#i finally did it :') | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hencheri · 8 months ago

Text

— love, H

▸ 18+ mdni.

| pairing. stalker!heeseung x fem!reader

| warnings. stalking, yandere elements (i hate saying that), heeseung's a freak, noncon/dubcon, knife play, fear play & chase kink ig.

| wc. 2.2k

It’s cold. Freezing cold. The night air has you clutching to your arms in an attempt to heat yourself up, but the breeze hitting you in the face, flowing through your hair and into the collar of your coat, makes it impossible to feel any type of warmth.

You should have brought a scarf, you knew you should have right when you stepped foot outside this morning, but you didn’t. And now you’re sure you’re going to freeze to death before reaching your front door.

But at the sight of someone in particular, your heartbeat quickens in seconds, pumping blood so rapidly you feel it pounding against your chest. You don’t feel cold anymore.

A man you can’t name, but who has been following you and watching you for weeks — probably months at this point. You look back at him, halting your steps, his body standing a few feet away from you just outside your workplace like he’s been waiting for you for a while.

You don’t see his eyes, don’t see his face — never did you, and you might not discover it very soon either — a black hoodie draped over his head as it is often the case.

He gets away from the wall he was leaning on when you walk away in the direction of your house. You check a few times behind your shoulder, seeing him following you closely in such a casual manner it reminds you how often you experienced this exact same situation before with the exact same person. Your faceless stalker.

You live a few blocks away, and turning corner after corner, noticing he hasn’t disappeared, you start to really freak out. He usually doesn’t follow you until there, you’ve always supposed he was too scared in case he could get spotted by your neighbours, but this fear doesn’t seem to stop him at this moment.

You fasten the pace of your steps, quicker and quicker until you’re actually running, the only sounds you hear being your boots hitting the pavement and the rapid breaths you take, accompanied, of course, by his own footsteps chasing after you.

Your eyes well up in tears as you tighten your hold around the straps of your shoulder bag, taking a look behind you and being horrified to see his dark silhouette still behind you, determined and eager to catch you. You let out a sob, one that rips up through your throat, heartbeat now pounding in your skull, making your ears ring loudly.

You’re breathless, scared and desperate, a spark of hope lighting in you at the view of your house. You’re almost there, come on. Your stomach hurts as well as the soles of your feet, but you keep going, running because your life depends on it. He’s never expressed the want to kill you, but he’s expressed many other things that made the hair on your arms rise up, and thinking back to it, you don’t want to discover what’s going to happen if he gets his hands on you.

The letters he leaves you… they all ended up in the trash, until one day where he threatened in his letter to enter your house during your sleep if you got rid of this one, too. They’re now stacked up in the last drawer of your vanity, still in their original envelope.

You could recite each one of them and exactly what they’re talking about. The subject always the same, but told in a different way; you. Only you.

You find yourself rereading them sometimes, usually when a new one comes in. He leaves them in your mailbox, but it happens you fall upon one on your nightstand coming back from work, or, the weirdest, in your underwear drawer, exactly in the spot where one of your panties is missing.

He’s not subtle about it, he admits it pretty buntly, in fact. He tells you which pair he took exactly, the last one he described as the ‘cute baby pink panties with a white heart pattern and small bow on the front’ and he also says what he does with it, a part that always leaves you in shock and weirdly turned on.

He tells you when he gets inside your house, what he touches, what he likes, what he keeps. His words are kind and surprisingly caring, but when you do something he doesn’t appreciate, like throwing his letters in the trash for example, his tone changes completely. This double side of him is what scares you the most because you truly never know the extent of what he’s capable of.

He talks about his fantasies, whether they’re explicit or not, you don’t know what to expect when opening his letters. He admits his desire to have you, possess you, his carnal need to make love to you as he so calls it, but anything he describes is the opposite of making love.

You think he doesn’t really know the difference between love and obsession, but you’d be fooled with how skilled he is with words. Everything sounds poetic, when in reality, the meaning of his words are far from beautiful. They’re deranged and don’t make sense either. You can’t pretend to love someone you say you’d chop in little pieces if they throw away your unsolicited love letters.

He always signs with H, that’s pretty much all you know of him, and you don’t even know if his name really begins with the letter H. You don’t know if he’s someone from your daily life or a stranger you’ve never met. You know nothing, but he knows everything, every little detail of your intimacy…

He’s aware of that power he has over you. He could have had you way back before, but he didn’t. He wants you to be familiar with him, wants to make its way into your life without even revealing himself. He wants you to know you’re eventually going to be his and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Like tonight, there’s nothing you can do to stop him.

He has the way to your house, he can get inside whenever he wants. If he decides to catch you tonight, he will, and with the chasing that’s happening right now, you think the time has come. You’ll be his, finally.

But you’ll have to give up on running before he even touches you.

You cross your front yard, clumsily climbing up the stairs to the entrance door. You slip your hand into your pocket and pull out your keys, hurriedly trying to insert it into the lock. You know he’s behind, you hear him, and you think you’ve never been so frightened in your life before.

You turn the key and then the handle, pushing your door open and immediately getting inside. You only realize how close he was to getting you when closing the door, he startles you by rushing into it, seeing his body watching through the transparent glass.

You lock it, shaking in fear, but relieved that you made it in. He hits the glass with his hand out of frustration, visibly upset. His head is down, so you can’t decipher any of his features, but knowing he’s angry is enough to make you scared, recalling the words he uses when he’s annoyed with your behaviour.

‘If you ever escape me, I’ll make sure you never use your legs ever again,’ followed by your name and then ‘love, H’, ending the letter.

You never knew what that meant, but now you think you do.

He stays behind your door for a minute or so, both looking back at each other, without you being able to see his eyes.

He steps away and you watch him leave, wondering where he’s going. Your senses are all enlightened, a million thoughts going through your head at the same time. You walk into your kitchen, grabbing a knife, feeling a tad bit safer now armed.

But there’s still this little voice in the back of your mind telling you the knife is useless, he’ll get you unarmed in a matter of seconds. You can lock yourself up in a room, he’ll still find a way in because he always does.

And unconsciously, you make yourself an easy prey. You like it, you anticipate it. Why did you never call the police? Why haven’t you changed the locks on your doors?

Why in the hell are you turned on to know he touches himself with your stolen panties?

From the corner of your eye, you get the glimpse of a shadow. You instantly turn around, pointing your knife in front of you, but there’s nobody in the kitchen beside you.

You walk out, looking on each side of you, being on your guard. Your face turns pale, noticing the back door half open. You gulp down.

He’s inside. Your stalker, he’ll kill you. He will tonight in your own house.

“Oh, sweetie…”

Your heart skips a beat.

You turn around again, losing all of the strength you had earlier to fight him. You step back until you hit the sliding door behind you, feeling the cold glass through your clothes. You clasp your hand tightly around the handle of the kitchen knife, but you look much more ridiculous than intimidating.

“My poor little girl, all frightened and helpless,” he chuckles, and you find back the light-hearted tone he uses in his letters. It sends shivers down your spine, your pussy throbing.

He walks toward you and you point the knife at him, “don’t get any closer!” you sob out, wanting to sound serious, but your voice breaks pathetically at the end. More tears fall down your cheeks, the previous ones now dried out on your burning skin.

You can see a smirk drawn on beautiful heart-shaped lips, and your mouth opens in shock when he pulls his hoodie off his head.

Your arm holding your knife is trembling, your eyes staring at his face. You’ve spent night after night imagining what he could look like, feeling so powerless thinking that you might never know who he is, but he’s just revealed himself to you now. And it’s nothing you ever expected to see.

He’s beautiful.

“What do you think you’re going to do with that thing?” he asks mockingly, referring to the knife that you no longer hold properly, letting your emotions get the best out of you. He approaches you despite your warning — that was nothing other than laughable. “Stab me, maybe? I know you could never.”

You watch him taking control of you in no time with tearful eyes. He takes the knife out of your grip, and the way he easily uses it against you is humiliating.

He swiftly puts the tip of the blade under your chin, forcing your head up. “I admire your tenacity, my love. I really do,” he tells you, and his voice is soft, almost too gentle. “But I thought I was clear on that; you’re mine. You can’t run away from me.”

You try to hold back your cries, keeping your mouth closed and looking away from his face, but the tears still roll down your cheeks, drawing a wet trail from your eyes to your jaw.

“Look at me,” he suddenly growls, pressing the blade harder under your chin, but not enough to cut you. You reluctantly do what he said, your eyes meeting his. “There you go,” he coos, “I know you dreamt of this exact moment. You’re a little freak who likes the attention of deranged guys like me. You’re no secret to me, baby.”

Your bottom lip trembles, no words coming out of you. What possibly can you say? You’re not stupid enough to think you can change his mind.

And maybe a part of you really waited for this moment to happen. For him to catch you.

You gasp when he tears through the front of your shirt with the knife, tilting your head downward to see your chest exposed, goosebumps all over your skin.

“So pretty. I always wanted to see them from up close,” he moans, dragging the knife between your naked breasts, going over your heaving stomach down to the band of your leggings. He lowers them with his other hand, pushing them all the way down to your ankles.

He tears through your panties as well, leaving you with nothing covering your private parts and you can’t feel more embarrassed.

The blade of the knife stays just under your belly button as his eyes stare at your uncovered pussy, wetting his lips with his tongue. He’s in love, to say the least.

“Fuck that shit.” He throws the knife away on the floor and with both hands free, he unzips his pants and takes his hard cock out.

He aligns his leaking tip with your entrance, feeling how wet you already are.

“N-No, don’t, please!” You cry out, holding his shoulders, but doing no attempt in pushing him away.

Just as he pushes himself into you, he glances up at your face, looking totally blissed out. His mouth hungs open, staring back into your eyes as he thrusts up all in the way in, making you moan out in pain.

“Stop lying to yourself, baby,” he groans, “we both know you love it.”

#[ ★ ] dark content #i finally did it #praise the gods #— ☆ starring enhypen #w/ heeseung !#enhypen x reader #enhypen smut #heeseung x reader #heeseung smut #enha x reader

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witchingwithscissors · 17 days ago

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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.

#i finally did it #sorry this took so long #separated to make a little easier to read #pistol shrimps #agatha all along #agathario fic #rio x agatha #agathario au #modern domestic agathario makes me asdfghjkl #rio vidal #agatha harkness #agathario #agatha x rio

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