ass. Jungkook plants a thoughtless kiss on the nape of your neck. “Fucking you might be my favourite now.”

“Found a new favourite summer activity besides throwing me into the pool?” You smile tiredly, peering over your shoulder.

“No – I’m talking favourite activity in general.” He absent-mindedly roams his palms across your back and down to your butt.

A giddy feeling unfurls in your chest. “Well, don’t tell Tae that.”

“Fuck, I should head downstairs.” Jungkook pulls his cock out, coaxing a little whine from you “You have a bin here?”

“In my bathroom.”

While Jungkook gets rid of the condom, you wrap yourself up in the towel again. You need another shower before putting on clothes.

When he steps out, he quickly throws on his swim shorts. “You gonna take a shower?”

“Yeah...need to fix this.”

Genuine confusion spreads on his face. “You look pretty.” With an endearing smile, dimples out and doe eyes sparkling he adds, “Always.”

Something really tightly wraps around your heart. “Thanks.” Your teeth sink into your bottom lip to stop your smile from growing.

The doorbell rings downstairs.

“Oh, is that Joon?” you ask joyfully. “I need him to recommend me some books again! I missed him so much.”

“He has a girlfriend,” Jungkook tells you.

You frown. You’re not stupid – obviously you know he has one. You’ve seen the pictures he shared on his Instagram stories. What kinda guy goes to a ceramic painting place? That was obviously a date.

“I know.”

When Namjoon’s loud voice screaming for Jungkook reaches your ears, your tummy churns.

“You need to leave.” You push Jungkook towards the door. He opens it and swiftly walks out.

“Hey, Namjoon, is that you?” Jungkook yells.

As you watch Jungkook leave your room, you want him back immediately. It feels unfair to get a taste of what his kisses and touches feel like only to have them taken away.

But deep down you know you two can’t repeat this. You wouldn’t be able to keep it from your brother. Eventually, Taehyung would figure it out.

⭒☆━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☆⭒

pt 1 & pt 2 here <3

[mattslvrxo]

love island series!!

part { 1 }

꣑ৎ { user x dominic fike} ꣑ৎ

{ ! } contains: contains: celebrity love island au, second person pov, slow burn, tension-heavy moments, jealousy, subtle attraction, dom fike already coupled up, reader catching his eye, not cheesy, lowercase style, emotional undercurrent, light angst, groundwork for future drama & steam

they told you this season was going to be different. you thought it was just marketing — “new twists,” “bigger stakes,” “hotter singles” — all buzzwords to make another round of hot strangers in bikinis seem fresh. but then you got flown out a week early. they made you sign extra NDAs, kept repeating how intimate this version would be. curated. exclusive. watched. that’s when it started to feel real. you weren’t even supposed to be here. your friend filled out the application as a joke, said they needed someone who didn’t live for the camera — someone with a resting bitch face, a dry sense of humor, and no desire to promote a fast-fashion code. the producers agreed. and now here you were, freshly mic’d up, lips chapped from the desert heat, locked in a villa in the middle of nowhere spain. you’d almost said no. you hated attention. hated playing games. and love island was a game, even if they never called it that. edited moments. producer-led chaos. strangers trying to out-charm each other for likes, alliances, clout. you weren’t fake enough for that — but something in you said yes anyway. maybe boredom. maybe heartbreak. maybe just… curiosity.

you landed two days before the others. they took your phone, walked you through the rules, stuck you in a villa with blackout curtains and a minibar full of overpriced snacks. you were restless. homesick for a place you didn’t even miss. and then came the first night. five boys stood on the platform, waiting like mannequins. tall, tan, identical in the way gym guys always are. white smiles. scripted charm. one winked at you like he’d already forgotten your name. you were tuning out when the host appeared, glowing with rehearsed excitement. “this year, we’re doing something we’ve never done before,” she beamed. “a limited celebrity edition. one surprise guest. a wildcard. a challenge.” and then he walked out. dominic fike. the air shifted.

he wasn’t trying. he didn’t have to. white t-shirt, cargo pants, curls hanging in his face, tattoos licking up his arms and collarbones. gold chain glinting under the lights. sunglasses still on even though the sun was setting. no smile. no words. just presence. the girls next to you gasped. one whispered, “no fucking way,” and another immediately reapplied her lip gloss. but you just looked. and then you looked away. he didn’t. his eyes stayed on you. not flirtatious. not smug. just… interested. like he saw something he didn’t expect. you didn’t hold the gaze for long — you were too used to pretending not to care. but something about that moment stuck.

he didn’t pick you. he picked alyssa — tall, blonde, the one in a hot pink bikini with 300k on instagram and a rehearsed giggle. she laughed too loudly at his name and curled herself into his side like she was claiming territory. he smiled for the cameras, played along, but his eyes didn’t smile with him. you told yourself it didn’t matter. he wasn’t your type anyway. you liked privacy. liked people who didn’t belong to the world. and dominic… he didn’t belong to anyone, but the world kept trying. and somehow, he kept letting them. you found out later that alyssa’s management begged her to do the show — said it’d boost her following and soften her image. she didn’t want love. she wanted screenshots and storylines.

you were the opposite. you didn’t even tell anyone you were coming here. your ex had gutted you, left you with a lease in your name and an inbox full of unanswered apologies. you weren’t healed, not even close. but you were here, in this strange bubble, trying to find a version of yourself that didn’t ache anymore. dominic wasn’t supposed to factor in. but he didn’t act like the others. he wasn’t loud. didn’t perform. when the cameras weren’t on, he’d sit by the edge of the villa, roll cigarettes, and stare out at the mountains like he was somewhere else entirely. he only spoke when he had something to say — dry jokes, muttered comments, sometimes just a look. and more than once, that look was at you. you weren’t friends. not really. but you weren’t strangers, either. once, when a producer was re-clipping your mic, you found yourself next to him, standing shoulder-to-shoulder in silence. he didn’t look at you right away. just said, quiet, “you hate it here.” you blinked. “…what gave it away?”

“your eyes,” he said, lighting a match instead of a lighter. “what about them?”

“you don’t look around like you’re trying to be seen. just trying to get through it.” you didn’t reply. you didn’t need to. you understood what he meant. alyssa noticed the shift before anyone else. she started clinging harder, laughing louder, asking where he was every time he drifted more than six feet away. she pulled you aside one afternoon and said, dead serious, “he’s mine, okay?” you shrugged. “wasn’t aware we were twelve.”

still, you backed off. you weren’t here to start drama. but every time your eyes found his — across the fire pit, at breakfast, brushing past him near the pool — you felt it. a slow hum. like static under your skin. it came to a head during a party challenge — someone dared him to kiss the girl who “keeps you up at night.” everyone assumed alyssa. even she stepped forward. but he walked past her and kissed you instead. slow. certain. his hand on your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone. it wasn’t for show. and you kissed him back.when it ended, no one spoke. alyssa looked gutted. your heart was pounding. and all you could think was: this wasn’t supposed to happen.

taglist: @birlemsbae @elianamattlvr @sagesturns @adoreyousturniolos @sturnizolo @flowerfike @slvt4chrissturniolo @floweredsturn @sturniolo-szn2 @sturnitup @matts-girlfriend @chrispleasure @sturns-mermaid @loverrgirl3 @chrisspussygang @mattsweethrt @kait123456789876543 @sturnsiolos0 @chrissv4mp @auttysturnz

[mikaylathenerd5]

The Code We Carry + Chapter 1

Main Mainlist ৹ Join My Taglist

Pairing: Isla Sage Navarro x AU Roman Reigns

Summary: What happens when one wild night crashes your carefully coded life?

Meet Isla Navarro, a brilliant Latina AI researcher at Georgia Tech, juggling groundbreaking algorithms, academic pressure, and the weight of being the first in her field. Her life is a high-stakes balancing act—until a steamy night with a stranger flips her world upside down. Enter Roman Reigns, former NFL star turned coach, whose intense eyes and guarded heart are as dangerous as his past.

One night. One secret. One life-changing collision.

When their paths cross again, Isla’s carrying more than her career dreams—she’s pregnant, and Roman’s the father. Now, with viral photos, nosy colleagues, and a high-profile project tying them together, they’re forced to navigate a minefield of attraction, ambition, and secrets. Will they crash and burn, or build something unbreakable?

Content Warning: This chapter contains references to pregnancy, alcohol consumption, sexual content, and workplace pressure/stress. There are also brief mentions of nausea/vomiting and social media scrutiny. Please take care if these topics are sensitive for you.

A/N: Hey loves! 🖤 I’m back with something new, and I’m honestly a little nervous to share it. Meet The Code We Carry, a story that’s been simmering in my heart for a couple of weeks—full of messy decisions, slow-burn heat, and a Latina AI researcher named Isla who’s about to have her world flipped by a guy named Roman. It’s got neon nights, high stakes, and all the feels I love pouring into my writing. If you’re here for fierce POC leads, STEM vibes, or drama that keeps you up past midnight, I hope this hits the spot.

Word Content: 8.6k

Have you ever felt like your life is one bad line of code, waiting to crash the whole system? That was me, Isla Navarro, at twenty-seven, hunched over my laptop in a caffeine-fueled haze, debugging my career and my heart. I should’ve stayed home that night—should’ve ignored Camila’s texts, her promises of neon lights and freedom. But the universe doesn’t care about your to-do list. It’s got a knack for rewriting your script when you’re not looking.

Three weeks ago, I was just a PhD candidate turned Georgia Tech’s youngest faculty hire, my life a tangle of algorithms and deadlines. My inbox was a warzone—grant proposals, seminar notes, emails from undergrads begging for extensions. I hadn’t slept properly in weeks, hadn’t felt alive in longer. But that night, one reckless decision—one collision—changed everything. If I hadn’t gone out, I wouldn’t have met him. If I hadn’t met him, I wouldn’t be carrying a secret that could rewrite my future—or break it entirely.

They say chaos is a great teacher. Guess I’m about to get schooled.

The Atlanta skyline glittered beyond the glass walls of Club Eclipse, a constellation of light and shadow that pulsed with the city’s restless energy. Inside, the air was thick with heat and bass, a rhythm that sank into Isla Navarro’s bones, urging her to move, to feel, to forget. She stood at the bar, her fingers tracing the condensation on her mojito glass, the ice melting into a bittersweet pool. At 27, Isla was a force—an Afro-Latina PhD candidate turned faculty, her name whispered in academic circles for her innovative AI and cybersecurity research. But tonight, in this neon-lit chaos, she was just Isla, out of her depth, her emerald dress clinging to her warm brown skin, her curls loose and wild, bouncing with every subtle shift of her weight. The alcohol—her third drink, maybe fourth—softened the edges of her unease, making the world feel less like a puzzle to solve and more like a wave to ride.

Her cousin Camila had orchestrated this night with the precision of a general, her energy as relentless as the Miami sun they’d both grown up under. Hours earlier, in their cramped Atlanta apartment, Camila had tossed the emerald dress at Isla, her grin wide and unyielding. “You’re a genius, prima, but you’re not a machine,” she’d said, hands on her hips, her gold hoop earrings glinting. “We grew up dancing at Tía’s parties, shaking it till the neighbors complained. You’re 27, not 87—let’s bring that Isla back.” Isla had protested, her voice sharp with excuses—her dissertation revisions, her undergrad mentees, the algorithm she was debugging for early injury detection. But Camila, her cousin and fiercest ally, had laughed, tossing her braids. “You’re coming, Isla, or I’m dragging you, like that time we snuck into Abuela’s quinceañera stash.” Isla had sighed, the memory of their teenage mischief softening her resolve. Resistance was futile with Camila, who’d been her shadow since they were kids in Miami, two peas in a Cuban pod.

Now, here she was, surrounded by strangers, the music a siren call she didn’t know how to answer. Camila was on the dance floor, her laughter cutting through the noise like a blade. She spun with a guy whose name Isla hadn’t caught, her red dress a blur of motion, her joy infectious. Isla sipped her mojito, the mint sharp against her tongue, and let her eyes wander. The crowd was a kaleidoscope of bodies, swaying to a Bad Bunny remix that made her smile. This is home, she thought, her hips twitching to the reggaeton beat, even if I’m lost in it. She caught herself, her practical side whispering, Not tonight, Isla. You’re here for Camila, not to lose control. But the rhythm had other plans, pulling at the edges of her restraint.

She leaned against the bar, the cool metal grounding her, and scanned the room. The air was heavy with perfume and sweat, the neon lights painting the crowd in electric hues—pink, blue, green. A group of women laughed nearby, their heels clicking against the floor. A couple swayed too close to the bar, their hands tangled in each other’s clothes. Isla’s gaze drifted, aimless, until it landed on him.

He stood near a VIP booth, a pillar of quiet strength amid the chaos. Broad shoulders stretched the fabric of his black shirt, the sleeves rolled to reveal forearms corded with muscle. His dark hair was pulled into a neat bun, a few strands escaping to frame his face, and his presence seemed to bend the room’s gravity, drawing eyes without effort. He was talking to a group of guys, his laugh low and rich, like thunder rolling in the distance. One of them clapped his shoulder, grinning. “Man, you’ve been through worse than a bad season, Roman,” the friend said, his voice carrying over the music, laced with respect. “Dodging linebackers, dodging drama—same thing, right?”

Roman smirked, his eyes crinkling, but there was a shadow in his expression, a guarded edge that flickered and vanished. “Old habits,” he replied, his voice deep and warm, a sound that settled into Isla’s chest like a stone. “Some fights you don’t walk away from clean.” The words were light, but his tone carried weight, a hint of battles fought off the field, scars hidden beneath his easy charm.

Then his gaze flicked up, meeting hers across the sea of bodies. The world tilted. His eyes, dark and piercing, held hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. They were the kind of eyes that saw too much, that stripped away pretense without trying. He raised his glass, a subtle nod, his lips curving into a half-smile that promised trouble—delicious, dangerous trouble. Isla’s pulse quickened, a drumbeat she couldn’t silence. She wasn’t the type to flirt with strangers—her life was code, data, control—but the alcohol sang in her veins, loosening the walls she’d built since she was a girl in Miami, carrying her parents’ dreams.

She tilted her head, returning the nod, her own smile tentative but real. Qué locura, she thought, her heart racing. The connection lingered, electric, a wire sparking between them. His friends pulled him back into conversation, but his eyes flicked to her again, a second glance that felt like a question. Isla turned to the bar, her fingers tightening around her glass, her breath uneven. She downed the rest of her mojito, the burn grounding her, and signaled the bartender.

“Another?” he asked, already reaching for the rum.

She hesitated, her practical side screaming to slow down, to leave. But the music, the heat, the memory of his smile—they drowned it out. “Make it quick,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

The night unraveled like a dream she couldn’t pin down, each moment vivid but fleeting, like code running too fast to debug. Camila reappeared, her eyes sparkling with mischief, her skin glowing with sweat. “You’re not hiding at the bar all night, prima,” she declared, grabbing Isla’s hand. “Dance with me, like we did at Tía’s block parties!” Isla laughed, the sound foreign to her own ears, and let Camila pull her to the dance floor.

The music swallowed them, a reggaeton beat that had Isla’s hips swaying, her body remembering the rhythms of their childhood—salsa lessons in their abuela’s living room, merengue at Miami block parties. She closed her eyes, letting the bass guide her, her curls bouncing as she moved. Camila spun her, shouting, “There’s my girl!” and Isla grinned, the alcohol and music stripping away her usual restraint. She felt alive, untethered, the weight of her research, her deadlines, her responsibilities dissolving in the heat of the crowd. For once, she wasn’t the prodigy, the mentor, the daughter carrying a legacy. She was just Isla, free.

She opened her eyes, and he was there. Close. His scent—sandalwood and cedar, with a hint of smoke—cut through the haze of perfume and liquor. He stood at the edge of the dance floor, watching her, his presence a physical weight. The crowd seemed to part for him, his broad frame cutting a path as he approached. “Dance with me,” he said, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down her spine, barely audible over the music but clear as a bell in her mind.

She didn’t ask his name, didn’t think. Her body answered before her mind could catch up, a nod that felt like surrender. He stepped closer, his hands finding her waist, firm but not possessive, guiding her into the rhythm. She pressed against him, her hands resting on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath her palms. His body was solid, warm, a contrast to the chaos around them. Dios mío, she thought, what am I doing? But she didn’t pull away.

“Roman,” he said, leaning in, his breath grazing her ear. The name was a promise, a key unlocking something she hadn’t known was locked.

“Isla,” she replied, her voice soft, almost lost in the music. His lips curved, and she felt it against her skin, a smile that made her heart stutter.

They danced, bodies locked in a conversation words couldn’t touch. His hands traced the curve of her hip, her spine, each touch electric, sparking heat that pooled low in her belly. She tilted her head back, meeting his gaze, and found his eyes dark with want, but also something softer—curiosity, maybe, or recognition. The world shrank to the heat between them, the pulse of the music, the way his fingers tightened slightly when she pressed closer. She wasn’t drunk, not entirely, but she was intoxicated by him, by the freedom of this moment.

“You dance like you mean it,” he said, his voice teasing but his eyes serious, as if he saw more than she wanted him to.

“Only when the music’s right,” she shot back, emboldened, her smile playful. “You’re not bad yourself.”

He laughed, a sound that vibrated through her, and spun her gently, pulling her back against him. “I’ve had practice,” he said, his lips brushing her ear. “Years on the field, reading moves, staying one step ahead. But you—you’re making it easy.”

The hint of his past—on the field—caught her, a glimpse of a life shaped by discipline and pressure. “Sounds like a story,” she said, her voice light but curious, testing the waters.

His smile tightened, just for a moment, a shadow crossing his face. “One I don’t tell on dance floors,” he said, but his tone was warm, deflecting without shutting her out. “Tonight’s about you, Isla.”

The words sent a thrill through her, his focus a spotlight she hadn’t expected. They talked—about the music, the city, the way Atlanta never slept—but it was surface, a veneer over the real conversation happening in their touches, their glances. When he suggested shots, she laughed, reckless, and followed him to the bar, her hand in his, his thumb brushing her knuckles.

At the bar, he ordered tequila, his eyes never leaving hers. “To new beginnings,” he said, raising his shot, his voice low, like he meant more than the night, a man chasing something beyond the moment.

She clinked her glass against his, her heart pounding. “To forgetting tomorrow,” she replied, and they drank, the burn searing her throat, his laugh searing her deeper. “You’re trouble,” he said, his voice teasing, but his gaze said he meant it, his hand brushing hers as he passed her another shot.

“Me?” She arched a brow, the alcohol making her bold. “You’re the one buying shots for strangers.”

“Not a stranger anymore,” he countered, his fingers lingering on hers, the touch a spark that set her alight. “Isla,” he added, her name a caress, and she shivered, caught in the pull of him.

The cab ride was a fever of anticipation, neon lights blurring outside as their hands roamed. Roman’s fingers gripped her thigh, his touch firm and possessive, sending heat coursing through her. Isla’s nails grazed his neck, drawing a low growl from him, his eyes dark with hunger. “You’re playing with fire, Isla,” he murmured, his lips brushing her ear, his voice a warning that thrilled her.

“Good thing I like the burn,” she shot back, her voice husky, her lips grazing his jaw, tasting salt and desire. His hand tightened, pulling her closer, and she laughed, the sound swallowed by the city’s hum. In the backseat, their bodies pressed close, her hand sliding up his chest, feeling the hard lines beneath his shirt, his breath hitching as she teased the edge of his collar. “Careful,” he whispered, his voice rough, his hand catching hers, pinning it against his chest. “You’re testing me.”

“Test passed?” she teased, her lips brushing his earlobe, her boldness fueled by tequila and desire.

“Not yet,” he growled, his free hand sliding to her lower back, pulling her flush against him, the heat of his body igniting hers. The cab stopped, and they stumbled out, the night air cool against their flushed skin, their hands still tangled, their laughter breathless.

The hotel was sleek, impersonal, a glass-and-steel tower that promised anonymity. They stumbled through the lobby, her heels clicking against marble, his arm around her waist, steadying her. In the elevator, the air crackled, their reflections in the mirrored walls showing two people teetering on the edge. Roman pressed her against the wall, his hands framing her face, his lips hovering over hers. “Last chance to walk away,” he said, his voice rough, his eyes searching, a man who knew the cost of reckless nights.

“Don’t want to,” she whispered, her hands gripping his shirt, pulling him down. Their kiss was a spark, igniting the space between them, her body arching into his, his groan vibrating through her. His hands slid down, cupping her hips, lifting her slightly so her legs brushed his, the friction electric. She tugged his hair, loosening more strands, her fingers tangling in the dark waves, and he deepened the kiss, his tongue teasing hers, a promise of what was coming. The ding of the elevator broke them apart, their breaths ragged, their eyes locked.

In the hallway, they were a tangle of hands and heat, Roman’s lips on her neck, her nails scraping his back through his shirt. He fumbled with the keycard, cursing softly, and she laughed, stealing it from him, her fingers brushing his as she unlocked the door. “Slow, huh?” she teased, her voice playful, her eyes daring him to prove her wrong.

“You’re gonna regret that,” he growled, his smirk predatory, and he pulled her inside, the door slamming shut behind them.

The hotel room was a cocoon of dim light and city hum, the curtains half-drawn, casting shadows that danced across the walls. The door clicked shut, and the world fell away, leaving only the heat between them, a wildfire ready to consume. Roman’s hands were on her before she could catch her breath, pulling her against him with a hunger that set her alight. His lips crashed into hers, urgent and demanding, tasting of tequila and raw desire, a kiss that devoured her senses, deep and unyielding, like he was claiming every inch of her soul. Isla melted into it, her fingers tangling in his hair, yanking the tie free until dark strands spilled over her hands, soft and heavy, a contrast to the hard planes of his body. He groaned, the sound low and primal, vibrating through her, and lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist, the emerald dress riding up her thighs, baring her skin to his touch.

He pressed her against the wall, the cool plaster a shock against her back, his body a furnace pinning her in place, his hips grinding against hers in a slow, deliberate rhythm that made her gasp. His lips broke from hers, trailing fire down her jaw, her neck, his stubble scraping deliciously against her skin, leaving a trail of heat that pulsed low in her belly. “You’re driving me fucking crazy, Isla,” he growled, his voice rough, his hands gripping her hips, fingers digging in just enough to make her arch into him, her nails raking his shoulders, urging him closer. Dios mío, let me burn, she thought, drunk on him, on the night, on the freedom of this reckless surrender.

“Keep up, then,” she challenged, her voice husky, her lips curving into a defiant smirk as she tugged at his shirt, buttons straining, her fingers itching for skin. His eyes darkened, a predator’s gleam, and he set her down, only to yank his shirt off in one fluid motion, revealing a chest sculpted from years of discipline, scars and tattoos telling stories of battles won and lost. A jagged scar curved along his ribs, a testament to pain survived, and a Samoan tribal tattoo sprawled across his shoulder, its bold lines flowing like a river, drawing her gaze. She traced it with her fingertips, her touch light but deliberate, and he shivered, his breath hitching, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through his intensity.

“Old wounds,” he said softly, his voice barely audible, a confession that hung between them, raw and unguarded, a glimpse of a man who’d fought and lost and fought again.

“Beautiful ones,” she replied, her voice steady, her eyes locking on his, and his smile was small, guarded, but real, a crack in his armor that made her heart ache for a man she’d never truly know.

Her dress was next, his hands deft and sure, peeling the emerald fabric from her body until it pooled at her feet, leaving her in black lace that made his eyes flare with hunger. His gaze raked over her, dark and reverent, taking in every curve, every inch of her warm brown skin, the shadows playing across her body like a canvas. “Goddamn, Isla,” he muttered, his voice a low growl, almost a prayer, and she laughed, the sound turning to a moan as he pulled her close, his lips claiming her collarbone, her throat, his teeth grazing just enough to spark heat that pooled between her thighs.

“You’re all talk,” she teased, her voice a dare, her nails grazing his chest, tracing the lines of his tattoo, drawing a hiss from him that made her smirk. He grinned, wicked and wild, and lifted her again, carrying her to the bed, the mattress creaking under their weight as he laid her down, his body hovering over hers, a storm ready to break. But he didn’t rush, his lips finding hers in a slower kiss, teasing, his tongue tracing the seam of her mouth, coaxing her open, savoring her like she was the only thing that mattered.

She moaned, her hands roaming his back, feeling the flex of muscle, the heat of his skin slick with sweat, her curls brushing his shoulders as she arched into him. He pulled back, his eyes locked on hers, and slid a hand down her thigh, hooking her leg over his hip, his fingers teasing the edge of her lace, maddeningly light, drawing a whimper from her. “You want this?” he murmured, his voice rough, his touch a deliberate torture, a man who knew how to play her body like a game he’d already won.

“Yes,” she breathed, her hips arching, her body begging for more, her hands tugging at his hair, pulling just enough to make him groan. “Don’t make me wait, Roman.” Her words were a dare, and his laugh was low, dangerous, as he stripped the lace away, his hands sure and unyielding, tossing it aside like it offended him.

He kissed her again, deep and consuming, his lips trailing down her neck, her chest, pausing to tease her breasts with slow, deliberate licks, his teeth grazing her sensitive skin, making her gasp, her fingers digging into his shoulders. “You’re so responsive,” he murmured, his voice a rumble against her skin, his hands cupping her, thumbs circling until she was writhing, her breath hitching. She clutched his hair, pulling him closer, her moans soft and desperate, her body trembling under his touch, the anticipation a sweet ache.

His lips moved lower, kissing a path down her stomach, his stubble scraping as he lingered, his breath hot against her core. “Let’s see how much you can handle,” he teased, his voice a challenge, his eyes flicking up to meet hers, a smirk playing on his lips. She laughed, breathless, her hands fisting the sheets, but the sound turned to a moan as his tongue found her, teasing, exploring, each stroke deliberate, drawing sounds she couldn’t stifle. The room spun, the dim lights casting shadows on their bodies, the city’s hum a faint echo against the creak of the bedframe, the slickness of their sweat, the rhythm of her ragged breaths.

He didn’t rush, his hands gripping her thighs, holding her open, his tongue relentless, pushing her closer to the edge with every flick, every swirl. “Roman,” she gasped, his name a plea, her hips bucking, her body trembling, and he groaned, the vibration sending shivers through her, as if her voice alone could undo him. She reached down, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling hard, and he growled, the sound raw, his pace intensifying until she was teetering, her moans louder, unfiltered, the world narrowing to the heat of his mouth, the fire building inside her.

Just when she thought she’d break, he pulled back, his lips glistening, his eyes wild, and she whimpered, her body aching for release. “Not yet,” he said, his voice rough, his smirk infuriating and intoxicating, and he rose, shedding his pants, his body a masterpiece of strength and scars, his arousal evident, making her pulse race. She reached for him, her fingers wrapping around him, stroking slowly, drawing a hiss from him, his head tipping back, his control fraying. “Fuck, Isla,” he muttered, his voice strained, his hands gripping her hips, steadying himself.

“You’re all talk,” she taunted, her voice playful, her eyes daring him, and he laughed, a sound that was half-growl, half-surrender, as he pulled her hand away, pinning both her wrists above her head with one hand, his grip firm but not cruel. “Let’s see you handle this,” he countered, his lips brushing hers, his free hand guiding himself, teasing her entrance, drawing a moan from her that echoed in the quiet room.

He entered her slowly, deliberately, his eyes locked on hers, watching every flicker of her expression, the stretch and heat overwhelming, her breath catching. She arched, her legs wrapping around him, urging him deeper, her nails digging into his hand, leaving marks he’d feel tomorrow. He moved, powerful and precise, each thrust a rhythm that matched the fire in her veins, the bedframe creaking in protest, the shadows shifting across his tattooed shoulder. “You feel so good,” he growled, his voice rough, his lips brushing her ear, murmuring her name like a mantra, “Isla, fuck, Isla,” the sound sending shivers through her.

She tugged a hand free, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling hard, drawing a growl from him that made her smirk, the power shifting, their bodies a dance of give and take. “Harder,” she whispered, her voice a challenge, her hips meeting his, and he obliged, his pace quickening, his grip on her hip tightening, his fingers leaving faint bruises she’d trace later. She kissed him, hard and messy, her teeth grazing his lip, tasting salt and desire, her moans swallowed by his, the intensity building, a wildfire neither could control.

He shifted, rolling them so she was on top, his hands gripping her hips, guiding but not controlling, letting her set the pace. She moved, slow at first, then faster, her curls bouncing, her skin slick with sweat, her eyes locked on his, the intensity of his gaze pushing her closer to the edge. “Look at you,” he said, his voice rough, his hands roaming her back, her thighs, one thumb finding her core, circling until she gasped, her rhythm faltering, her body trembling. She leaned down, kissing him hard, her nails scraping his chest, leaving faint red lines, the power hers for a moment, his groans spurring her on.

But Roman wasn’t one to yield for long. He sat up, pulling her flush against him, his hands gripping her ass, guiding her movements, his lips claiming her neck, her shoulder, his teeth grazing her skin, marking her in ways that felt primal. “You’re something else, Isla,” he murmured, his voice heavy with want, his eyes locking on hers, and for a moment, she felt seen—not the PhD, not the mentor, just her, raw and real, a woman unraveling under his gaze. The vulnerability shook her, a crack in her armor, but she pushed it aside, chasing the heat, the now, the man who’d set her alight.

She pushed him back, straddling him, her hands on his chest, her movements deliberate, drawing moans from him that matched her own, the bed creaking louder, the room a haze of heat and shadows. “You’re not bad yourself,” she teased, her voice breathless, her smirk defiant, and he laughed, the sound turning to a groan as she tightened around him, her body responding to every thrust, every touch.

He flipped them again, pinning her beneath him, his weight grounding her, his hands framing her face, his thrusts deeper, harder, pushing her closer to the edge. “Come for me, Isla,” he whispered, his voice a command and a plea, his thumb circling her core again, relentless, his lips brushing hers, their breaths mingling. She shattered, her moans loud and unfiltered, her body trembling, her nails digging into his back, the world dissolving into heat and light and him. He followed, his groan raw, his grip tightening, his body shuddering against hers, their release a shared wildfire that burned through them both.

When they collapsed, breathless and spent, the air was heavy with the scent of sweat and sex, their bodies tangled, hearts pounding. He pulled her against him, his arm heavy across her waist, his chest rising and falling against her back, his breath warm against her neck. “You’re something else,” he murmured, half-asleep, his voice warm with amusement, but there was a softness there, a hint of a man who didn’t let many people close. She smiled, her heart twisting, savoring his warmth but pulling back mentally. “Just for tonight,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, the fleeting nature of the night settling in, a spark that would burn out by morning. This burns bright, but it’s gone by dawn, she thought, the truth a quiet ache in her chest. She drifted off, the alcohol and exhaustion pulling her under, his heartbeat a steady rhythm that lulled her to sleep.

She woke to sunlight slicing through the curtains, her head pounding, her mouth dry as sandpaper. The bed was empty, the sheets cold, the space beside her a void that echoed in her chest. No note, no trace of him beyond the ache in her muscles, the faint bruises on her hips, and the lingering scent of sandalwood on the pillow. Her dress lay crumpled on the floor, a silent accusation, its emerald fabric stark against the beige carpet. She sat up, her head spinning, and pieced together fragments of the night—his voice, his touch, the way she’d let go. Roman. The name was all she had, a ghost of a man she’d never see again.

Shame crept in, sharp and unwelcome, a blade slicing through her haze. She wasn’t this person, the one who hooked up with strangers and woke up alone. She was Isla Navarro, cybersecurity innovator, mentor to undergrads, the daughter her parents had pinned their dreams on. Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind, firm and unyielding: “Never let anything derail you, mija. You’re our future.” This night, this mistake, was a glitch, a bug in her carefully coded life. She’d delete it from her memory and move on.

She dressed quickly, her fingers fumbling with the zipper, her reflection in the hotel mirror showing a woman she barely recognized—curls tangled, eyes shadowed, lips still swollen from his kisses. She called an Uber, ignoring the driver’s curious glance, and spent the ride home staring out the window, the Atlanta skyline blurring into streaks of light and steel. Her apartment was a sanctuary, small but hers, filled with books, plants, and the faint scent of the café con leche she brewed every morning. She showered, the hot water washing away the night, and collapsed into her bed, the familiar creak of the mattress grounding her. By the time she woke again, Roman was a ghost, a name she’d never hear again, buried deep where it couldn’t touch her.

Weeks later, Isla stood in her kitchen, the scent of sazón and garlic lingering from the arroz con pollo she’d cooked the night before, a recipe from her abuela that always calmed her. She was trying to focus, her laptop open to a half-finished paper, but her body had other plans. Nausea had plagued her for days, a nagging discomfort she’d blamed on stress—her seminar was looming, her mentees needed her, her tenure track demanded perfection. But this morning, she couldn’t keep breakfast down, the toast and café con leche rebelling in her stomach.

She sat on the bathroom floor, the tile cold against her legs, staring at the pregnancy test in her hand. Two lines. Her breath caught, her vision narrowing to those stark blue marks. No. No puede ser. She’d bought the test on a whim, a precaution, but the reality hit like a tidal wave. She was 27, her career on the cusp of greatness—her AI research was turning heads, her mentorship program lifting underrepresented students. A baby wasn’t in the plan. Neither was a father she barely remembered, a man whose face was a blur of tequila and desire.

She clutched the test, her hands trembling, and leaned her head back against the wall. Dios mío, what have I done? Her parents’ faces flashed in her mind, their pride and sacrifice a weight she’d carried since childhood. Her mother, a nurse who’d worked double shifts, had always said, “You’re our future, Isla. Don’t let anything stop you.” Her father, a mechanic with calloused hands, had saved every penny for her education, his quiet pride a constant pressure. A baby, now, felt like a betrayal of their dreams, of the girl who’d promised to make them proud.

For days, she carried the secret like a stone, her routine a fragile shield. She went to work, coded algorithms, met with mentees, but the test haunted her, hidden in a drawer under papers. One night, alone in her apartment, she sat at her desk, a journal open, her pen hovering. Te siento, pequeño, she wrote in Spanish, pero no estoy lista. I don’t know how to be your mother, not when I’m still building me. The words blurred, her tears smudging the ink, and she closed the journal, her heart heavy with guilt and a strange, growing attachment.

She pulled out her phone, her thumb hovering over a contact labeled “Unknown,” a number she vaguely remembered Roman giving her at the bar, scribbled on a napkin she’d kept for reasons she couldn’t name. She drafted a message: I need to talk. It’s important. Her finger lingered on send, her mind racing. He deserves to know, she thought, but what if he ruins everything? What if he’s not the man I felt that night? Fear won, and she deleted the message, her breath shaky, her secrecy a painful choice she wasn’t ready to unravel.

She told no one, not even Camila, who’d see through her in a heartbeat. She needed time to think, to debug this variable that didn’t fit. She hid the test deeper, buried under papers, and threw herself into work, her research a lifeline. Her latest project, using AI to detect early player injuries for the Georgia Tech Yellow Jackets, was her focus. She coded algorithms that analyzed biomechanics, predicting micro-injuries before they became career-enders. It was groundbreaking, a chance to save athletes and secure her tenure. Her undergrad mentees thrived under her guidance, their enthusiasm a reminder of why she loved this work.

One of them, Maya, a shy freshman with a knack for coding, stopped by her office one afternoon, her eyes bright. “Dr. Navarro, I got into the research program because of you,” she said, clutching a notebook. “You make me believe I can do this, even when I feel out of place.” Isla smiled, her heart twisting. Maya was like her younger self—brown skin, big dreams, the weight of being “the first” in her family. Can I still be that for her? she thought, her hand brushing her stomach, where the secret lay.

Camila, relentless as ever, noticed the change. They met for coffee at a campus café, the air thick with the scent of espresso and cinnamon. Camila leaned across the table, her eyes narrowing, her gold hoop earrings catching the light. “You’re off, prima,” she said, her voice soft but firm, her Miami accent thick with concern. “Pale, quiet, like you’re carrying the world. Tía would kill us both if you burn out like this. What’s up?”

Isla stirred her latte, the foam swirling in patterns she couldn’t read. “Just stress,” she said, avoiding her gaze. “The seminar’s coming up, and the project’s intense.”

“Bullshit,” Camila said, her voice sharp with love, her hand reaching for Isla’s. “You’ve handled worse. Deadlines, grants, teaching—you eat stress for breakfast. This is different. Is it a guy? That night at the club I dragged you to?”

Isla’s heart skipped, the memory of Roman’s hands flashing unbidden. She shook her head, her curls bouncing. “No guy. Just work.”

Camila leaned back, crossing her arms, her red nails tapping the table. “You’re a terrible liar, Isla. I’m your cousin—I know you better than anyone. Something’s eating you, and I’m not letting it go.” She softened, her eyes searching. “You don’t have to do this alone, prima. We’re family.”

Isla squeezed her hand, grateful but guarded. “I’m fine, Camila. Promise.” But her voice cracked, and Camila’s eyes narrowed, unconvinced.

That night, Camila’s texts lit up Isla’s phone: You’re pregnant, aren’t you? I see it in your face, prima. Who’s the guy? Isla stared at the screen, her thumb hovering, then typed, I’m fine. Drop it. But the next day, Camila called, her voice gentle but insistent. “Isla, you can’t code your way out of this. If you’re pregnant, you need to deal with it. You know how our family is—secrets don’t last. Who’s the father?”

Isla sat on her couch, the TV muted, a plate of uneaten tostones on the coffee table. “I don’t know him,” she lied, her voice barely a whisper. “It was a mistake.”

Camila sighed, the sound heavy with love. “A mistake doesn’t mean you’re alone, prima. Tell me when you’re ready, okay? I’m here, always.” Isla nodded, though Camila couldn’t see, and hung up, her secret a weight she carried alone, Roman’s name a locked file she couldn’t open.

The seminar was days away, and Isla threw herself into preparation, her office a chaos of papers, coffee cups, and code. She stood at her desk, staring at a framed photo of her parents, taken at her college graduation. Her mother’s smile was proud, her father’s eyes soft with tears. They gave everything for me, she thought, her hand brushing her stomach, where the life inside her stirred. She hadn’t decided what to do—adoption, motherhood, something else—but the choice felt like a cliff she wasn’t ready to jump from.

She practiced her presentation in front of a mirror, her voice steady but her reflection haunted. Nausea came in waves, and she kept ginger ale and crackers in her bag, a silent concession to her condition. She imagined the seminar, the room packed with faculty, students, and athletic staff, her AI project the star. It was her chance to shine, to prove she was more than a glitch, more than a mistake.

The morning of the seminar, she stood in her apartment, smoothing her navy blazer, her curls pulled into a sleek bun. She looked professional, composed, but her hands trembled as she zipped her bag. You’ve got this, she told herself, but the flutter in her stomach wasn’t just nerves. She drove to campus, the Atlanta skyline a blur, and parked near the lecture hall, her heart pounding as she walked inside.

The room was packed, a sea of faces—faculty in suits, students with laptops, athletic staff in Yellow Jackets gear. Isla stood at the podium, her slides a masterpiece of data and innovation, her laptop humming softly. She began, her voice clear, her passion for her work shining through. She explained how her AI models analyzed player biomechanics, detecting micro-injuries before they became career-enders. The Yellow Jackets were her testing ground, and the athletic department was watching closely, their interest a validation of her vision. She was in her element, the room hanging on her words, her confidence a shield against the nausea that lingered.

She clicked to a slide showing real-time data, her voice steady. “By integrating kinematic analysis with machine learning, we can predict injuries with 92% accuracy, giving trainers a head start on intervention.” The audience murmured, impressed, and she allowed herself a small smile, her nerves easing. She was halfway through, reaching for a sip of water, when she saw him.

In the back row, arms crossed, his broad frame impossible to miss. Dark hair in a bun, dark eyes locked on her. Roman. The name slammed into her, a tidal wave crashing her mental processes. Fragments of that night flooded back—his voice, low and teasing; his hands, warm and sure; the hotel room, a blur of heat and surrender. Her hand shook, the water glass clinking against the podium, the sound sharp in the quiet room. She forced her eyes to her slides, but her pulse was a drumbeat, wild and unyielding, drowning out her carefully coded calm.

What was he doing here? He wasn’t faculty, wasn’t a student. Her mind raced, piecing together fragments. The athletic department. Her project was tied to the football team, and she’d heard whispers of a new defensive coordinator, a former NFL player with a reputation for intensity and innovation. Roman Reigns. It had to be him.

Her stomach twisted, not just from nausea but from the impossible truth. He was the father of her unborn child. A man she’d tried to erase, a one-night stand she’d buried under layers of denial. And now he was here, watching her present her life’s work, oblivious to the secret binding them. His gaze was steady, analytical, but there was something else—a flicker of curiosity, maybe recognition, that made her heart stutter.

She gripped the podium, her knuckles whitening, and continued, her voice steady despite the chaos in her head. “Our next phase involves real-time integration with wearable tech,” she said, clicking to a graph, her words automatic, honed by weeks of practice. The audience nodded, scribbling notes, but she barely saw them. Roman’s presence was a weight, a variable she couldn’t control.

The presentation ended, and the applause was thunderous, a validation of her brilliance that barely registered. She smiled, thanked the audience, and opened the floor for questions, her movements mechanical. A professor asked about data privacy, and she answered sharply, her expertise a lifeline. A student questioned scalability, and she fielded it with ease, her voice calm, her mind screaming. Then Roman raised his hand, his voice cutting through the room like a blade, low and deliberate.

“Dr. Navarro, your model’s impressive,” he said, his tone professional but his eyes searching, lingering on her in a way that felt personal. “I’ve seen injuries end careers—my own included. How would your system adapt to defensive strategies, where reaction times are split-second and physicality’s unpredictable?”

The question was incisive, strategic, a glimpse of the mind behind the man she’d met that night. His words—my own included—hit her, a hint of a past marked by loss, his fist clenching slightly on the armrest, a tell he didn’t mean to show. She gripped the podium, a wave of nausea hitting, and swallowed hard, her ginger ale long gone. A flashback seized her—his lips on hers, his voice whispering her name, the hotel room’s dim light—and she blinked it away, her heart racing. He can’t know, she thought, but what if he finds out?

“We’d integrate real-time kinematic data, adjusting for positional demands,” she said, her voice steady, her eyes meeting his briefly, then darting away. “It’s about predictive precision, not just detection, tailored to each player’s role.” He nodded, a flicker of respect in his gaze, and she hated how it warmed her, how it reminded her of his laugh at the bar.

Another question came, then another, and she answered on autopilot, her brilliance carrying her through. But Roman’s presence was a current, pulling at her focus, his gaze never wavering. When the session ended, she gathered her notes, her hands trembling, avoiding the back of the room. She needed to escape, to process this alone, to rebuild the walls he’d shattered just by being here.

But as she stepped off the stage, he approached, his presence a physical weight, his footsteps steady against the hardwood floor. “Dr. Navarro,” he said, holding out a business card, his voice smooth but edged with something she couldn’t place—curiosity, maybe, or challenge. “I’m Roman Reigns, defensive coordinator. Your work’s going to change the game. We’ll be collaborating.”

His fingers brushed hers as she took the card, and the touch was a spark, triggering a memory of his hands on her skin, his lips against her neck. Her breath caught, her eyes flicking to his, searching for recognition. But his face was professional, his smile polite, though his gaze lingered, studying her like a puzzle he couldn’t solve. He doesn’t remember, she realized, and the relief was laced with a strange ache, a loss she hadn’t expected.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, her voice steady despite the storm within, the lie bitter on her tongue. “I look forward to it.”

He studied her, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if sensing the crack in her facade. “I’m here to rebuild,” he said, his voice low, almost confiding. “Not just the team, but myself. Your tech’s a start, but I’m betting you’ve got more to offer.” The words were professional, but the way he said them, the weight of his gaze, felt personal, like he saw more than she wanted him to.

She nodded, clutching the card, its edges sharp against her palm. “We’ll make it work,” she said, forcing a smile, and turned away, her heart pounding as she slipped through the crowd, their murmurs fading behind her. She made it to the hallway, the campus quiet around her, and leaned against the wall, her breath shallow, her mind racing.

Roman Reigns. Defensive coordinator. Former NFL star. A man whose intensity on the field was matched only by the quiet strength she’d felt in his arms that night. And now, the father of her child—a child she hadn’t planned for, a variable she couldn’t control. She pressed a hand to her stomach, the flutter beneath her skin grounding her, a reminder of the truth she carried alone. What do I do now? she thought, her eyes stinging, her resolve fraying.

Days later, the follow-up meeting loomed like a storm cloud, its weight pressing on Isla’s shoulders. She stood in her office, the late afternoon sun filtering through the blinds, casting stripes across her desk. Her laptop was open, her demo ready, but her mind was elsewhere. She stared at a framed photo of her parents, taken at her college graduation, their smiles proud, their eyes soft with hope. They gave everything for me, she thought, her hand brushing her stomach, where the life inside her stirred. She hadn’t decided what to do—adoption, motherhood, something else—but the choice felt like a cliff she wasn’t ready to jump from.

She’d been avoiding Camila, whose texts had grown more insistent: You’re pregnant, aren’t you, prima? I see it in your face. Who’s the guy? You can’t keep this from me forever. Two nights ago, Isla had caved, calling Camila from her couch, the TV muted, a plate of uneaten tostones on the coffee table. “I’m pregnant,” she’d admitted, her voice barely a whisper, the words heavy with shame. “It was a one-night thing. I don’t know him.”

Camila’s silence had been loud, her voice gentle when she finally spoke. “A mistake doesn’t mean you’re alone, Isla. You know how our family is—secrets don’t last, not with Tía and Tío watching us like hawks. You don’t have to know him to figure this out. But you need to tell him, whoever he is. And you need to tell me when you’re ready. I’m here, prima, always.” Isla had nodded, though Camila couldn’t see, and hung up, her secret a weight she carried alone, Roman’s name a locked file she couldn’t open.

The meeting was in a conference room, the air thick with the scent of coffee and ambition. Isla arrived early, setting up her laptop at the head of the table, her demo ready to show how her AI integrated with player scans, her slides polished to perfection. The room filled with athletic staff—trainers, analysts, a team doctor—their notebooks open, their questions already forming. Roman entered last, his presence a physical weight, his black polo stretched across his chest, his hair in that neat bun that haunted her dreams. He scanned the room, his eyes landing on her, and with a subtle nod, he took the seat beside her, his choice deliberate, professional, yet sending her pulse into overdrive.

“Dr. Navarro,” he said, his voice low, his tone warm but formal as he settled in, his arm brushing hers briefly as he adjusted his chair. “Looking forward to seeing this in action.” The faint scent of sandalwood and cedar hit her, a visceral reminder of that night, and her breath caught, her hands tightening on her laptop. He’s too close, she thought, her mind flashing to his hands on her skin, his lips against her neck, the hotel room’s dim light. She forced a smile, nodding, her voice steady despite the storm within. “It’ll deliver,” she said, focusing on her screen, but his proximity was a current, pulling at her focus, his warmth a distraction she couldn’t afford.

The meeting began, and Isla launched into her demo, her slides showcasing real-time data, her voice clear and confident. She explained how her algorithms analyzed biomechanics, predicting micro-injuries with 92% accuracy, tailored to the Yellow Jackets’ needs. The staff leaned forward, their pens scratching, their murmurs approving. Roman sat close, his elbow inches from hers, his notebook open, his pen tapping softly, his questions ready. His presence was a weight, his gaze steady but piercing, studying her as much as her work, and she fought to keep her focus, her nausea simmering, a reminder of the life inside her.

“How scalable is this for real-time game data?” Roman asked, leaning in slightly, his voice a low rumble that echoed their night together, his arm brushing hers again, the contact unintentional but electric. “Defensive players move unpredictably. Can your model keep up? I’m here to protect my players, not just win games.” His words carried weight, a hint of a man driven by past failures, his gaze steady but shadowed, his pen pausing as he waited for her answer.

She swallowed, her throat dry, her mind racing. “It’s built for dynamic environments,” she said, clicking to a slide showing real-time data, her voice steady despite the heat of his proximity. “We use adaptive algorithms to adjust for positional demands, ensuring accuracy even in high-intensity scenarios.” He nodded, his lips twitching in what might have been a smile, and she hated how it stirred her, how it reminded her of his laugh at the bar, his breath against her ear.

Another staff member asked about implementation costs, and she fielded it, her expertise a shield. But her nausea flared, and she reached for her water bottle, her movements careful, her laptop screen glowing beside her. As she sipped, a calendar notification popped up, stark and unmissable: First Trimester Check-Up, 2 PM. Her heart stopped, her finger hovering over the dismiss button, her eyes flicking to Roman, who was glancing at her screen, his expression neutral but his gaze sharpening. No, no, no, she thought, her pulse roaring, her hand trembling as she minimized the calendar, the action too late, the notification burned into the air between them.

She pushed on, clicking to her next slide, her voice steady but her mind screaming. Did he see it? Roman’s demeanor shifted subtly—his pen stilled, his jaw tightened, his eyes flicking to her face, searching, a question forming in their depths. She avoided his gaze, focusing on the trainer’s question about data integration, her answers sharp, her brilliance carrying her through. But his closeness was suffocating, his arm brushing hers as he shifted, the contact sending a jolt through her, her memories of that night—his hands, his voice, their wildfire—threatening to unravel her.

She needed air. “Excuse me,” she murmured, slipping out to the restroom, her laptop left open on the table, its screen dim but glowing with her demo. She splashed water on her face, the cold a shock against her skin, and muttered, “Get it together, Isla.” The mirror showed a woman stretched thin, her brown eyes haunted but determined, her curls escaping their bun. She dried her hands, her movements mechanical, and returned to the room, her heart pounding.

Roman’s gaze was waiting, his jaw tight, his eyes stormy, a mix of curiosity and something heavier—suspicion, maybe, or hurt. She ignored it, wrapping up the demo, her algorithms earning nods from the staff, their praise a hum in the background. But Roman’s silence was louder, a current that pulled at her focus, his proximity a reminder of the notification he’d likely seen, the secret she couldn’t hide. She closed her laptop, the meeting ending, and the others filed out, their voices fading down the hall.

Roman lingered, his frame filling the doorway, his presence inescapable. “Dr. Navarro, a word?” His tone was calm, but his eyes were intense, a storm brewing beneath his control, the weight of what he’d seen hanging between them.

Her heart stopped. She followed him to the hallway, the campus quiet around them, the late afternoon light casting long shadows. He stepped close, his height forcing her to look up, his scent—sandalwood and cedar—stirring memories she’d tried to bury. “Is there something you’re not telling me?” he asked, his voice low, his jaw tight, his eyes boring into hers.

Her breath caught, her mind racing. “What do you mean?” Her voice was a whisper, her pulse a roar, her hands clutching her bag like a lifeline.

His eyes softened, but his voice cracked, a rare break in his control, the notification’s truth heavy in his words. “I saw it, Isla. First trimester check-up. Right there on your screen. Is it… mine?”

The world tilted, her vision narrowing to his face, his expression a mix of vulnerability and resolve, a man who’d faced loss and was bracing for another. Her mind raced, guilt and fear colliding with a spark of hope. He’s not the man I thought, she thought, but can I trust him with this? Her mouth opened, but no words came, her heart pounding, her mind a tangle of fear and resolve. The hallway was silent, the campus holding its breath, and Isla stood frozen, the father of her unborn child waiting for an answer she wasn’t ready to give.

Okay, loves, Chapter One is OUT and I’m still buzzing from that ending! 😅 Isla and Roman are already a mess, and I’m so thankful you’re here for their collision. Writing this story feels like untangling my own heart sometimes, and your reactions make it all worth it. That cliffhanger? Just wait—it’s about to get wilder.

If you’re feeling this, I’d love for you to keep the vibes going—drop a comment, hit like, or reblog to share the love. Here’s some stuff I’m curious about, so let me know what you’re thinking:

How’s Isla holding up after dropping that bombshell on Roman? Is she ready for his response, or is she spiraling?

That viral photo’s stirring up trouble—any theories on who’s behind it or how it’ll bite them?

Camila’s chaos is everything—what’s your favorite moment of hers so far?

If you could sit Roman down right now, what’s the one question you’d ask him?

My ask box is wide open for your thoughts, wild theories, or just to chat about Isla’s world. Got a question about her STEM life, Roman’s past, or where this is headed? Hit me up—I love diving into this with you (no spoilers, though!). Thanks for reading, and I’ll see you in Chapter Two for more drama and feels. 🖤

Next Chapter

[witchingwithscissors]

Agathario WNBA AU Fic | They kept it private. Until love made a scene. Words: 6,421 (Not super sports-heavy, if that’s not your jam.)

🏀 🦐 🏀 🦐 🏀 🦐 🏀 🦐 🏀 🦐 🏀 🦐 🏀 🦐 🏀

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.

[cringefailvox]

staticbelle au, because this bsky art gave me brainworms. seven years pre-canon, charlie's mom and the radio demon have both disappeared, though it's too early to tell whether either of them is truly gone yet, vaggie hasn't fallen yet, and charlie is completely on her own. she's estranged from her dad, she has barely an inkling of a plan for how to save sinners, and her overwhelming compassion has nowhere to go—she wants to help people, but she doesn't know how. then she notices there's a new overlord syndicate on the rise, surging to fill the spaces the radio demon has left behind, and every window advertisement or tv commercial she sees insists that the vees want nothing more than to lend a helping hand to the downtrodden, if you would only trust them.

she's not stupid. she knows not to immediately take other demons at their word, especially not overlords, but the vees are swiftly building something she hasn't been able to accrue in two centuries: influence. sinners are listening when they talk, people are tuning into their shows and flocking to the entertainment district because it's safer than many other places in the pentagram, and charlie thinks this might be exactly what she needs. if she can convince the vees to platform her, if they're half as generous as they seem, she might have a real shot at changing people's afterlives for the better. and if they don't want to help her, then... she'll just have to be really, really convincing! no biggee!

enter vox, who cannot believe his luck. the kittens and rainbows, dumb blonde princess of hell waltzes right through his front door and offers him the opportunity of a lifetime to get into good graces with the royal family. he's greedy with alastor's absence and overeager to get his foot in the door on an even playing field with the other overlords, since bringing velvette onboard has catapulted the three of them into the mainstream and he's not about to lose his momentum now. he'll entertain her delusions, maybe give her her own talkshow segment late at night when no one who matters will be watching, forge a link between the morningstar name and the new identity he's staking out for himself in the wake of alastor's disappearance. after all, the worst that can happen is she embarrasses herself under his name and he has to swoop in and oh-so-benevolently rescue her, and it's not like val doesn't already do that every other week. plus, ratings are ratings.

so he keeps his word. he gives her a platform, albeit a limited one; he enthusiastically encourages her ideas for rehabilitating hell and privately thinks it's hysterically idiotic; he lets her deliver her pitches in musical form live on air and isn't charmed, not even a little bit. he expects that eventually she'll get discouraged and give up, and when that happens, he's going to step in with a warm smile and gently suggest that they try something a little different, a little more vox's speed, and if he can get her hand shaking his in the process then that's only a magnificent bonus.

except. charlie refuses to quit. she's not an employee, so she comes and goes as she pleases from the tower and suddenly vox's days are being interrupted by a sheepishly excitable princess who has a new script for him to look over or a tune she wants a second opinion on and of course vox is accommodating every time, of course he's supportive, even when he's so fucking irritated he plasters on an indulgent grin and invites her in, because he's made an art form out of swallowing his real feelings for the sake of appeasing the public or valentino or alastor and this is not a relationship he can afford to jeopardize with something as trivial as hurting her feelings.

so he indulges her. he picks up one of her glitter pens and reaches over to scribble something on her illustration of all the overlords holding hands and it's all downhill from there. before he can think to pump the brakes, he's being looped into genuinely investigating what qualifies as sin and redemption for damned souls, he's having his architects draft plans for an extravagant rehabilitation hotel that makes her cry when he idly mentions it, he's sighing and enduring the way all his vulgar mugs have mysteriously been rewritten with positive messages instead (fuck hug alastor!), he's letting her lean over the rim of his pools and gasp with sheer delight over his sharks because that doesn't give him the warm and fuzzies, not at all—and he's even somewhat patiently heeding her constructive criticism about all the mind control and abusive work environments and predatory business practices that the vees engage in. like, obviously they're not going to stop, but he does talk to val and vel about toning it down a bit, at least while charlie is around. gotta keep little miss sunshine happy, right? (no one tell him that he really doesn't need to be doing all this, he won't listen.)

meanwhile, charlie has gone full starry-eyed dreamer with vox's backing. for the first time, someone is genuinely supporting her, even if that person is an evil capitalist who sometimes feeds his employees to his sharks and is definitely hypnotizing people with his ads but, uhh. everyone has flaws!! and doesn't it kind of balance out, if he's helping her figure out how to redeem people, ensuring her ideas have real power and structure behind them, and even limiting some of the fucked up shit his partners do for her sake? maybe he's not doing it for the right reasons, but he IS doing good, and shouldn't that matter? charlie absolutely thinks it does. she didn't really intend for vox to be her first case study for proving that every sinner has the capacity to be better when given the opportunity, but like hell is she NOT going to milk this for all it's worth for as long as it takes for vox to realize that he's committed to the bit too hard and actually. Likes her. and wants her to succeed. and feels his mood lift when she's in the room. and may or may not be addicted to making her happy. g-d fucking dammit

all this to say that one day, when he presents her with the operational plans for the grand opening of the happy hotel, and she exclaims "oh my gosh, thank you thank you thank you" and leans up on her toes to kiss the corner of his screen before tackling him into a hug, and his screen explodes with pink pixelated hearts—well, he's well and truly fucked himself. whoops! the princess of hell is your girlfriend now. yeah, you've lost the plot. mazel tov

[artbyblastweave]

Years and years and years back, I was tinkering with a concept that, at the time, I hadn't seen done before, which was to do a Fables or Once Upon A Time-style mass-fairy-tale-retelling in a soft-sci-fi space opera/planetary romance setting. I remember a couple of overarching concepts. One was that the classic Fairy Tales being remixed with increasingly outlandish genres was an actual metaphysical conceit of the setting; the big bad was going to be King Arthur, who, due to his nature as the one who cyclically dies and returns, had become cognizant of all the times he'd lived through the same shitshow but with a wild west veneer or an urban-fantasy veneer or a mad-max veneer or a coffee-shop-AU veneer, and on this-go around, he'd decided to use the planet-shattering imperial might of space!camelot to attempt a suicide run against the entire universe in the hopes of deviating from the script strongly enough to break the cycle. (Note that all of this came from a place of total ignorance of Arthurian lore, which is in part why I never pulled the trigger on it- I felt I had reading to do.) The other character concept that stuck in my head was that there was this tertiary character who was the classic space-western gunslinger- constantly swooping in at the last minute to bail the heroes out, rugged and squinty-eyed, effortlessly laying waste to vastly superior opponents with nary a thought. Through context clues (such as his ability to fly in outer space under his own power) it was eventually going to be made clear that this was supposed to be the setting's version of Peter Pan. Prior to the Space Opera cycle, Neverland’s conceptual gravity as a place that fundamentally does not change allowed it to avoid being reset at the end of each cycle; Peter's cavalier attitude towards life and death was informed by the fact that no matter how many times Hook dies, no matter how many times the Darlings visited and departed, they'd always eventually come back, albeit with mannerisms informed by whatever conceit was currently dominating the rest of the universe outside Neverland. Unfortunately, for the space-opera cycle Hook showed up as the captain of a star-destroyer-type thing and unceremoniously glassed Neverland from orbit, ending the party for good. Peter then finally took the plunge into quote-unquote "adulthood" in order to adopt a vengeful-pursuer role- indeed, he stakes a lot of his present identity on the idea that he was finally "forced to grow up"- but it's of course obvious to anyone who gets remotely close to him that he's only become "more mature" in the way that the gratuitous blood-and-guts Liefeldian anti-heroes of the 90s positioned themselves as a mature alternative to the cornball antics of the silver age; all he's done is trade up to a slightly more involved Juvenile power fantasy, still equally divorced from adulthood even if he looks 35.

[fickledame]

Veronica Mars - Fic Recs from 2006

I found an old VM Fic list of recommendations from literally 19 years ago. So I thought I would transfer it here based on the lovely @jjmazzy's suggestion so it can be shared. These were all LJ ones, but I will give the A03 link if I can find them.

First up:

skk670

When The Cuddling Isn't The Best Part

Veronica decides to deal with Logan the only way she can - by fucking him out of her system. What actually happens is a slow reconnection of the two lovers, where they begin to face their issues and move along in their relationship.

“Wow, Logan, you’re speechless. I wish I had known sooner that this was a sure-fire way to get you to shut up.

A Trip To The Dentist - Extended scripts

The author has taken a few of the scenes from ATTTD and extended each one into a full blown episode, complete with mystery. Veronica and Logan's relationship develop - and Veronica is going through a very tough time isn't glossed over. Excellent reading.

You made it okay for people to hurt me. In fact, you made a game out of it. So how many guys were there, Logan? Just you or was there a whole group?

Undercover Angel

An imaginative and different twist on the events of season two.

Did Lamb ever watch the Road Runner cartoons? He should have. They would have taught him a lot about law enforcement. About the futility of battling Veronica Mars.

moire2

High Stakes

Logan and Weevil make a bet about Veronica.

An inelegant, feminine snort came from the back seat, “Who was your latest challenge? Kendall? And could you please stop referring to women as things?”

ethereal-65

The Shocker One Two Three Four Five Logan spots Veronica in her Wrath Of Con outfit and finds it - appealing.

Logan watched as she crossed the room. He wasn’t the only one, though. She was the only girl there and she looked like she had just sprung up from the pages of manga - all short skirt, tight shirt, knee highs and curves. If her hair were blue or green, he would have sworn she was fictional.

The World Turned Upside Down One, Two and Three Four and Five Six and Seven Eight A Eight B Eight C Eight D Eight E Lynn wants out from Aaron and goes to Keith for help - and end up all living together, much to Veronica and Logan's disgust. This AU spans season one - what changes with the new living arrangement?

At that moment, Lynn drove up with the moving van behind her. Suddenly the pieces began clicking together in Veronica’s mind, the color slowly drained from her face. “This can’t be happening,” she muttered, disbelievingly. Wallace glanced at the moving van curiously and then at Lynn, who was getting out of her car.

All The Right Reasons

One Two Three Four Five Six Six B Set in the future - Logan and Veronica suddenly find themselves neighbours. Their mystery pasts are slowly revealed as things begin to get serious between them again.

He felt it. The charge, the spark, the magic. He felt it when their eyes locked and he could see more than she probably wanted him to. He felt it before their mouths met and opened to each other. He felt it before he leaned her back into the sand and held her body close to his, hands touching every inch of skin.

defybrevity/Madseason_20

When Angels Speak Veronica dies at the end of season one and she watches her loved ones stumble on without her. So far - every chapter has made me cry. Utter brilliance.

I now knew it would be my last day alive. Daddy wasn’t coming. I knew he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself later, wouldn’t forgive himself for being unable to save me. I wished I could tell him it was okay.

strippedpink

Turnabout Is Fair Play Veronica talks out her relationship issues with Logan. He helps her through it. ;)

The word echoed in the car, making her cringe. Nothing but utter silence followed, and she began to wish she’d just not bothered waking up that morning. Who could have known what horrors awaited?

addictedtojoy

Nightflower

Part two When Veronica goes to find her Mum after Ruskie Business, she runs into some trouble and calls Logan for help.

She bites down on his shoulder and makes a hoarse, agonized sound when he yanks her arm and pops her shoulder back into place. Lilly used to do that, bite him right there, when they had sex. But this is not sexual at all, and he finds himself glad that he is able to return a little of the comfort she offered him after the scene with Trina.

dasq

Finger In My Pie Lilly goes to space. No, really. Okay, so this a fabulous AU, actually centred around Veronica, not Lilly. It made me gush. She took this difficult challenge and spun it into something original and interesting.

Lilly Kane used to be my best friend and her brother Duncan - our brother - my boyfriend. After Duncan had broken up with me, I was devastated. But I still had Lilly, right? Wrong.

moirariordan

The Vorpal Blade Went SnickerSnack The events of Leave it to the Beaver end differently, and Logan and Veronica deal with the aftermath,

He always thought that it would be more dramatic. He thought that there would be soulful movie music playing in the background, that there would be close-ups on faces, and amplified and overenthusiastic yelling.

cyclogenesis

How to Hold Your Breath Underwater Logan leaves after S1 and Veronica goes looking for him.

It would have been like this, sex with Logan, if they'd done this before. He was broken in a different way then. Back then it hadn't been her doing.

shangri__la

Seven Not So Deadly Sins A fic I really enjoyed for the 7 Sins, 7 Virtues challenge. The word was envy and she looks at most of the main characters in Neptune.

bigboobedcanuk

Hollow WorldThis daring story is dark and sad. A must read.

“My problem is that I have an English midterm in—” she peers at the clock, the numbers glowing in the darkness, “—six hours. And I can’t remember the name of Jane Eyre’s stupid house.”

Madam Librarian

The Absence of Feeling Logan has no choice but to go away and get his life sorted out after 2.9.

“Did you know?” Veronica's eyes narrowed accusingly, and she came dangerously close to stabbing a blunt fingernail into his chest.

The Benefits of Being Lost I really enjoyed this fluffy(ish) look at what happens when Veronica gets sick and Logan finds her.

“Veronica?” Mrs. Murphy paused when she didn't get an answer for the third day in a row. Logan barely paid attention during her lectures, much less the roll call, but it was the waver in Mrs. Murphy's voice that suddenly had him singularly focused.

sexycereal

Not Any Heavy Thing Veronica's car breaks down in the desert, and there is only one person she can call… I adore this fic so much.

“Look, Logan. There’s no one left for me to call so if you’re not going to come get me could you just say – ‘cause I have a hell of a walk ahead of me.”

theohara

Alternate season two

So this is a fic that gets rec'ed everywhere, but there is a reason. Excellent script fic - even if you aren't a fan, give this one a try.

Now granted, some of the things Mac's done with her computer have been on the grey side of legal. I should know -- she did half of them as favors for me. But getting arrested? What'd she do, download the new Metallica album?

Broken Toys

Another Lilly doesn't die fic, but oh so fabulous and twisted.

Lilly settles back in her seat, Logan's jaw sets, and you realize. You're going to be grounded until your death.

jwynn

Forty Miles From The Sun

Veronica goes looking for Duncan and Logan annoyingly (for her) tags along.

Germinator

Full Circle

V and Logan find their way back to each other and solve a mystery, too.

sadiekate

The Prodigal Daughter

It's the ten year Neptune High reunion and Veronica comes back. Original, great characterisation and just - yeah. Just read it.

“Who would have believed you’d end up still at Neptune High after all this time? Do they tape you up to the flagpole every day, just to keep you from leaving?”

julia_thorne13

Pixie, Vixen A mix of Fab Four flashbacks and Lilly visiting Veronica. Excellently done.

Together, Logan and I jumped up and ran for the door, my braids whipping past his face. The teacher started to yell at us but was interrupted by a ringing bell signalling the end of class.

mooners

Mars Out of Neptune Lianne snatches Veronica after Lilly dies and goes on the run. A great AU of season one, weaving the events into a believable fic.

“What are you still doing here?” The words were scribbled all over the place, amidst other words that only got more hurtful as she found them. Her eyes burned, holding back tears.

Truemyth

Down the Vibrant String Lilly lives vicariously through Logan and Veronica, with an amazing ending.

“Come on dorkus, what are you waiting for? He came to your rescue, now say thank you like a good girl – bad girl – whatever.”

Let me know if you found any golden oldies from this!

[aziraphales-library]

hello! i just recently read the rainbow road series and its absolutely amazing would definitely recommend it to anyone :) it's about crowley (AJ) and aziraphale (ezira) both being f1 drivers and it's been so fun to read so i'm wondering if you know other fics with these two involved in some sports as athletes or something??

thank you!!

Hi. We have a #sports tag. Here are more to add...

Holy Warrior by AlwaysDoe (M)

When a rookie introduces himself with a bang at AJ’s Boxing Gym, owner Crowley is reluctant to invest in him as the potential champion they so badly need. As it turns out, stepping into the ring isn’t nearly as terrifying as trying to fight your own feelings.

Big Wave by snae_b (E)

Aziraphale has been champing at the bit to ride the big waves off the coast of Nazaré. It’s a shame that when the opportunity finally arises, it means teaming up with his nemesis. And that in this tiny seaside town, there are only so many available hotel rooms...

To be Your Prince by Phoenix_Soar (T)

It was their shared dream to stand together on the Olympic podium, as figure skaters, rivals, best friends. But a twist of fate has Aziraphale and Crowley pursuing different paths, the former as a Singles skater and the other an Ice Dancer. It wouldn’t be so terrible, Aziraphale thinks, if he didn’t have to watch Crowley skate with someone else day after day. Someone that isn’t him, and to know he’ll never get to be with Crowley like that, in front of the whole world. (Figure skating AU)

Upon This Rock by Eowyn1846 (M)

Crowley and Aziraphale meet as teenagers participating in a youth curling league. Years after losing touch when Crowley's family moves away, the two former friends are reunited at a major tournament...as competitors on two very cut-throat teams, whose captains seem willing to win at any cost, even to the detriment of the sport.

Angels on High by Santillatron (M)

Aziraphale takes up a new sport. It's all going rather well until he inadvertently takes the top spot on the leader board and ends up accidentally starting a feud with the previous holder of the title. The man is arrogant, rude, and seems to think Aziraphale has somehow targeted him specifically. Not the kind of man Aziraphale wants to get to know at all, really.

Strike Three: You're in Love by AnnaTheHank (E)

The company baseball league was the last place Crowley wanted to be. But after meeting one of the opposing team's catchers, Aziraphale, he's a little more commited to the idea. A happy little low-stakes AU in which Crowley and Aziraphale awkwardly flirt at the plate and have some fun off the field.

And the first fic in the series you mentioned, which we have recommended before...

Sit Tight, Take Hold by nieded (E)

The summer of 2022, Ezira Phale is a rookie Formula 1 driver out to prove he's one of the best racecar drivers in the world, but everything gets turned upside down when he falls in love with his real-life idol, AJ Crowley. Or: The one where Crowley does not go too fast for Aziraphale. _____ This story uses a multi-media format with CSS and HTML. It's best read using the workskin so please make sure that you are enabling user workskins. If you do not want to use the workskin, I will also be posting a .pdf of each chapter and a final .pdf once everything is posted! I’m not so cool as to know how to do podcasts, manips, and videos, but this will feature scripts, news articles, text messages, tumblr, and race programming! So strap in and put your seatbelt on! This is going to be one fast ride of romance, competition, and over-indulgence.

- Mod D

[insert-the-4thwall-entity]

Felt like drawing the main duo of ASAS -

[evilbitchartist]

can i please hear about the legends: leon au 🙏 please

OK ok. so the basic idea is like a legends game where you play as leon doing his gym challenge!! im working on a design for him atm but hes gonna have a charizard cap (hes OBSESSED with charizards!! he got his as a charmander as a gift from prof. magnolia), and hes gonna wear the jacket hop gas now around his shoulders like a makeshift cape!

the whole game would be pretty low stakes until the third act which will be built up to as the story progresses. the main conflict is with leon's three rivals; sonia, raihan and piers. he's also friends with nessa (he actually hangs out with her more than piers and raihan), but shes got a really intense rivalry with milo so she refuses to fight leon because she wastes all her energy on him

sonia is kind of like hop where shes completely tied to leon's hip for the first half of the game (shes his best friend!!) and i THINK youd probably be scripted to lose to her in every fight against her (based on the implication that sonia was the only person who could beat leon back in the day in the manga), until she loses to opal and ends up heading home. dunno yet what ill do with her after that, still a wip </3

raihan is more like hop personality wise. hes determined to beat leon so hes always challenging him to battle, but he never wins obviously. he never gives up though! leon actually has mixed feelings on raihan due to his connection with piers, but ill get to that in a bit. raihan REALLY likes dragon types but he cant really catch them early game, so he starts catching pokemon that, coincidentally, are really good at controlling and setting up weather effects, and he starts to really enjoy using those in his battles!

piers is the most antagonistic rival. would probably compare him to gladion or silver. raihan (whos his best friend!!) encourages him to take on the gym challenge because he says the publicity could help save spikemuth (which is starting to fall into decay at this point, more on that later), and piers takes this as him NEEDING to become champion in order for him to help his hometown. hes not that bad at first, but after being beaten by leon a few times, he starts to see him as a genuine threat, and starts creating roadblocks that increasingly get worse and worse (based on him and raihan claiming that they did worse shit that destroying a historical monument in the manga), until he eventually summons an incredibly powerful pokemon or something. he'll probably be at least partially humbled after that. still working on him too. hes seen with marnie sometimes also because he didn't want to just leave her in spikemuth

at this point, chairman rose has like really recently taken over the league, and macros cosmos is just starting to show its presence nearly everywhere in galar (other than spikemuth which is already pretty unpopular with tourists and doesn't have any fancy powerspot, which is all the rage in galar and important to macro cosmo's vision of the future, so that's why its struggling at the moment).

still gotta make up some npcs (like gym leaders and such, because this is in the past the only gym leaders i have are kabu, opal and melony), as well as a few fakemon (like that one that piers summons maybe), but im planning to turn this into a fic! this is like... my ideal pokemon game though

[darealsaltysam]

hiya!! welcome to my blog!! im sam (she/her) and i like to write :3

wanna talk to me more privately/say hi/upgrade from tumblr mutuals to friends? join my discord server!! make sure to read our rules carefully please~

and since you're stopping by anyway, why not take a little look at my fics? i write on ao3 and have done work in many, many different fandoms! currently, you can find fics from the following;

ace attorney

fnaf

wynncraft

faith

the walking dead

star wars

paladins

marvel movies (mainly xmcu)

marvel comics

dsmp (mainly older, discontinued works)

below the cut i'm going to put more detailed descriptions of all of the fics i'm proudest of, so if any of the above fandoms interest you, take a little peek!!

as of 28/04/25, all my fics are archive-locked because of ai scraping. you will need an account to access them !!

ACE ATTORNEY

spiky twink rebooted

a very silly highschool au chatfic. crack with minimal angst here and there to carry some plot along, but it's very low-stakes. really just something i write for fun to wind down. perfect if ur looking for some good ol crack to turn your brain off to!

waiting for godot

a three-part fic exploring mia and diego's story in ace attorney - before, during, and after his coma. it goes into the background of their relationship and dives into godot's mentality after waking up and finding out about what happened to mia. angst with a somewhat bittersweet ending, canon compliant.

SOME OLDER FICS

Object Class: Fey - completed. an ace attorney scp au, very miego focused with some light background narumitsu. does not represent my current quality or style of writing, but i still enjoy the story a lot and am proud of the fic as a whole!

Time Paradox at The Turnabout - discontinued. a time travel fic of sorts. various different versions of various different characters travel to one time period, hijinks ensue. not that well-written and was never completed, but you might enjoy the concept!

the adventures of spiky twink and the burger queen - discontinued. older version of spiky twink rebooted - read that one instead!

spiky twink extras - discontinued. companion piece to the above. short stories within the universe, essentially!

FNAF

THE SCRIPTVERSE

the scriptverse is a trilogy of scripts + a prose prequel which seeks to retell fnaf lore completely. it sticks to canon in some parts but deviates in others, so it will surprise you even if you know the lore inside out! i made my own changes to the timeline, mixed and matched stuff from the movie, books and games... overall, just a big revamp of the whole thing, all told through movie scripts!

the series is made up of:

MR AFTON, a william-focused first part retelling the missing children incident

MR SCHMIDT [act 1], a michael-focused sequel retelling william's trial shortly after

MR SCHMIDT [act 2], a massive third part to the series which deals with the fallout of the murder and the trial, michael meeting jeremy, ghosts showing up in the pizzeria, and michael finding out he has a sister he didn't know about! crazy stuff!

mr emily & ms schmidt, a prose prequel to the series which focuses on how henry, william and his wife clara met

WYNNCRAFT

warm hands, cold hearts, gentle smiles (also holy shit is that bak'al over there?)

a fic which focuses on exploring the dynamics between the four twain brothers as kids + includes an appearance from wynncraft's favorite bitch boy. also, i made theorick less of a bitch by explaining WHY canon theo is such a bitch!

my legacy in death, your legacy in ice, our legacy in blood

a follow-up of sorts to the above fic, focusing on mael having to help nesaak post-theorick freezing it. the second half of the fic looks at the time mael spent training bob. all around lots of angst, some hurt/comfort in the second part, and a very, very bittersweet ending.

requiem

currently ongoing!!! an x reader fic that has you, the player, take on the role of the villain. you team up with bak'al to take revenge on someone who has wronged you. the fic, and even its description, contains BIG spoilers for wynncraft's late-game quests, most notably a journey further and a hunter's calling. it also explores some dark and uncomfortable themes, please refer to all relevant warnings!! read at your own risk!

OTHER FICS

closer, then you're close enough to lose - completed. a short, slykaar/bob one-shot based in an au i came up with together with @meefys !!

PALADINS

a city of self-fulfilling prophecies [paladins superhero au]

currently ongoing!!! a paladins superhero au that i've been putting together for years, and am now finally writing! most champions will be included as characters, with maeve, ying and lex as the three protagonists and corvus as the lead villain, alongside evie, cassie & kinessa, lian & rei, octavia and many others as major characters!

SOME OLDER FICS

the scholar loved the scion // and the scion loved the scholar, but not in the same way - completed. a short fic exploring a one-sided relationship between lian and rei. hurt, and no comfort!

FAITH

soul of christ (sanctify me)

a short fic which focuses on john and lisa's childhood, with a nice portion of catholic guilt and queer shame on the side (yes i projected onto john. no i am not sorry). very experimental but probably one of my personal fave works ever!!!

MARVEL (movies)

again and again and again and again

a 5+1 exploring charles' post-first class depression era, from hank's perspective. lots of bitterness, lots of anger, lots of sad feels, and a bitter-sweet comfort ending.

and daddy made a soldier out of me

currently ongoing!!!! the first fic of two in a big xmen au i've been putting together for two months now!! the au itself involves a lot of concepts and combines them to form a more complex retelling of first class, the ten year gap, and dofp. the changes to the story include; - cherik as soulmates - erik raising wanda and pietro, then him and charles raising them together - after the beach, wanda leaves with erik, and pietro stays with charles - the twins grow up apart (and erik doesn't get arrested, so he actually gets to raise wanda) - dofp reunites the family forcefully - angst ensues! - also, a few other mcu characters have been added into the storyline as alternate no powers/human versions to themselves to help with plot stuff. this means the inclusion of wandavision!!

OTHER FICS

oh, i will ruin you (it's a habit, i can't help it) - a very short cherik one-shot!! they make out a bit. that's about it!

MARVEL (comics)

Cogito, Ergo Sum

my own take on the house of m storyline! mainly focused on stephen's perspective of things as he slowly unravels wanda's spell. a way more compassionate take on her side of things, with a sprinkle of ironstrange for the soul~

the stories that you keep inside your head

a short one shot focusing on magneto, magda, anya, and years later, polaris !! basically just me giving the forgotten daughters a bit of love because i adore wanda but anya and lorna deserve some attention too !!!

OTHER FICS

below you can find all my other fics - these i'm a little less confident in, because they're either older works or discontinued ones.

tommyinnit - dragonborn! - discontinued. dsmp skyrim au, sbi focused, secondary dream team focus. i really loved this fic and writing it but was forced to discontinue due to... stuff(tm). im still very passionate about the story and happy with what i wrote here, so i recommend it if you're into it.

The Between Dreams and Memories Series - discontinued. a complete retelling of the dsmp storyline. was planned to have 3 parts - same as above, forced to discontinue. contains 2 complete fics (part 1 and a spin off) and one unfinished fic (part 2 of the planned trilogy). one of the biggest fics on my account, a product of several years of work, and a very important work for me, even if its quality doesn't hold up. read if you wish!

a house full of serial killers VS the barbie movie starring margot robbie and ryan gosling - completed. a very very stupid creepypasta chatfic oneshot. i wrote it in one sitting because i was bored. it's nothing special, but it's pretty funny!

dance with the devil - completed. a very short dsmp oneshot, focusing specifically on c!niki and c!schlatt. im still pretty happy with how it turned out!

Deserve Better - completed. a pretty badly written who killed markiplier oneshot. darkstache focused. one of the first fics i ever posted!

laughter [anidala] - completed. a short star wars one-shot i wrote for my girlfriend, focusing on ani and padme!

mutual hatred builds character - completed. a short the walking dead one-shot, focused on maggie and negan. NOT SHIP! i just think they're a fun duo to study like bugs

[pinkseas]

i cant start writing this until im done with the big wip i wont allow myself but.

isat au where after a late-game loop involving all the friend quests, All Of The Others start looping. siffrin dies late in the house, and they all remember it, but they Don't Initially Realize that siffrin has been looping. they think this is just as new for siffrin as it is for them, and that siffrin is only so scared and disoriented and confused because this began when they died, of course they're gonna be out of it.

siffrin using that death as an excuse over and over again in the next few loops. they've already died- they don't want any of the others to feel or experience that, they don't want anyone but themselves to get hurt. when they throw themselves in front of sadnesses or the king, the time they shout for someone to cover bonnie's eyes and then, hands shaking, scared but so determined, carve through their own throat.

the others are in so much more danger, now. and they'll remember what happens. they don't care about the script, they wander they explore they endanger themselves and siffrin can't tell them he knows, he can't, they just. have to try and protect everyone. have to try so, so hard to keep being the only one who remembers how it feels to die.

shaking as they kill themselves. not afraid of the pain, or dying, but petrified of the other's reactions. trying so hard to downplay their strength, to act Normal. or at least, as normal as they're supposed to be at the Beginning of a time loop. as normal as they're supposed to be after killing themselves to save one of their family members. saying they only really guessed that doing that would work to loop back. voice small, shaking, saying that they're really glad it did.

siffrin is not the best actor. too many things begin to add up. sif never, ever leaves any of them alone while they're in the house, but sometimes in dormont they find excuses to meet up and talk about things without him there. at first it's worry for how much they're hurting themselves, then concern for how easily, and then.

in hindsight siffrin wasn't necessarily suspicious, that very first loop, but certain things felt virtually effortless. like a slight attempt to make it seem natural was made solely so they wouldn't question it in the moment, but siffrin didn't realize there were any stakes. didn't know that anyone else would remember long enough to matter. and something is so, so clearly wrong.

odile one night at the clocktower finally, finally asking siffrin: how long? siffrin, caught completely off-guard, how long what? odile, not hesitating, how long have you been looping? the party probably hasn't even reached double digits. siffrin blinks. odile waits. and then, siffrin bolts.

the frantic search to find them. them looping back various degrees at random times, sometimes to the beginning and sometimes not, siffrin nowhere in sight for so, so long. it's terrifying. haunting. how long was siffrin alone? how long did they experience this for? they're family, they're supposed to be family, but they can't track siffrin down. all of the others together, terrified, borderline inconsolable, when odile raises a blade to her own throat, threatens to nothing and no one that she'll die. she'll die, and she'll come back. she'll know how it feels.

the way siffrin lashes out when they do finally show themselves, then. their fear their terror their frantic, desperate need to make sure nobody gets hurt but themselves. an argument that spirals and spirals until siffrin breaks: i'm tired. i'm tired. and they really do look exhausted. voice hoarse, pathetic, miserable, can we talk about this more tomorrow? please?

the others letting up. siffrin all but collapsing into bed, "falling asleep" almost immediately. they really are exhausted. how long has it been? the others talking for a while, no real important thoughts, no conclusions reached. falling into uneasy sleep.

waking with the sun. siffrin and the orbs are gone.

siffrin who has been consistently losing their fucking mind because they have to sneak away, now, even just to talk to loop, which is coincidentally when their family talks about them. because suddenly every single little thing they say and do matters, they don't remember what they are and aren't supposed to know right now and every time they slip up and forget or remember something they shouldn't, the others will see. they need, need, need to act natural but they don't know how.

feeling absolutely fucking disgusted every time someone tries to comfort them over their deaths because stars they do not deserve it, don't deserve the love the others feel for them solely because siffrin has been here long enough that they successfully not only manipulated everyone into liking them but also trapped them with him.

he didn't want to be alone. they don't. but they can not let any of the others shoulder this. they have to find a solution. they have to figure out what they can do they cannot let the others be hurt they can't they can't they can't. siffrin can be crushed or snapped or frozen or butchered, can be slaughtered in every way even by their own hands but they cannot let their family do the same. no matter what.

[shallowseeker]

I think it is being right so often that devastates Dean the most, if you think about it.

It makes being wrong hurt so, so, so much more. (No one's going to be right all the time, after all!)

Like Cas's being brought back by God provided fuel for Cas's sense of hubris, Dean's consistent ability to read people, identify their motivations, and make judgment calls is what grounds him.

It's when he makes a wrong move that triggers every one of his downward spirals. In season 9, he says, on making decisions that "He's so sick of making the wrong one."

DEAN: Hell, maybe I still don't. But, uh... I know I took a piece of you in the process, and for that...[DEAN struggles to say the right thing. He finally just vents] Somebody changed the playbook, man, you know? It's like what -- what -- what's right is wrong and what's wrong is more wrong, and... I just know that when... When we rode together... [He pauses, looking for the right words.]

(9x12)

Dean's life has rendered making wrong decisions incredibly painful. Almost intolerable. (Especially since so many of his decisions have been so high-stakes!)

///

Then in later seasons... it gets worse.

First, there was "choking in the fight against AU Michael" in s14

(14x09)

And then s14-15 hits even harder. It's a painful, emotionally devastating setup that results in Dean trusting Chuck and going whole-hog on the whole "God says so" thing.

It's the opposite of everything Dean's ever stood for:

(14x20)

///

Then he spins straight into denial, oscillating between that and anger.

(15x01)

///

And when Belphegor arrives, he pitches into bargaining, too, experiences multiple phases of grief simultaneously. (It's in the script only, but a close reading shows that the next few episodes underline that THIS is the deal with keeping Bel around.)

(15x01)

///

This gives Dean perhaps his heaviest dose of Nihilism yet, effectively rendering him as s4 Cas, "I don't know if you passed or failed here," with Dean saying, "He doesn't know what's God, what isn't."

In Golden Times, Dean is described as "fatalistic."

(15x05)

//

(15x06)

Yeah. I'm always thinking of s15 Dean being so untethered that he reads very as a parallel with early seasons Cas!

I can't find the line in the scripts, but I know one of them in s15 references Dean feeling like his "life work is a hoax."

///

Dean and Cas have spent large parts of their respective lives being either Right or Righteous(TM), especially considering Castiel's incredibly long military history.

Yet in season 10, Cas says this:

CASTIEL: Yes, well, um… Before, I was very self-assured. I was convinced I was on this righteous path. Now I realize that there is no righteous path. It’s just people trying to do their best in a world where it’s far too easy to do your worst.

(10x04)

It's about trying to reconcile your own righteousness with the world, with where you are going to centralize the locus of your morality (i.e. family) in a world whose food chain spirals down so hard that following it will drive you mad if you're not careful!

The theme of righteousness becomes a poughkeepsie word as early as 4x07:

SAM: I just… I mean, I thought they’d be righteous. DEAN: Well, they are righteous, I mean, that’s kinda the problem. Of course there’s nothing more dangerous than some a-hole who thinks he’s on a holy mission.

That is where Dean fins himself in s15, I think. Grappling with what he will choose.

We see how he's grappling with it in s15, but he by no means really recovers in s15 (this is why we need ONE more season):

DEAN: Trust me, uh, bigger doesn't always equal better. Besides, who's gonna look out after the little guy? God certainly isn't.

//

LEE: You don't, Dean? I am you. I'm just you that woke up and saw that the world was broken. DEAN: Then you fix it. You don't walk away. You fight for it.

The funny thing is that Lee echoes a of "I am you's" that AU Michael does. Like characters before him Cain ("you're like me, Dean") and (Crowley "see what what I see, feel what I feel") and Chuck ("the ultimate killer"), Lee is trying to pigeon-hole Dean into being who he thinks he is, something nihilistic and inhumane.

LEE: Ohh. All right. I'll be damned. Why do you care so much, Dean? DEAN: Because someone has to.

(15x07)

Dean fights back against these roles. He fights for his own heart, for his sense of CARING about the little guy.

Maybe it's not about being righteous but letting go of the idea of righteousness.

[ask-the-witchverse]

Ask the Witches: Albedo (Dust Sans)

Magic focus: "chalk" witch (focus on written/runic spells and sigils) with a particular skill for curses

Species: skeleton

About: Albedo was a "typical" Dust Sans timeline for a while, at least until the human "flipped the script" and essentially ran a "pacifist" run, getting Flowey's assistance and tricking Papyrus into helping them both (by ensuring Papyrus heard Dust killing Toriel and convincing him he was going to kill everyone else, including Asgore. Which wasn't a lie, but still). This led to an attempted execution of Dust (the human thought this would break and demoralize him into stopping). Attempted because while the Underground began burning him at the stake, Dust screamed out a curse that effected the entire. Underground. (It also had the unintended side effect of saving Dust's life). All the SOULs of the Underground were left trapped as restless spirits, unable to move on, unable to be killed, unable to do or effect anything at all. The human thought they could reset and continue but the curse persisted. And persisted. And persisted. Until they finally gave up, leaving Albedo alone in his empty AU. Until Morph found him, unlike most Nightmares, Morph found Albedo first and not his Killer (Rubedo), and brought him to his tower.

Warnings: Albedo and his brother are on EXTREMELY bad terms, due to Albedo feeling betrayed by his brother for helping the human get everyone to burn him at the stake, and Papyrus feeling betrayed for Albedo killing people and then cursing both him and their entire home. Albedo keeps his brother's wand on it, but it is not regularly put on display. Albedo also has significant triggers from being burnt at the stake, mostly related to temperature and specific smells but can be other thibgs