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witchingwithscissors · 18 hours ago

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

🏀 🦐 🏀 🦐 🏀 🦐 🏀 🦐 🏀 🦐 🏀 🦐 🏀 🦐 🏀

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Empty.

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

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

But now she just wanted to win.

And maybe be held. Occasionally. Briefly.

Quietly.

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

She was six interviews deep when she saw her.

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

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

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

But now she couldn’t stop looking up.

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

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

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

“Should I have?”

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

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

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

Rio barked a laugh.

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

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

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

Rio almost bumped her. Agatha didn’t flinch.

They both stopped. Rio raised a brow.

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

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

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

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

“And you’re kinda scarier.”

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

“Apparently.”

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

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

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

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

Agatha’s hand.

Rio cropped the image. Zoomed just enough.

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

Within thirty minutes, the comments had started.

“Who’s hand??”

“Wait… Rio are we soft launching???”

“👀👀👀👀👀”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Rio noticed. Every time.

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

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

Agatha was always visible but never reachable.

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

But Rio could feel her watching.

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

Sitting on her pillow: a bouquet of lavender azaleas.

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

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

Rio stared for a long moment.

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

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

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

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

She sent it to one contact. Just “A.”

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

Rio: Thank you.

Agatha read it. And sent back a single period.

A: .

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

So it was her. Flower gifter confirmed.

She texted again.

Rio: You always this romantic?

Read. No reply.

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

A: Only when it’s deserved.

It started like that.

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

Midnight messages that slipped into 2 am.

Jokes that turned into philosophy.

Sarcasm that curled into softness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rio: Tell me something true.

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

Instead, Agatha replied instantly.

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

Rio stared at the screen.

Not smiled. Not laughed. Just… felt it.

She typed back.

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

This time, it took five minutes.

A: Both.

They still hadn’t touched.

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

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

Just at the woman behind the glass.

She didn’t always see her.

But she always felt her.

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

She thought about lavender azaleas.

About tight suits and sharp sunglasses.

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

Rio knew the line she was toeing.

Owner. Player.

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

But she also knew the truth.

Some people make silence feel like a love song.

And she was already humming it.

The text came at 7:16 pm.

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

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

She typed back.

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

Three dots. Then four. Then nothing.

Finally, she texted.

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

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

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

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

Agatha was barefoot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

There were no papers on the table.

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

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

Rio laughed. It surprised them both.

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

Rio nodded. “Yeah. It’s nice.”

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

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

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

Agatha didn’t answer.

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

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

Rio wanted to kiss her.

She didn’t.

Instead, they talked.

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

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

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

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

Rio blinked. “Jesus.”

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

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

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

A long silence.

Then Rio: “You hide now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like maybe she didn’t want to let go.

Rio didn’t say anything. Just held on.

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

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

“Yeah,” Rio said. “See you.”

It started quietly.

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

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

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

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

It felt like a confession.

They made love with the lights off, at first.

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

Her hands trembled. But her mouth didn’t.

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

And Rio let her take everything.

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

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

After, they lay tangled in silence.

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

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

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

Like she might drift without it.

Rio didn’t move.

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

The routine settled in like weather.

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

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

Always her.

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

But in public? Nothing.

No eye contact. No smiles. No acknowledgement.

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

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

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

But she wanted to be seen.

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

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

She posted.

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

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

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

The comments came fast.

“Whose back is that???? 🥵👀”

“Soft launch getting softer”

“Um okay wifey heels 💍”

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

A: You can’t post me.

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

Then she typed.

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

Agatha didn’t respond.

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

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

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

Sometimes Rio thought she should end it.

Not because she wanted to.

Because she didn’t want to.

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

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

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

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

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

Agatha smiled. But she didn’t deny it.

They never talked about the future.

They talked about next time.

About cities.

Schedules.

Flight delays.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So she said it.

“I love you.”

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

Agatha didn’t move.

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

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

Still, Agatha said nothing.

Then she turned.

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

And kept walking.

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

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

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

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

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

And still, she lost.

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

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

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

No one gave a shit about her feelings.

Fucking feelings.

The next day, Rio played like hell.

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

Rio was not herself.

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

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

She didn’t feel it.

The adrenaline was too thick. The noise too loud.

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

Pop!

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

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

She clutched her knee, gasping.

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

Agatha.

Not in the box.

On the court.

In heels, in black, in panic.

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

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

Rio’s eyes welled. “Agatha—”

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

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

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

“I love you too.”

Cameras flashed.

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

The story broke before Rio made it to the hospital.

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

“Wait. Are they…?”

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

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

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

The media had a field day.

And Rio?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rio blinked slowly. “You are.”

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

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

Rio exhaled, hand curling into Agatha’s.

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

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

She looked at her, warm and completely in love.

“As long as I get to be yours.”

Rio grinned, hopeless. “You already are.”

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

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

Not even once.

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

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

But she didn’t cry.

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

The nurse said nothing.

Just handed her a tissue and walked out.

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

But her hand was warm.

Because Agatha was still there.

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

“Hey,” Rio rasped.

Agatha looked up.

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

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

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

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

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

Rio smiled, then flinched.

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

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

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

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

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

Then she leaned in and kissed her.

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

Love.

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

Rio blinked. “What?”

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

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

“I didn’t think I could have both.”

She swallowed hard.

Rio waited.

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

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

“It made everything clear.”

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

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

A pause. A breath.

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

The photo went up that night.

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

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

The caption was simple: My love.

The world had opinions.

Some sent love. Some sent hate.

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

But Rio didn’t care.

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

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

But her heart?

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

Recovery sucked.

There was no way around it.

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

But Agatha was there.

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

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

A chair pulled close. A hand on her thigh.

Fresh azaleas by her bedside every week.

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

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

Not like an owner watching a player.

Not like someone waiting for her to be useful again.

Just… watching.

Eyes soft. Chin tilted. Expression raw.

“You’re staring,” Rio said.

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

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

Agatha walked over. Brushed sweat from her forehead.

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

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

But to Rio, it was.

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

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

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

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

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

Weeks passed.

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

Agatha stopped sleeping at her penthouse.

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

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

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

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

Agatha smirked. “You love it.”

Rio buried her face in her neck.

“I love you.”

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

They walked in together.

No one said anything.

But the flashbulbs went wild.

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

Four years later…

The Newark arena was on its feet.

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

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

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

The crowd went wild.

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

Agatha stood in the owner’s box, glowing.

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

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

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

Fifteen minutes earlier…

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

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

Rio blinked. “Thought you hated this part.”

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

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

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

Mid-kiss, Agatha froze.

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

Rio gasped.

A kick.

A real, honest-to-God kick.

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

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

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

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

Agatha met her halfway.

Pregnant, glowing, grinning.

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

And maybe it couldn’t.

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

Now?

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

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

And the screen above lit up with the shot.

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

Rio blew her a kiss.

Yeah, she’s still got court vision.

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

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

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valodia · 1 year ago

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Eerie music stops

#outer wilds #echoes of the eye #outer wilds spoilers #outer wilds echoes of the eye #echoes of the eye spoilers #my art #based on the awkward party reaction meme.#POV you just crashed a party u werent invited to.#when i saw that scene in echoes of the eye for the first time i knew i had to make this and everytime i thought about outer wilds i thought #about it so here it is.#oh and the caption is based on the jazz music stops meme #monsters #horror #ig as content warning. they are friends to me so idk.

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daddyjackfrost · 15 days ago

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Oh, my love, side to side: B. Barnes

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avengers!F!Reader

Synopsis: After a successful yet traumatizing mission, you dream of losing Bucky for the first time in years. In a fit of panic, you call him. He answers. Not the phone, but the call your heart makes to his.

Warnings: Slow burn, fluff, minor angst if you squint, best friends to lovers?, mentions of; blood, injuries, burning bodies, crumbling buildings, nightmares, death, loss, panic attacks, and religious imagery, down!bad bucky, very obvious they are in love, WC: 3k

A/N: Thank you for the request! I really do love slow-burns. I wrote this in like, forty minutes so if it’s bad, I’m sorry! Also, listen to the song! it elevates the experience. Reblogs & Comments appreciated!

The quinjet landed just after midnight.

The compound’s landing pad lights flickered against the sheen of metal, casting long shadows as the ramp lowered with a hiss. The mission had ended hours ago, but the adrenaline hadn’t faded, not really. It clung to your skin like sweat, and its success didn’t account for the blood caked beneath your fingernails or the tremble in your fingertips when you keyed in your ID. It didn’t reflect the way your chest still heaved like you were mid-sprint, lungs not quite convinced you were out of danger.

The inside of your suit was stiff with dried blood—some yours, most not.

As you stepped down into the quiet night, your body ached with exhaustion, but your mind wouldn’t slow. Not even with the hum of familiarity beneath your boots. You were safe and the mission was over.

And still, you felt like the rug was going to be pulled out from under you any second.

You chose to go on this mission alone. You had done your research, accounted for all the mistakes that could have been, memorized the facts and mission brief, and yet. Muscles aching, you leaned your head against the cool metal.

The elevator hummed as it carried you back up to the main floor. The doors opened to the familiar click of Tony’s boots echoing from the kitchen, and Natasha’s soft voice somewhere behind him. Laughter floated down the hallway—Sam, probably, cracking jokes at this late hour.

You stepped into the glow of the kitchen and the moment your boots hit tile, all heads turned.

“Hey, hey—look who made it back alive,” Sam called, voice low but teasing as he leaned against the counter. His eyes raked over your bloodied body and softened a fraction.

Natasha looked up from her tea. “You’re late.” She had kept tabs on you in the beginning. She had no idea how horrible it had gone, how it had all unravelled.

Tony grinned from the bar, nursing something with too much tequila and not enough sense. “She walks in looking like a murder scene and you’re giving her shit?” He raised the glass towards you in a silent salute. “Welcome back.”

You let out a breath of laughter, slow and tired. The kind that pulled from your chest more like a sigh.

“Just took the scenic route,” you said, voice hoarse. “You know how I enjoy a pretty view.”

The words felt like bile on your tongue. There had been nothing pretty about anything you had seen. You knew they’d see bits and pieces in the morning, how their concern would flood your senses, but for now, you shoved it all to the back of your mind.

The last thing you needed was Sam sitting you down or Natasha hovering.

You felt his eyes before you saw them. Warm, filled with knowing.

Bucky stood near the wall, arms crossed, his figure still as stone. His hair was brushed back, strands curling loose around his face. The dark t-shirt stretched over his chest like it didn’t want to let go of him. His eyes followed every subtle movement you made—the slight limp, the way your shoulders curled inward, your haunted silence.

To others, you were fine. A little bruised, shaken up, but smiling.

To him, you were a storm waiting to break. Something scraped and aching.

Both of you had a tradition, something that had started years ago. A simple nod and smile after a mission, just to assure the other that you were okay, that you hadn’t let the mission come back home.

You avoided his gaze and set your bag down with a soft thud. You knew, knew he’d read you too easily. He had offered to come with you, not because he thought you couldn’t handle it but because two sets of hands were always better than one. He wanted to help you, be someone you could lean on, but you had refused with a smile.

Flashes of burning bodies and crumbled buildings hit you like a truck and you blinked.

You didn’t smile or nod, just dodged his burning stare. He clenched his jaw.

“Gonna shower,” you murmured. “See you guys in the morning.”

“You want dinner?” Sam offered. “We saved—”

“I’ll grab it later,” you cut him off, turning. “Thanks.”

Bucky watched you disappear down the hallway, the tension in your spine making his own body coil tight. He hated seeing you like this, hated that things had gone wrong and he hadn’t been there to help you.

“Don’t follow her,” Natasha said quietly, not unkindly.

He didn’t move. Not yet.

But later, when the kitchen had emptied, goodnights shared, and lights dimmed, Bucky made you a plate anyway. Put your favourites on it. Covered it in foil and tucked it into the fridge. Maybe, just maybe, you’d listen to your body and eat something.

He couldn’t force you, but he could make it easier.

Quietly, he made his way down to his floor, but stopped at yours first. The elevator doors opened silently and he was greeted with a dark floor, eerily quiet. He moved towards your bedroom, eyed the bandages and medkit on the counter.

He paused at your door for a moment, eyes narrowed, trying to listen through the silence. He heard nothing, just your soft breaths, a rustle.

Then, slowly, he walked away.

Sleep didn’t come easily anymore, not for you. It hadn’t, for years.

But when it finally did, it came hard and fast—dragging you under into a memory that wasn’t quite a memory. The sky was red. Your lungs burned. In the middle of the smoke and gunfire and screaming. You were running toward him.

“Bucky!”

Your voice tore out of you in a ragged scream. He turned, slow and silhouetted in the haze, blood on his shirt—so much blood—and then he was gone.

Shot. Chest ripped open. Dying.

You dropped to your knees. You were screaming. Shaking.

He was bleeding out in your arms, dog tags slick with blood, his blue eyes wide and fading.

You woke up gasping.

Your sheets were damp with sweat, clinging to your skin like a second, suffocating layer. The room was too dark. Too quiet. Your chest felt like it was collapsing in on itself, like your heart was breaking from the inside. You could barely breathe, throat raw.

He had died.

No, No—that wasn’t real.

You scrambled for your phone with shaking hands, barely able to put in the passcode. Your fingers shook as you tapped his name. It was instinct, muscle memory.

One ring. Two—

Panicked, you ended the call, dropping the phone like it burned. Your hands were in your hair.

“No, no, no—” you whispered, tossing the phone aside as you covered your mouth with both hands. You couldn’t breathe. Your body rocked with panic, your mind caught between now and then and that awful dream where he’d died and you couldn’t save him.

You hadn’t had a dream like this in years. You used to dream about loss—death—like it was family, but then you gained a new family, real and tangible. Hours at therapy had made you comfortable in your skin, had convinced you that loss could be prevented and how to deal with it.

But this—this was new. This was personal. This was Bucky. Your Bucky.

Pulling your legs up to your chest, you rocked back and forth, trying to breathe. The tears leaked out of your eyes anyways.

The phone vibrated once on the nightstand.

He was up before the second buzz.

Bucky didn’t waste time. Didn’t hesitate. He was already moving. Barefoot, shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, dog tags clinking softly as he grabbed his gun from the nightstand. His metal hand clenched instinctively.

He glanced at his phone. Your name was on his screen.

You’d called and hung up.

That was enough to make his blood run cold.

You were only two floors up. He ignored the elevator and threw open the large metal doors, running quicker than he ever had before.

He didn’t knock. The door creaked open quietly. You didn’t hear it. He was silently glad you had granted him fingerprint access months ago. He didn’t need Jarvis alerting and disrupting you.

He stepped inside like he belonged there, in your space—because God, didn’t he?

His breath caught when he saw you—sitting up in bed, knees pulled to your chest, body trembling. You were sobbing. Your eyes vacant.

His heart cracked clean in half.

“Sweetheart…” His voice was soft, barely a breath.

You flinched. Then, your eyes met his—and he saw the exact moment they focused. The panic didn’t fade, but it shifted, turned into something raw, deeper.

“Bucky,” you gasped. His name felt like a prayer on your lips.

He crossed the room in three steps. Sunk to his knees in front of you, at the edge of your bed, like he’d done a hundred times before.

“Hey, hey,” his voice was soft, coaxing. “I’m here, Y/n. I got you.” He held his hands out, giving you the option to hold on or push him away. Either way, he wasn’t moving.

You stared at his hands for a second before you folded into him. You leaned down, off your bed, and wrapped your arms around his neck. He wrapped his arms around you like they’d been sculpted for this—holding, grounding, anchoring. Like these very hands hadn’t caused mass destruction.

He pulled you onto his left knee, pressing your trembling body into his. He rubbed your back, pressed his cheek into your hair. “It was just a dream,” he murmured into your hair. You didn’t need to tell him, he knew. “You’re safe. Look at me, Y/n.”

You did, slowly. Your hands gripped his shoulders, nails digging in. You hadn’t even realized he was shirtless, just holding on like you’d fall apart if you didn’t.

His eyes, blue and stormy were so soft, so calm as he stared at you. His eyes flickered across your face, taking in the light bruising and cuts. Gently, his arms went under your knees and around your waist and he stood up.

Your hold on him tightened and for a moment, you thought he was going to drop you onto the bed and leave. You whimpered, wounded.

Bucky’s heart clenched in his chest and he pressed you closer to his chest as he sat down on the edge of your bed with you in his lap. “None of that, sweetheart. I’m here. With you.”

He rubbed your back as your face fell into the nape of his shoulder and he held onto you tight, wanting nothing more than to take on whatever burden rested on your chest.

“You were—God, Bucky, you were gone,” you choked out, still breathless. “I watched you die.”

He exhaled hard, holding you tighter. He pressed his chin into your hair, hoping you hadn’t felt the shiver that ran down his back. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You nodded against his skin but he could tell his words hadn’t fully registered. He remembers the first time he had dreamt of you dying. It had been years ago, when you had first made him laugh. He was trying to stay away from everyone, keep them out of harm's way, but you’d slowly but surely clawed your way inside his heart.

He hadn’t spoken to you in a week.

It wasn’t until you cornered him, told him that avoidance didn’t mean protection, that he tried to be better. For you.

He can’t remember if he’s ever died in your dreams. You hadn’t told him. He knew you used to dream about loss, but he wasn’t sure if he’d ever been included.

It was a terrifying feeling, he decided. Being on the receiving end of such a revelation. It meant too much. He meant too much and he didn’t know how to carry that weight with pride. If you were dreaming about losing him then that meant you had him.

And you did.

Irrevocably so.

You were the only one who ever had.

But this fear, the picture of him in your arms—it wasn’t one he wanted you to see, to experience. He hated that you had. He lost you in his dreams often, but that was because he didn’t have you. Couldn’t. It was his burden to bear.

You pressed your forehead to his chest, the steady beat of his heart grounding you. His body heat helped with your shivers, his scent a calming balm. You didn’t realize how hard you were crying until his fingers were brushing away tears from your cheeks.

“I’ll get you some water, okay?”

Part of you wanted to refuse, beg him not to leave you, but instead, you nodded, small and shaky.

You slid off his lap and he stood quietly, hand on your shoulder until he had no choice but to drop it as he moved quickly, stepping outside your bedroom door and into the kitchen. He opened a cabinet and pulled a large glass out, filled it halfway with water and downed it.

He sighed and braced the sides of the counter, head tipping down. He hated this, hated that you’d been alone on the mission and that things had gone wrong, hated that you’d been woken up by such gruesome nightmares.

He wasn’t a very religious man but he’d beg God for all of your pain. If he never had to see that vacant look in your red-rimmed eyes again, he’d thank the God that had once abandoned him.

He hadn’t heard. Hadn’t heard the soft patter of your feet or your shaky breathing, too caught up in his mind.

But he felt you, felt your arms slide around his waist as you pressed into his back. He stilled before he sagged at the contact. You rested your cheek against his back, his hands resting on yours.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” you whispered, guilt dripping onto the floors.

“You didn’t,” he lied. He had been, but that wasn’t your fault. “Just needed to see you.”

The silence that followed was soft, fragile. Sacred.

“I couldn’t save you.” You sounded broken, like even the words were pulling you under.

“You called me,” he said gently, tilting his head. “You reached for me. That means something.” He slowly turned in your arms, his arms wrapping around your waist as he looked at you, eyes having fully adjusted to the dark.

“Why’d you get out of bed?”

You looked away at the question, mildly embarrassed. But his eyes didn’t move, just watched you. “I needed to see you. Touch you.”

His lips parted at the admission. His arms around you tightened and he tipped his head down, chin resting on your head. “I’m here, sweetheart. I’m okay. Alive.”

“Yeah,” you said. But it didn’t feel like enough.

Unbeknownst to either of you, you had begun to sway. It was soft, a whisper of muscle movement, but Bucky rocked you, side to side. It felt a bit like slow dancing, like if a candle had been lit and some 80s jazz had been playing, everything could have been warm and filled with love.

It was a little like that now.

The floors were cold and the room was dim but there was warmth between you, a press of chests as his body heat slowly enticed yours. There was love in the air, flickers of it wrapping around you like it couldn’t be helped.

Bucky didn’t want to be anywhere else. Here, in your arms, swaying with you in the kitchen was everything he wanted—needed. But you needed more, needed sleep and a restful night.

With an arm around you, he leaned back and filled the same glass with some water. Still close, he brought it to your lips and smiled softly when you let him tilt the glass up. The cool water soothed the dryness in your throat and you sighed, forehead against his bare chest.

“Come on,” he whispered into your ear. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

He filled the glass to the top before he flexed his arm and crouched down a little. “Jump, sweetheart.”

With practiced ease, like it was second nature and maybe it was, you wrapped your legs around his waist and his hand, his warm, strong hand rested under your thigh. It was intimate, sweet, and it broke through the clouds that were in your head.

Made something warm, something delicate and treasured curl up in your stomach.

Holding you with one arm and the glass with the other, Bucky made his way back into your bedroom.

If these were any other circumstances, if you weren’t quietly still mourning him in your mind, you would have fully appreciated it. Bucky holding you and taking you to bed had been a dirty little secret of yours, something you’d think about and imagine when you were alone.

It—with his genuine love and affection—was all you wanted.

You didn’t know you already had it.

“Do you want me to go?” he asked softly, already knowing the answer.

Your arms tightened around him as he eased you back into bed, carefully, never once letting go of you. You shook your head. “No. Can you stay? Please.”

He didn’t hesitate.

Bucky slid under the covers beside you, careful not to crowd. But then you turned and curled into his space, borrowing into his chest, your body instinctively molding to his, your face in the crook of his shoulder.

He wrapped himself around you instantly.

One arm tucked under your neck, the other holding you tight against his chest. His dog tags were cool against your skin. His hand pressed to the small of your back. You breathed in his scent—soap and cedar and wood—something so distinctly him.

“I don’t wanna lose you, Buck,” you whispered into his skin, heart settling but still afraid.

He exhaled sharply and buried his nose in your hair. “You won’t, Y/n. I’m here, with you. I’ll always come back to you.” He pressed his lips to the crown of your head. “Just how you always come back to me.”

“Okay,” you whispered, focusing on his steady heartbeat, feeling safe for the first time in a week.

And in that quiet, the hush of your room, wrapped in his arms, the steady rhythm of two hearts finally beating in sync, your eyes drifted shut.

#hana’s.writing!#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barns fanfiction #bucky barns imagine #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky fluff #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky x female reader #bucky one shot #bucky imagine #bucky smut #winter solider x reader #winter solider imagine

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kbunzzi2oa · 24 days ago

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Touch of madness

Synopsis☞ Working as a doctor for an asylum was interesting, you had different patients, but one catches your eyes..Yang jungwon a very special patient..

Contains☞ Slow burn, kissing, make out, healing, angst, fluff, unprotected sex, swearing, mentions of killing (a little bit).

W.C☞ 12k..?

Nef notes☞ New jungwon fic based on the CONCEPT PHOTOS, HOLY SHIT, THEY WHERE SO GEWDDD TOO GEEWED! anyways here's some serial killer jungwon, when I saw him hold the chainsaw I had to!..love y'all, reblogs, likes and comments are good for me! feel free to comment!Hope you guys enjoy it (⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠)⁠♡

The heavy steel door groaned as it closed behind you, a familiar finality echoing off the cold tile walls. The fluorescent lights above buzzed, flickering slightly, casting sterile white over the hallway. The South Wing of the Seoul Psychiatric Detention Center wasn’t a place many dared to linger. Especially not near Room 313.

You weren’t supposed to be here past shift change. But rules had blurred long ago, the first time you made eye contact with Jungwon through that reinforced glass.

He had been transferred under high-security conditions, a 19-year-old with a rap sheet that read like a horror script—four confirmed murders, two suspected, and a trail of evidence so compelling the prosecution hadn’t even bothered with a plea deal. But he was too young for full incarceration. The court ordered psychiatric evaluation instead. Which meant, for now, he belonged in your world.

The first time you'd seen him, he was barefoot, cuffs around his ankles and wrists, still smiling like he'd just walked out of a nightclub. A smile that felt... wrong in all the right ways. Not deranged. Not hollow. But calculated. Charming. Disarming.

You remember looking into his eyes and realizing something terrifying: He knew what you were thinking before you did.

“You’re back early,” his voice drawled through the bars as you stepped into his observation cell.

“I’m late, actually,” you corrected, clutching the clipboard tighter than necessary.

“Late,” he repeated, then slowly sat up from the cot, the faintest sound of chains shifting. “To see me. You know how that makes me feel?”

Your throat dried slightly. You were trained for this. You had degrees, certifications, and months of supervised fieldwork. And still, Jungwon made you feel like the one under observation.

“I’m not here for you,” you said, eyes flicking to the notes in your folder. “Routine wellness check.”

He tilted his head, a slow smirk pulling at his lips.

“You say that every time, Y/N.”

He said your name like a secret he enjoyed unwrapping. Like he had every intention of breaking the rules just to whisper it again.

You didn’t flinch. You’d learned by now that flinching was like blood in the water. But you didn’t have to say anything either, because he leaned forward, elbows on knees, voice dropping.

“Why don’t you tell me the truth, angel?” he purred. “You like watching me. I can feel it when your eyes linger.”

“I watch all the patients.”

“But I’m your favorite.”

You opened your mouth—to deny, to scold, you weren’t sure—but his gaze locked onto yours, and your breath caught.

“I see the way you hesitate outside the glass,” he said softly. “Like you’re trying to convince yourself not to come in.”

He wasn’t wrong. And that’s what made you furious.

Jungwon didn’t just enjoy mind games. He thrived on them. He read body language like poetry. He saw lies like they were highlighted in red.

And lately… he’d turned his attention entirely on you.

You told yourself it was part of the job—understanding him, empathizing just enough to build rapport. You told yourself you weren’t addicted to the electric pull between you, the way his words made your skin feel too tight. You told yourself he didn’t matter.

But that didn’t explain why you started staying past hours.

Didn’t explain why you read his files late into the night, fingers tracing over crime scene photos not in horror—but fascination.

Didn’t explain why, when he smiled, you sometimes smiled back.

“You’re not like them,” he said one night, voice low and silken as rain tapped the windows behind him.

“Like who?”

“The ones who try to fix me. You’re just trying to understand.”

“That’s my job.”

“No, Y/N,” he said, dragging out every syllable. “Your job is to document. But you? You want to know.”

Your silence gave you away.

“And the more you know,” he added, “the more you’ll crave.”

You swallowed. “And what is it I’m supposed to be craving, Jungwon?”

He stood, the chains dragging faintly. There was only a short distance between you now, four thick bars and a lifetime of poor decisions.

“Me,” he whispered.

You tried to pull away. You tried reassignment, switching shifts, working longer with less sleep. It didn’t matter. Jungwon’s voice echoed even in your dreams.

And he noticed.

“You’re not sleeping,” he said one day as you delivered meds to his cell. “Eyes puffy. Little tremble in your hand.”

“I’m fine.”

“You miss me.”

You laughed bitterly. “You’re psychotic.”

He leaned closer. “You keep saying that like it’s a turn-off.”

You hated him. You hated how he saw through everything. And you hated yourself for letting him.

But somewhere between your duty and his obsession, you started wanting the monster.

It came to a head during a lockdown.

A riot broke out in the North Wing. The facility went red-zone, sirens blaring. You were doing rounds, and when the security doors slammed, you were locked in with Jungwon.

The overhead buzzed: “Remain in place. Doors will reopen once clearance is verified.”

You stared at the cell. His door hadn’t locked. Malfunctioning latch. Classic.

And he was watching you. Uncuffed. Smiling. Beautiful and terrifying and real.

“You’re afraid,” he murmured, stepping out of the shadow.

“Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can scream.”

He took a step closer. “And they won’t come.”

Your back hit the wall.

He stopped in front of you, eyes unreadable now. The game dropped. Something deeper took its place.

“I could hurt you,” he said softly.

“I know.”

“I don’t want to.”

You exhaled shakily. “Then don’t.”

His fingers brushed your wrist.

“Say it,” he whispered. “Say you want this too.”

You didn’t answer.

But you didn’t pull away either.

The kiss was a chemical explosion.

Your hand tangled in the back of his shirt. His lips crashed into yours with fury and restraint, like he wanted to consume you and worship you all at once. You felt teeth, breath the heat he tasted like everything you weren’t supposed to have.

And you let him.

Because the worst part of all this wasn’t that he was a killer.

It was that he made you feel more alive than anyone ever had.

After that, there was no going back.

Late-night visits turned into touches beneath the table. A stolen moment when security cameras glitched. Fingertips brushing across your waist when no one was looking.

You kept his secrets. He kept your sanity.

But the guilt grew.

The lines blurred.

The closer you got to him, the more he opened up. About the pain. The voices. The fear of abandonment that grew claws. He wasn’t proud of what he’d done—but he didn’t regret it either.

“They deserved it,” he told you once. “They hurt people. And no one stopped them.”

“And you think that makes you better?”

He looked at you with those molten eyes.

“No,” he said. “It makes me honest.”

The night you lost control entirely, it was raining.

You’d received notice that Jungwon was being transferred. Maximum security prison. No more therapy. No more contact.

You broke protocol.

You snuck in, unlocked the gate, and stepped into his arms like it was the only place left on Earth that made sense.

“You came,” he whispered.

“I had to.”

There were no more words after that.

Only lips. Tongues. Whispers. Skin. Your body pressed to his, heat searing the cold walls. Chains rattling against the rhythm of your sin. You let him take you, and you took him in return. Like sinners. Like lovers. Like two people who knew they’d burn for this but didn’t care.

He made you cry. He made you scream. He made you feel.

And when he held you after, breathless and shaking, you realized the truth:

You didn’t love him despite the madness.

You loved him because of it.

They found you the next morning, asleep in his arms.

You were stripped of your position. The media swarmed. Your name went viral as "The Angel Who Fell for the Devil."

But he never testified against you.

In fact, he whispered only one thing during his final hearing.

“I would kill for her again.”

Six months later, a body was found near a broken fence line.

Security footage was corrupted.

An empty guard uniform was missing.

And the last thing the night watchman heard before the cameras went dead?

A voice, low and cocky, whispering through static:

“Told you she’d come back for me.”

The motel room was too quiet.

Faded floral curtains. Cheap, flickering light. One bed. A single ticking clock on the wall.

Jungwon stood by the window, shirtless, damp towel around his neck, freshly showered. You sat at the edge of the bed, hands gripping the sheets. The silence between you buzzed louder than the asylum alarms ever had.

“Still think I’m the villain?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

You met his eyes. That same mix of trouble and tenderness. His voice was low, cocky, but not careless.

“No,” you said. “I think you’re something worse.”

He tilted his head. “Oh?”

“Unpredictable.”

Jungwon chuckled. “That’s not always a bad thing, sweetheart.”

He walked toward you, the towel falling from his neck. He wasn’t trying to be seductive. He didn’t need to try. It was in the way he moved confident, controlled, like he could shatter or shelter you at will.

“Why’d you come with me?” he asked.

You didn’t answer right away. Because the truth was messy.

Because part of you wanted to save him. And another part, maybe darker, wanted to belong to the madness too.

“You asked me to,” you whispered.

He knelt in front of you, between your knees. “That all it took?”

You reached for him, fingertips brushing his cheek. “I couldn’t let them take you back.”

“Because you care?”

You nodded.

He leaned in, lips brushing yours, soft, almost reverent. Then he pulled back, gaze suddenly serious.

“You know I’ve killed people,” he said. “Real people. Not just stories on paper.”

“I know.”

“I’m not cured.”

“I know.”

“And I’ll never be what you want me to be.”

You stood and kissed him.

“I never asked you to be.”

The past few weeks where like a fever dream.

They were a tangle of sheets and hands and whispered confessions. Sometimes soft, sometimes desperate. Sometimes violent—not in a way that hurt, but in the way people do when they’re clinging to each other like lifelines.

And then came the nightmares.

Jungwon would wake up gasping, sweating, eyes wild. You’d wrap your arms around him, hold him until he stopped shaking.

“What do you see?” you asked once.

He whispered, “You… leaving.”

You never did.

But peace is temporary when blood’s in your past.

A photo leaked online. Grainy. A gas station security cam. You and Jungwon, buying snacks. It wasn’t a clear shot, but it was enough.

Suddenly, you weren’t ghosts anymore.

You were fugitives.

Jungwon wanted to run. You wanted to plan.

They almost caught you in Denver.

Marked car. Two agents. You had to run through the rain, barefoot, laughing through the panic. You crashed in a stolen car, engine still warm. Jungwon was bleeding from his temple. You stitched him up in the backseat, hands shaking.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered, eyes glassy.

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I don’t need to.”

Weeks passed.

You became something else. Not quite lovers, not quite fugitives partners in the truest, most terrifying sense.

You learned his patterns.

He learned yours.

He was still dangerous. Still sharp and impulsive and morally gray.

But with you—he tried.

He held your face after kissing you too rough and whispered, “Sorry.”

He stopped running ahead without checking if you could keep up.

He looked at you like you were the last good thing in the world and maybe, for him, you were.

One night, in a cabin deep in the woods of Oregon, you sat by the fire, wrapped in a blanket. Jungwon poured wine into two mismatched mugs.

“You ever think about staying?” he asked.

“Here?”

“Anywhere. Not running. Just… us.”

You stared at the flames. “Every day.”

He sat beside you. “We could fake our deaths.”

You smiled. “You’d love that.”

“I mean it. Burn the car. Leave blood. No more names. Just you. Just me. Forever.”

You looked at him. “Forever’s a long time.”

“I’ve done longer.”

He kissed you—slow this time, hands framing your face. There was no lust behind it. Just… devotion. A promise.

And when he whispered, “I love you,” it wasn’t a trick.

It was the truest thing he’d ever said.

But you knew better than to believe in happy endings.

The fire snapped in the hearth, casting golden light across Jungwon’s bare collarbones. He was lounging beside you on the floor, wine-stained lips curved into a smirk as he watched the flames flicker, though it was clear his attention hadn’t left you for even a second.

“You keep staring,” you said, swirling the last of your wine.

He leaned closer, his voice velvet and smoke. “Because you look like sin in candlelight.”

Your breath hitched as he took the mug from your hand, setting it aside. His fingers brushed yours featherlight, teasing, possessive.

“And I’ve been starving,” he murmured.

You parted your lips, about to speak, but he was already crawling toward you...slow, deliberate. The blanket slipped off your shoulders, and the cold kissed your skin for just a moment before Jungwon's body pressed against yours, warm and familiar and infinitely dangerous.

“You sure?” he asked against your jaw, voice low, teasing, but still asking.

You nodded, barely breathing. “Always.”

That was all he needed.

His mouth crashed into yours, urgent and claiming. He kissed like he wanted to ruin you and worship you in the same breath. His hands slid under your shirt, greedy, tugging until the fabric peeled away and your bare skin met the chill of the room and the heat of his mouth.

He kissed down your neck, softly at first, then with teeth, marking. One hand gripped your waist while the other slid between your thighs, already knowing exactly how to undo you.

“You’re soaked,” he groaned, two fingers pressing lightly against your panties. “All that for me?”

“All for you,” you gasped, hips rocking forward.

He tore the fabric down your legs, lips ghosting over every inch of skin he revealed, until you were sprawled on the soft fur rug...open, panting, waiting.

And then he knelt between your legs, tongue darting out to taste you, slow and devastating. You gasped, back arching, hands clawing at the rug as he licked deeper, then flicked over your clit with maddening rhythm.

“Jungwon—please—” you moaned.

He chuckled against you, the vibration sending shivers up your spine. “God, you sound so good like this. Could record you right now and use it as my new favorite lullaby.”

His fingers replaced his mouth, two sliding in effortlessly as his tongue stayed on your clit, moving in sync. Your body bucked, firelight catching the sweat on your chest, and you came hard, crying out as the heat consumed you from inside out.

But he wasn’t done.

Not even close.

Jungwon rose, undressing slowly, like he wanted you to watch, to ache. He was lean muscle and sharp edges, all scars and quiet power, and the moment he lined himself up against your entrance, he looked you dead in the eye.

“This…” he said, pushing in, slow and deep, “is mine now.”

You gasped, hands flying to his shoulders, nails sinking in as he filled you completely.

“Yours,” you breathed. “Only yours.”

He started to move, hips rolling, each thrust rougher, deeper, hotter than the last. You wrapped your legs around his waist, meeting him thrust for thrust, moaning his name like a prayer.

The fire roared behind him, casting shadows over his face. His expression was dark, hungry, worshipful, like he couldn't decide whether to break you or beg for your soul.

“Say it again,” he growled. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you cried out. “I’m yours, Jungwon”

He kissed you again, silencing the scream as he drove into you harder, faster, until you were unraveling beneath him, again, trembling and moaning as your second orgasm ripped through you like wildfire.

His pace stuttered.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice strangled. “I’m gonna...Y/N—”

“Do it,” you whispered, pulling him in. “Come inside. Fill me.”

And when he did, when he came with a ragged moan, clutching you to his chest like he was afraid you’d vanish, you felt more alive than you ever had.

Like you belonged there. In his arms. In the dark. In the madness.

After, he didn’t speak.

He just held you, bodies tangled on the rug, the firelight fading into embers.

You were sore. Marked. Loved.

And when he whispered, “I’ll kill anyone who tries to take you from me,”

you believed him.

Because you’d do the same.

Tags☞ None!

#inbox open #imagine #kpop #enhypen imagines #enhypen #kpop x reader #jungwon #jungwon fluff #jungwon hard hours #jungwon x reader #jungwon smut #jungwon hard thoughts #enhypen hard thoughts

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siempre-bucky · 3 months ago

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existence

Joaquin Torres x Fem!Reader

summary: There's a rumor at the base that MRs. Torres doesn't exist. No birthday parties, no drinks at the bar after a mission, no base run functions. Sam crashes at the Toress' after the White House incident and sees if she actually exists.

wc: 1457

a/n: Spoilers for CA:BNW

His ears were still ringing.

Echos of gunfire and police sirens shrouded his mind, Sam’s body was on autopilot with his eyes burning holes into the dirty apartment complex carpet and his sore feet dragging along it. He still doesn’t comprehend how Joaquin could be in a chipper mood after that. Sam noticed the limp in Joaquin's step and the bruise on the back of his neck. It could have been worse, the President could have died, Cap reminded himself.

“Wait till you meet her, Sam! Ugh, I have been waiting for this for the longest time!” he cheered, clearly forgetting the late hour. Right, Sam blinked, he was finally meeting Mrs. Torres. After working together for three years, he thought this mystery woman didn’t exist. The younger man would make excuses “She’s working overseas,” or “She has no service.” But after catching a glimpse at his lock screen which proudly displayed a photo of the pair at a Hurricanes baseball game he changed his mind. The rest of the base thought it was AI-generated.

“I’ll believe it when I see it, man,” Sam forced out a chuckle, ribs screaming back at him.

Joaquin stopped at the door, digging his key out of his pocket and turning the lock. The echoes disappeared once Sam took a step into the small DC apartment. The smell of baked goods and a soft “We’re home, Amor” coming from the other man was enough to silence them for a moment, the pain in his ribs dulled with the feeling of anticipation rising.

She was real. His brown eyes discreetly widened as she appeared in the doorway that divided the kitchen and living room, wiping her hands with an orange and green rag. He didn’t take his eyes off her, she examined Joaquin up and down before giving herself the ok to crash into him. “I’m so happy you’re ok,” She muttered against his neck, his arms holding her against him.

The soft interaction made something in his chest ache, and the way Joaquin then cradled her face and whispered reassurance in two languages almost made him tear up. Almost. He’d be sure to make fun of him for this later.

“Sam, this is my wife.”

The woman smiled softly, aware of the situation at the White House, and introduced herself, outstretching her hand. He noticed her firm grip, but he could feel the tremble. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Sam. I can’t get him to shut up about you,” she chuckled, leaning back into Joaquin’s embrace.

“Nice to meet you too,” he said with a small smirk.

“There’s a pillow and blanket on the couch for you along with some clothes. Half his closet is just U Maimi stuff—I hope you don’t mind the colors.”

Sam turned around and glanced at the neat pile resting on the arm of the couch. “It’ll do fine. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome anytime. I’m going to get him cleaned up, let me know if you need anything else.” She patted her husband on the back and ushered him into the kitchen, dismissing all of his protests.

Sam walked towards the couch and ran his fingers over the plush olive green material of the blanket before picking up the vibrant green t-shirt. He snickered and tossed it over his shoulder.

“Shit!” a shrill curse came from the kitchen followed by soft apologies. It was instinct for the hero to look over and check out the scene. Joaqquin was fine, sitting on the counter with a piece of gauze covering his eyebrow. She stood between his legs, a look of sympathy on her face while she dabbed at the wound.

Love looked good on the kid. In their line of work, there wasn’t much room for love or even just the look of it on someone's face. He remembered the first night he saw it on Joaquin’s face; it was at a bar somewhere in Europe and Sam had been counting on his fingers how many girls the other had turned down for a dance.

“Five,” he laughed wiggling his fingers in his face.

Joaquin rolled his eyes and playfully shoved his hand away, “Yeah, yeah.”

“Wanna go for six or do you wanna tell me why you’ve said no to every pretty girl in this place.”

The curly-haired man took a swig of beer for confidence, letting out a deep sigh as he put the bottle back on the table. “I have someone back home,” he finally admitted.

“You got a little girlfriend!”

There was a small blush on his cheeks and a smile so soft and sweet it was sickening. “A wife.”

“Wife,” Sam repeated slowly.

“College sweethearts, I think that’s what it’s called.”

Yeah, love looked good on him. Sam snapped out of his memory and opened the blanket his eyes watching her press her hand against Joaquin’s chest with his wrapped around her wrist, his thumb swiping along the bone. His heart was beating, he was alive. Sam wondered if that was something they did after he came home from deployment, or now when he returned from a mission. Tonight was just supposed to be a fun night celebrating their mission, not stopping an assassination attempt.

“Sam…bro, you good?”

The couple stood in front of him, a red first aid kit in her hands. “Go get changed, I’ll patch up Captain America,” she smirked. Joaquin smiled and kissed her on the temple before retreating to the bedroom down the hall.

“I’m fine,” Sam laughed it off.

Her eyes flickered down to his arm, wet crimson staining a patch of his forearm. “Sit,” she told him firmly.

He took off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeve. Well, I’ll be damned, he thought as he looked at the sliced skin, it shouldn’t need stitches. She popped open the kit and got to work in silence. He should say something, the gears in his brain working overtime to come up with something appropriate.

“You know, I was starting to think you didn’t exist.” He settled on that. Nice going, Sam.

Thankfully she laughed, pouring a clear liquid over the cut that made him wince. “We get that a lot. We have a tally of all our friends who’ve said that.”

“Sorry to add another. Work keeps you away?”

She smiled and nodded, “I work for a charity. Helping communities rebuild after the blip. Some places haven’t been as lucky as we have. I was away a lot—it worked out when he was deployed.”

A sadness began to loom over her as she gently wrapped his arm with a white gauze. She missed him, and he missed her just as much. “Was?” he narrowed in on the past tense of her words.

“I requested a transfer to a desk job as soon as he finished those wings. I need to be here if something happens.” There was a tremor in her voice, “Him being Falcon puts him in even more danger. I want—need to be closer to him.”

“He’s a good man,” Sam told her gently, “a damn good Falcon, he learned from the best.” He got a smile and a small chuckle out of her relieving her of some of the nerves she carried.

She put her hand over the gauze and looked at him dead in the eye. “Keep him alive, Sam.” It was a gentle command. “He means everything to me.”

His lips parted and glanced down at the silver wedding band around her finger, thinking of a way to tell her that he might not be able to in this line of work. Joaquin saved the day, strolling into the room with a signature toothy smile. “Have you been talking about me this whole time?” he joked.

Her smile instantly brightened. “You wish,” she laughed, collecting her things from the couch and rose to her feet.

“She’s a miracle worker.” Sam raised his arm to show his partner the neatly wrapped gauze.

“Looks good, Sam!” The other man cheered, leaning forward to get a better look. “We don’t have a well-stocked medicine cabinet for nothing.”

“Yeah, I learned after too many scraped knees from the basketball court back in Maimi.”

Joaquin winced and wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close to his side. “Let’s let Captain America get some sleep,” he suggested, pressing his lips to the side of her head.

“Let us know if you need anything, Sam,” she told him.

“Will do, Mrs. Torres. Thank you for everything.”

“Anytime. We’re here or you.”

Sam got comfortable on the couch, and surprisingly he felt like he could fall asleep instantly. Pulling out his phone, he sent a quick text to his friends at the base: ‘Mrs. Torres exists.’

#joaquin torres x reader #joaquin torres #captain america #captain america brave new world

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i2sunric · 1 year ago

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𝐒𝐎𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐃 (hyung line)

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: fivesome. unprotected sex, hair pulling, blowjob, rough sex. masturbation, handjob, double penetration, pet names (angel, baby, doll) lmk if more. NOT PROOFREAD → PART 2

a/n: based on this ask from anon! hope you like it <3

It wasn’t that Heeseung was oblivious about the stolen glances his members gave you whenever you came over to the dorm, for goodness sake, he was a man as well and knew what was the effect to see such a pretty girl.

He would’ve asked them to stop or at least try not to show it— if he hadn’t noticed the way you just craved their attention. He sees how you unbutton your shirt or bend down shamelessly. And it should’ve angered him, it should’ve pissed him off.

But maybe, his contorted desires matched with yours, which was why he decided to test something out by taking you right in the living room. He lied, telling you the members had a schedule about a en o’clock episode he didn’t have to do and lured you inside the lion den, touching the spots he knew would make your head spin until you gave in and started sucking his cock.

The nasty sounds filled the dorm, you were so busy trying to pleasure him you hadn’t even heard the front door opening and now the three men watching the pornographic scene happening in front of their eyes.

“Looks like we have public, angel.” You blinked, puzzled as you took him out of your mouth to turn around.

Widening your eyes at first, they soon fell on the evident hard-ons your boyfriend’s best friends wore under their pants.

Heeseung smirked and caressed your cheek, making you turn around “You want more cock, mh?” He grasped your chin and made you turn around as well.

“Here you go baby, they’re all here for you.” And it didn’t take much for you to be laid down on the sofa with Jake’s cock shoved inside your mouth as you stroked Jay’s one with your free hand.

Sunghoon was rutting his hips inside of you, his huge cock filling you up to the brim. Your moans echoed in the room while you maintained eye contact with Heeseung.

He was slowly pumping his shaft at the sight of you being pleasured by his band mates, so pretty and so sinful.

“Pussy s-so good.” Sunghoon groaned, gripping your hips so tight they would’ve probably be bruised by the next day.

“Taking my cock so well.” Jake pleased as he grasped your head, fucking your mouth, hitting the back of your throat as you gagged.

“Careful there.” Jay nagged at Jake for being so rough, the feeling of your hand around his dick bringing him close to release.

“Fuck I’m so close.” Jake threw his head back “Can I cum in your mouth baby, mh?” He asked but his gaze turned to Heeseung who shook his head.

Jake groaned but complied with his wishes, pulling out as he pumped his cock fast to cum all over your chest– But as you saw precum leaking, you whined and pulled him back inside your mouth.

The warm feeling was enough to make him cum, hot seed dripping down your throat, tasting him.

Heeseung watched you shocked, the mere view of his best friend cumming down your throat was enough to make him cum undone as well.

In the meantime, Sunghoon’s thrusts turned maniacal, his cock hitting your cervix with all of them. You squeezed your eyes shut and stopped moving your hand to help Jay, your own release approaching fast.

Jay groaned in complaint and moved to raise your back from the sofa. He positioned himself behind you and when Sunghoon understood what he wanted to do, he stopped thrusting.

You opened your eyes, a little oblivious to what was happening around you until you felt stretched so wide it was so painful. You let out a whimper of pain and both men turned to look at Heeseung.

“Ask her.” He said sternly “It’s not my body you’re using.”

“Baby, can we fuck you at the same time?” Jay asked, rubbing his thumb on your waist “It’s gonna feel good, I promise.”

“Yes, doll.” Sunghoon nodded as well, “You just need to relax.” He slowly circled your clit to relax you.

You took deep breaths, in and out and slowly got used to the feeling of both of them. They thrusted at the same time, slow and steady.

You turned your face to look at Heeseung and Jake that had joined his side. Your boyfriend gave you a warm smile and you reached your hand to him.

Heeseung took the clue and moved closer, pulling you into a heated make out session. Your moans died in his mouth as the two other men picked up their speed.

“Ngh— S’good.” You rolled your eyes back, gasping on Heeseung’s lips.

“Look how you’re taking their cocks so well.” Heeseung praised “My angel is doing a perfect job, mh?”

The pair of Jay and Sunghoon let out deep growls, signalling their were close “Don’t you cum inside of her, got it?” He said, his tone dangerous. “I’m letting you fuck her but only I get to breed her.”

His words were enough to send you over the edge, making you clench around the big dicks. Sunghoon pulled out and jerked on your stomach, his seed coating your skin.

Jay kept thrusting to ride you out of your orgasm and as he felt you relaxing, he pulled out to cum between your ass cheeks.

You pulled Heeseung back into a kiss, sloppy and needy as his best friends whispered sweet praising to you.

Jake walked behind Heeseung and you looked up at him as if to ask for permission. Your boyfriend nodded, a little reluctantly, but he let you have a make out session with him.

Needless to say, the aftercare was awesome, all four men treating you like a princess, serving you and pampering you with cuddles.

“When’s next time?” You asked that night as you were snuggled on Heeseung’s chest.

“Am I not enough for you?” Heeseung scowled, a little offended. You pecked his lips and chuckled “Of course you are, baby.”

You leaned into his ear and whispered “But I saw how you enjoy when I get used by your friends.” And maybe you were right. Maybe he had a kink.

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incognit0slut · 1 year ago

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PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4

Behind Closed Doors

Your admiration of his vest leads you to an empty office with his face buried between your thighs—and an urgent Emily demanding your whereabouts.

Warnings: (18+ MDNI) soft!dom spence (are we even surprised), fingering, oral sex (f), semi-public, slight overstimulation, and Emily kind of overhears because she calls Reader in the middle of the deed (oops). 5k words

A/n: I don’t have any excuse for this one, I just wanted to rewrite this scene of him because looking at it is not enough

You heard him before you saw him. It wasn't his voice per se, but the distinct sound of rapid shots cutting through the air. The noise seemed to intensify as you stepped into the control room, almost overbearing, but you'd long since grown used to its piercing sound.

"Is that Reid?" You asked, your polished boots echoing into the confined space. The officer monitoring him through the surveillance camera glanced over at you, and even though her expression didn't betray outright displeasure, you could hear a subtle edge in her voice.

"Agent Y/L/N," she greeted, her eyes darting between the rows of monitors, then to you, and finally settling on the clipboard in her hand. "You're not supposed to be here."

"Actually, I am. It’s Tuesday, my usual training day.”

"Not for another hour."

"I know," you countered, holding up your wrist to check your watch. "But I have some spare time, thought I’d come by early."

“I’m afraid it’s occupied right now. Agent Reid is still in the middle of his test."

This caught your attention. "What test?"

She glanced at you, her expression conflicted. "It's just a routine evaluation."

"He's currently not an active agent," you pointed out. It hadn’t been too long since his release from prison. It didn’t make any sense for him to go through an evaluation, not when he was behind bars for the past few weeks. Then recognition dawned on your face. "He's being evaluated to rejoin the team, isn't he?"

"I... I'm not at liberty to discuss that," she replied. Her gaze faltered momentarily before she nodded slowly, confirming your suspicions. "But yes, it's standard procedure for agents returning from extended leave."

"Oh wow—okay," you responded, absorbing the information. Your eyes flickered towards the monitor. "How's he doing?"

Her lips formed a thoughtful line before she answered, "Like the second coming of Wyatt Earp."

You let out a laugh, finding the comparison amusing. You'd known Spencer for what, three, four years? While he wasn't bad with firearms, comparing him to a historical figure like Wyatt Earp seemed a bit exaggerated. However, as you watched him through the monitors, despite your initial skepticism, you couldn't deny the truth in her words.

You had witnessed him handle a gun countless times, but always in situations where there was a real threat, where you both had to be on high alert. Yet as you observed him now from a different perspective, it was hard to tear your eyes away. It was as if he was in his element, and Spencer Reid in his element never looked so... attractive?

Now that wasn't an exaggeration. Although you had never admitted this to anyone—god forbid what your teammates would say—there was an undeniable charm to the confidence he exuded. While Spencer had always been attractive, there was something different about the way he handled the gun.

You were sure it had something to do with his time in prison. After all, who wouldn't be affected by such a daunting place, especially when you weren’t supposed to be there in the first place? Yet, surprisingly, Spencer seemed to be coping better than you expected. Despite the toll it must have taken on him, it was evident that his experiences had shaped him, perhaps more than he let on.

Although he was still the same sweet, adorable guy you considered one of your closest friends. But you weren't sure your current observation of him fitted the typical definition of friendship… because there was nothing remotely friendly about the thoughts running in your head right now.

Not only was it not friendly, but it wasn't exactly innocent. Because look at him. Look at the way he was gripping the gun, his arms defined beneath his rolled-up sleeves. Look at the way his protective glasses covered his face, the black-rimmed frames accentuating his handsome features. And even though you had seen him wear the uniform vest countless times, somehow it was undeniably distracting the way it hugged his chest.

Yep—there was nothing remotely friendly about how you wanted to climb up the man.

A sudden buzz echoed in the room, snapping you to reality. You glanced up and noticed the officer you were talking to entering the monitor screen and it dawned on you that you had been so distracted by your thoughts that you hadn't realized she had left the control room.

"I'll send the results to the review board this evening," the officer's voice resonated from the screen.

"Did I do okay?" His voice came through.

"Like the second coming of Wyatt Earp," she replied, echoing her earlier assessment. Her gaze shifted to the printed cardboard image of a man, supposedly representing the Unsub, which was shredded right around the face. "Or... Al Capone, maybe."

You observed Spencer's slight nod as she turned and walked out of the screen. Quickly, you exited the control room and met her in the hallway.

"Agent Y/L/N," she called out as she spotted you. "You can have the room in five minutes—"

"I need to reschedule."

Her brow furrowed in confusion. "Reschedule?"

"Uh... yes, something urgent came up," you replied, trying to keep your tone casual.

She regarded you for a moment before nodding. "Alright, just let me know when you want to reschedule."

"I will, thank you," you said quickly. Sensing her lingering gaze, you added, "Oh, I'm just waiting for Reid. I need his help on... something."

A faint smile played on her lips, though she didn't press further. "Of course, I'll leave you to it then."

With a nod, she turned and walked away just as the door at the end of the hallway opened, revealing Spencer emerging from the room. His eyes met yours in confusion, and you could sense his curiosity as he approached you.

"Hey," he greeted. "What are you doing here?"

You cocked your head to the side.

What were you doing here?

You took a moment to gather your thoughts before offering a shrug. "Just passing by, I guess."

His brow furrowed slightly as if he sensed there was more to your answer than you were letting on. "Alright," he said, though his curiosity lingered in his gaze.

You shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny, suddenly feeling the need to change the subject. "So, how did the evaluation go?"

"So you've heard.”

"Yeah," you confirmed, starting to walk down the hallway as he stepped in pace beside you. "I can't wait for you to be back on the team. Officially, that is."

"If they let me back on the team."

"Of course they will," you reassured him, your hand finding its place on his shoulder, offering support. "You're more than qualified."

He sighed, and you tried not to notice the subtle movement of his vest across his chest, or how it shifted under your touch. "You think so?"

"I know so," you affirmed, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Trust me, they'll definitely bring you back."

He stopped his pace, and so did you, before his eyes flickered towards your hand on his shoulder. He must've sensed something different, considering you weren't exactly the type of person who liked physical contact. Neither of you were, actually. While Spencer was known for his aversion to germs, you simply preferred maintaining a certain level of personal space.

"Seriously," he wondered, his tone laced with curiosity. "What are you doing down here?"

You cleared your throat. "I told you, I was just passing by."

"Really? Is that why you're talking to me instead of going through your usual training?" he pressed on. "It's Tuesday. I'm well aware of your schedule."

Damn him and his eidetic memory. You shifted away from his gaze. "Can't a girl just choose to have a chat with a friend?"

"You chose me over your scheduled routine?” his lips curved into a subtle smile. “Am I that much of a distraction?”

Yes, that damn vest is distracting me.

"Distraction might be a bit strong,” you replied, the lie sounding feeble even to your own ears.

"So you’re admitting I’m slightly distracting?"

"I never said that.”

Spencer leaned in and you felt the heat of his proximity radiating from his body. "But you didn't deny it either.”

You felt a faint blush creep onto your cheeks as you realized the shift in his tone. Dare you say he was... flirting with you? Or was it just your imagination running wild? From the corner of your eye, you caught the subtle way he licked his lips, and without meaning to, your own gaze was drawn to the movement.

It was a habit of his, one you'd observed countless times before whether it was out of concentration or a mere reflex. But seeing it up close now, the way his tongue traced the curve of his bottom lip, was driving you insane.

You swallowed hard. This was not friendly behavior. A friend wouldn't be imagining what it would feel like to have his tongue on your lips instead.

"Y/N?"

Your face felt hot as you met his gaze. "I..."

Before you could respond, the sound of laughter and chatter from down the hallway reached your ears. You heard Penelope's unmistakable giggle with JJ's animated voice, and suddenly your instinct took over. Without a second thought, you reached out and grabbed Spencer’s arm, pulling him into an empty office nearby.

The door shut with a soft thud, and you frowned, suddenly feeling embarrassed. You didn't want to be caught in a state of flustered panic like some nervous school girl talking to her crush, but as Spencer stood behind you, you realized you were overreacting. The more you dwelled on it, the more absurd it seemed to hide away when there was no reason to.

With a sigh, you turned to face him. "Sorry about that, I didn't mean to..."

But as your gaze met him, your words faltered because he was standing closer than you expected. Close enough that the color of his eyes seemed to intensify under the soft light filtering through the window—a rich brown, like warm chocolate, with specks of gold that danced in the sunlight.

Your eyes involuntarily traced downwards, from the sharp lines of his nose to the curve of his lips, lingering on the stubble lining his jawline. Your mind wandered, and now you couldn't help but wonder how it would feel having it against your skin. Or how it would feel pressed against your thigh.

Your face grew hotter at the thought.

"Y/N? Are you alright?" he asked, taking a step forward. You squeaked in surprise, an actual high-pitched sound leaving your lips, as you felt the hard surface of his vest pressing against your chest.

"It's just..." You hesitated, feeling the heat rising to your cheeks. "You're standing really close..."

He glanced down at you, his eyes resting on your lips. "Do you want me to move?"

"I... uh..."

His eyes flickered back up to meet yours. "I'll take that as a no."

Before you could process his words, his hand reached up, fingers gently gripping your waist. You felt a rush of heat spread through you at his touch, the sensation seeping through your shirt and you found yourself leaning into him, your breath catching in your throat as his face hovered closely above yours.

It was happening. Your heart pounded in your chest as his lips drew closer. You couldn’t believe it, he was going to kiss you—Spencer-fucking-Reid was going to kiss you.

But just as his lips hovered dangerously close against yours, he suddenly stopped.

"Just to make this clear," he began, running a thumb along your side. "I respect you, both as a friend and a colleague. I don't want to force you into anything you're not comfortable with, so if you think this is pushing any boundaries then—"

"Spencer," you cut in. "Just kiss me already."

With a hint of relief and a small smile playing on his lips, he finally closed the gap between you.

You never imagined his lips could be so soft. He had the softest lips that moved against your own with a hint of coffee and something undeniably sweet. Those soft, soft lips parted away from yours for a moment before he leaned back in, more desperate, more needy. And when he swiped your bottom lip with his tongue, seeking entrance, you couldn't help but welcome him with a soft moan of pleasure.

He devoured you then, his tongue pushing eagerly into your mouth, his lips enveloping you with a hunger that left you breathless as he pressed himself against you. Before you could fully grasp what was happening, you were walking backward until your back collided with the solid surface of the desk.

With strength you didn’t know he possessed, he effortlessly lifted you and perched you on top of it, prompting a surprised squeal to escape your lips. He laughed in response but you were too caught up in the moment to worry about whether he found you amusing.

Your hands eagerly roamed over his chest, fingers curling around the strap of his vest as you pulled him closer. He slipped between your parted legs with ease and when he pressed his evident bulge against your core, you both gasped in pleasure.

"We should... we should probably stop, right?" he murmured, his voice muffled against your lips. Despite his words, his actions betrayed his self-control as he began to roll his hips against you.

“We're at work, someone might—” He groaned. “Someone might… hear us..."

He was right, but you found yourself unable to care about anything else but the sensation of his hard cock pressing against your heat.

"We could stop, or..." you found yourself saying without thinking. Your hands moved with a mind of their own, finding their way between you as you started to unbutton your shirt, the fabric slipping away to reveal more of your skin.

"Or..." He prompted, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip yet again, his breath coming out in shallow, ragged bursts.

"Or..." you repeated, pushing the front of your shirt open. "We could be quiet."

"We could be quiet," he agreed all too quickly. "We could definitely be quiet."

You let out an amused laugh. "We’re going to get in trouble if anyone finds us."

“Then you shouldn’t make a sound.”

“Me? What about—oh.”

His lips were already trailing down your body, leaving soft kisses as they lingered on your neck, across your collarbone, and then he moved lower, sucking lightly on the swell of your breasts. A whimper of his name escaped your lips, your fingers entwining in his hair.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes drinking at the sight of your breast pushed up against your bra, a glistening sheen of his saliva coating your skin.

“You are stunning,” he murmured, before leaning back in to place a tender kiss on the spot where your collarbone met your shoulder. “How far do you want to take this?”

You blinked, trying to ground yourself into the moment between the lust fogging your brain. “What do you mean?”

“This,” he muttered as he rutted his hips against yours, drawing a needy moan from you. “How far are you willing to go?”

“If you’re asking whether I want to have sex with you, the answer is a hundred percent yes.”

You could practically feel his smile on your skin as he buried himself in the crook of your neck.

“That’s good to know,” he whispered, causing you to arch your back as your chest pressed against the hard material of his vest. “But I don’t think we can do much considering we’re supposed to be working. Well, you at least.”

You grasped his shoulders, pushing him away to meet his gaze. “I thought we agreed to keep quiet.”

“We can keep quiet,” he assured you, brushing a stray strand of hair away from your face. “But I can’t rush my time with you. Besides, you deserve a much better setting than an unoccupied office full of dust.”

“Sounds like a you problem.”

He chuckled softly, his fingers trailing lightly along your jawline. “Maybe, but it’s more about time, really. I just want to take—” His lips brushed against your cheek. “My time—” A peck on your lips. “With you.”

You melted right there and then. You could’ve sworn you were nothing but a puddle mess. If he wasn’t holding you for support you were sure you could fall right back to the floor.

“Alright then,” you finally said, reaching for the buttons of your shirt with trembling hands only to be stopped as his fingers curled around your wrist.

“What are you doing?”

You shot him a puzzled look. “I thought you didn’t want to have sex right now.”

“I didn’t say anything about stopping,” he replied, releasing your hand before his palms slid up your thighs. “There are plenty of other things we can do.”

You felt the heat rising in your cheeks. “Like what?”

“Well, I guess we'll just have to get creative.”

Your breath hitched when his fingers hovered over the button on your pants. You watched with a mix of excitement and disbelief as he started to undo them, your mind turning into a mushy mess. It was as if every neuron in your brain had decided to stop working.

“Lift your hips for me.”

You met his gaze, trying to summon up your composure but you couldn’t help the nervous twitch of your lips. He smiled at you.

“Come on, pretty girl, we don’t have all day.”

Not only were you melting, but you were practically liquid by now. Your body moved on its own accord—your hands gripping his shoulders as you lifted your hips, synchronizing perfectly with his gentle movements to slide the material over your hips and down your legs.

He placed your pants on the empty space beside you while his eyes never left your body. His gaze lingered on the rise and fall of your chest, and he leaned in, his fingers trailing over your skin before settling on the hem of your panties. His thumb slid to the front, brushing along the delicate material. Your hips bucked as he continued to run his thumb up and down as if he were trying to map out your slick folds over the fabric.

“Look at you dripping,” he mused, his eyes fixated on the way his thumb slid over to your clit. “Are you always this wet?”

Your cheeks heated at the question. He wasn’t even trying to make it come off as dirty talk; he asked it like a normal question, as if he were simply wondering about what you ate for breakfast. But the question alone had your face burning because you did not expect it to come from him.

“I… I guess so.”

“You guess so?” he asked, his tone amused. He hooked his fingers into the material of your panties before pushing it to the side.

“I-I don’t know.” You let out a breathless moan when his fingers grazed your slit. “Whenever I’m turned on, I don’t... I don’t exactly touch myself just to check how wet I am.”

Spencer chuckled softly, angling his hand between your thighs before gently pushing his middle finger into your entrance. You gasped at the sudden stretch, brows furrowing as he pressed further, and your hand instinctively gripped onto his arm.

“Do you often touch yourself?”

Your head fell back as he started to move.

“M-Maybe,” you managed to stutter out.

"What do you think of when you do?" he asked slowly, his own breath starting to grow shallow as he watched your face contort in pleasure. He observed the way your mouth fell open, your tongue slightly slipping out in the corner, and the way your eyes shut closed. He was fascinated by the effect he had on you, on how just a simple touch had you squirming.

“A… a lot of things,” you managed to reply.

“Have you ever thought of me?”

Whoa.

The question caught you off guard, and you blinked, momentarily stunned.

This was dangerous territory, but then again, nothing seemed quite as risky as being fingered by your coworker on a Tuesday afternoon. So what harm could it be if you admitted that yes, in fact, he had crossed your mind when you touched yourself wishing it was his fingers instead?

A lot of harm, actually. One, it seemed like an inappropriate confession given your friendship. Friends don't usually imagine each other in sexual scenarios. And two, you could die of embarrassment.

"No," you replied, hoping your voice sounded more confident than you felt.

He hummed skeptically. “I thought we were past the point of lying between profilers.” With a pause, he added another finger inside you, causing you to bite down on your lip to stifle a moan. “Is this how you imagined it in your fantasies?”

What was the point of lying now? You swallowed hard, trying to think of a witty response to distract from the intense pleasure coursing through your body.

“Uh… This is slightly better.”

“Slightly? I’m hurt.” He pressed his thumb onto your clit. “What else did you think of then?”

Your cheeks flushed even more. “You… well, um, you also used your tongue.”

The airy laugh he let out sent a shiver down your spine. “Really? And how did that fantasy play out?"

Your heart raced as you tried to find the right words. "Let's just say it involved a lot more tongue action and a lot less talking."

His smile widened, and he leaned in closer, his warm breath brushing against your ear. “Then let’s reenact it.” He gently pulled his fingers out of you. “Lay on your back.”

With a shaky breath, you complied, sprawling out on the desk, a mix of nerves and excitement coursing through you. When he reached for the waistband of your panties, you couldn't help but crack a joke. "If I knew this was the direction this day was heading, I would've worn my fanciest underwear."

Spencer shook his head. “Trust me, you don't need fancy underwear to drive me crazy."

He then deftly removed your panties, his movements confident yet tender, like he was unwrapping a precious gift. When the fabric pooled at your ankle, he got down on his knees and parted your legs wider, positioning himself between them.

You watched, anticipation building, as he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your inner thigh. Then, with a teasing glance, he pressed his lips to your skin, planting soft kisses along the trail of your inner thigh, inching closer to your core.

You shivered at the sensation and your heart raced with every kiss. His hands roamed over your thighs, tracing delicate patterns while his mouth brushed closer to where you craved him the most. You bit down your bottom lip, unable to contain the moan that escaped as his tongue flicked out, grazing your sensitive flesh.

This was definitely better than your fantasies, the ones you'd harbored in secret, too taboo to admit even to yourself. But here you were, living out those desires in the most deliciously real way possible.

You gasped as his tongue lavished your slit, tasting every inch, mixing your arousal that was beginning to drip from your core with his saliva. Your back arched off the desk, thighs trembling and when they threatened to close, he made sure two heavy palms kept them open long enough for his tongue to drag over your clit.

You couldn’t believe this was happening. Somehow it felt like a dream, but everything was real. His face was right between your thighs; his mouth pressed against your cunt, his tongue lapping through your wet folds. And it wasn’t as simple as tasting you, he was eating you, devouring you, swallowing every drop of your arousal as if he couldn’t get enough of your taste.

You started to lose control of your mind, your body, your actions. Your hips bucked to meet his tongue, your jaw slackening as stifled moans spilled from your lips. And that was when you felt it—a faint vibration against your thigh. At first, you thought it was just the sensation of his touch, but then the loud, unmistakable loud ringtone of your phone shattered the moment.

"Shit!" You squealed, scrambling to grab your phone from your discarded pants. The last thing you needed was for someone to discover you in this compromising position.

"It's Emily—“ You pushed his head away, trying to hide your flushed face as he looked at you with surprise. His lips were glistened with your arousal and his hair seemed messier. God, he looked so pretty.

"Don't answer it."

"It might be important." With a pointed look, you silently urged him to keep quiet as you brought the phone to your ear with trembling fingers. “H-Hey... what's up?"

Emily's voice came through the line, slightly muffled by the sounds of commotion in the background. “Hey, I need you to review the report you submitted yesterday, you left a few details about the Unsub.”

Spencer's lips brushed against your inner thigh, sending a shiver down your spine, and you had to bite back a moan. You shot him a warning glare, mouthing ‘stop’ before turning your attention back to the call.

“Y/N? Are you listening?”

“Yeah,” you breathed out. “So… um, which report?”

"The case in Florida," your boss explained. "You mentioned that the Unsub was targeting women between the ages of 25 and 35…”

You were trying to listen, you really were, but it was hard when you felt his fingers ease into your cunt, your juices dripping out, coating his flesh as he curled them inside. You almost let out a whine as his thumb pressed to your clit, caressing in circular motions.

“…he's also been stalking younger women."

Your eyes screwed shut as he sped up his pace. His touch was driving you crazy, and you could barely register the conversation over the sounds of your own arousal echoing in the room.

“Y/N.”

You snapped your eyes open, feeling a flush creep up your cheeks as you tried to concentrate on the call. "Uh, yeah, go on," you managed to stammer, hoping she didn't notice your wavering tone.

“Are you okay? You sound... off," Emily's voice cut through the haze of pleasure. You shot Spencer another pleading look, but he simply smiled at you with a hand still between your thighs and the other slipping underneath your bra.

You forced yourself to take a deep breath, fighting against the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body. "Uh, yeah, I… I-I’m doing my training.”

You mentally cursed yourself for the terrible excuse. Emily didn't seem entirely convinced. "Training?"

"Yeah, you know, the uh... firearm training? I-It’s Tuesday.”

There was a pause on the other end before she spoke again. “Are you sure you’re okay? You sound like you're in pain."

You bit your lip, trying to stifle a moan as his fingers curled inside of you. "No, no, I'm fine. Just... a little out of breath from all the… shooting."

Spencer let out an incredulous scoff, and you shot him a pointed glare.

“Are you with someone?”

You hesitated, racking your brain for a believable excuse, but all you could muster was a feeble, "Uh, nope.”

There was a pause on the other end, and the tension in the air seemed to thicken as your body flushed with heat. Meanwhile, Spencer seemed intent on torturing you, never stopping his pace. If anything, it seemed like his movements were increasing. Just when you thought you couldn't feel more exposed, another scoff echoed through your ear, this time from Emily.

“Alright, where are you really?” she pressed, her tone indicating she wasn't buying your flimsy excuse.

“I told you I-I’m doing my training.”

She laughed. “Y/N, we profile people as a job. I can sense your lie even through the phone.”

You stopped yourself from rolling your eyes. What was up with these profilers and their knack for sniffing out lies? You were one yourself, but apparently, you were no match for their scrutiny.

“I’m not—“ your words were cut short when he stood up, hovering above you. You looked up at him, smiling at you innocently as his fingers continued to curl deep inside you. You clutched his forearm with your free hand, attempting to steady yourself.

"I'm not lying," you managed to squeak out.

"Mhm," came Emily's voice from the other end. “Just come by my office and grab the report, okay?”

Your breath hitched as his fingertips delved deeper, sending waves of pleasure rippling through your body. You couldn't tear your eyes away from the sight of his hand moving between your legs, coated in your arousal with each thrust. You could feel your orgasm edging closer. Your hips moved in sync with his motions as the pressure built, the tension coiling tighter in your stomach and—

“Y/N!”

“Y-Yes, I’m… I’m coming.” Spencer's low chuckle filled your ears, and you realized what you'd unintentionally implied. Your eyes widened in embarrassment. “I mean, I-I’ll be there soon, okay, bye!”

You quickly slammed your phone down on the desk, ending the call with a thud. But before you could even take a breath, Spencer's fingers were back to their rapid pace, driving you to the edge of sanity. Your body staggered under his touch, your hips moving in sync with his relentless rhythm, the world outside the room fading away into a blur of pleasure.

"A-Ah—w-wait, fuck—"

You barely managed to utter a protest before his hand covered your mouth, muffling your cries of pleasure. Your back arched, your head thrown back as you tightened your grip on his wrist, your body writhing beneath him as your orgasm consumed you.

It lasted longer than you expected and Spencer seemed determined to push you over the edge as he shifted his attention from your cunt to your sensitive clit. His fingers withdrew momentarily, only to return with a renewed intensity, applying just the right amount of pressure.

Your senses were on overload as you moaned into his hand, the sound muffled but still audible. He worked you, over and over, and you didn't even know your body could take so much. Every stroke, every caress sent sparks of pleasure coursing through you, building up to an intensity that bordered on overwhelming.

Your legs shook uncontrollably as the sensations reached a fever pitch. It was all too much, too intense, and in a moment of desperation, you pushed his hand away. When the last tremors of your orgasm finally faded away, you collapsed back onto the desk, panting heavily, your limbs feeling like jelly.

Spencer removed his hand from your mouth, a satisfied smile playing on his lips as he watched you catch your breath. “Are you okay?"

You nodded weakly. “Yeah, just… that was intense.”

“Good intense?”

“Really good intense,” you replied with a sheepish grin, which only made him smile. With shaky hands, you pushed yourself up from the desk, feeling a wave of satisfaction wash over you. As you began to dress yourself, you couldn't help but steal a glance at him—or rather, the evident bulge underneath his pants.

“That… that doesn’t look comfortable,” you remarked.

Spencer waved off your worry with a dismissive chuckle. “Don’t worry about me, I can take care of it myself.”

“Here? At work?” Your eyes widened at the implication. “I didn't know you had it in you.”

He cocked his head to the side. “That’s not what I meant. It’ll eventually go away if I ignore—stop staring at it,” he added with a laugh. “You’re not helping.”

Your gaze lingered a moment too long on his bulge. "I can think of another way to help.”

Spencer's breath caught in his throat, his imagination running wild with possibilities, but he quickly regained his composure. "Go," he said, gently nudging you towards the door once you were properly dressed. "Emily's waiting for you."

Your eyes swept over him and a wave of awkwardness suddenly washed over you. What was the protocol after experiencing the most intense orgasm of your life? Shake his hand? Give him a high-five? You couldn't help but stifle a nervous laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

After a brief moment of contemplation, you decided to trust your instincts. With a hint of hesitation, you stepped closer and planted a soft kiss on his cheek. He blinked in surprise, but before he could respond, you were already rushing to the door.

He couldn't help but smile as he watched you leave, a tingling sensation lingering on his cheek where your lips had briefly touched. But as he licked his lips absentmindedly, he couldn't shake the taste of your arousal that lingered there.

Groaning softly, he shifted uncomfortably as his mind filled with vivid images of you squirming under him; your mouth agape, eyes half-closed, your pretty legs spread apart. The memory of your moans echoed in his ears and his cock stirred in his pants.

He sighed, realizing he was in for a long day if he didn't do something about it. With a slight grimace—and the embarrassment gnawing at him for what he was about to do—he let his feet carry him to the nearest bathroom.

#behind closed doors #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fic #spencer reid x fem!reader smut #spencer reid #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x female reader #spencer reid x fanfiction #spencerreid #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid fluff #Fanfiction #gifwriting

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ijustmissyouraccenths · 9 days ago

Text

Better Than Fiction

where y/n picks Harry up from the airport and reveals what she does when she’s alone.

word count: 5.1 k

content warning: cursing. SMUT. Probably the smuttiest thing I’ve ever done.

You tap the steering wheel with your thumb, eyes flicking between the road and the dashboard clock. The sky is a soft blue-gray, the kind that only happens right before sunset, and the air feels thick with the kind of quiet that only comes when something good is about to happen.

You haven’t seen him in two months. Eight weeks. Sixty-something days—not that you’ve been counting, except you absolutely have. Every time you dropped your phone on your face watching his interviews in bed. Every time he sent a blurry backstage photo with a caption like “thinking of you.” Every time you climbed into your empty sheets and curled your body around the pillow he left behind like that would make any kind of difference.

Your stomach flutters as you take the exit for the airport, the big green signs snapping you back to reality. His flight landed about fifteen minutes ago. You know it’ll take time to get through customs and baggage claim, but still. You’re suddenly nervous. You check your reflection in the rearview mirror, smoothing your hand over your hair even though the curls won’t settle, then press your lips together to check for smudges. Natural. Low effort. Like you’re not buzzing in your seat just thinking about him.

You keep wondering what version of him you’ll get today. The soft one with sleepy eyes and heavy limbs who tucks his head into your neck and hums when he breathes you in. The quiet one who just wants to be close. Or maybe the cheeky one who teases you in the car the whole way home and can’t keep his hands to himself once the door clicks shut.

Either way, he’s here. Finally.

You pull into the short-term parking garage and kill the engine, heart thudding now. This is it. He’s just a few hundred feet away. Probably dragging his duffel bag behind him, scrolling his phone or yawning through his last wave of exhaustion. You sling your purse over your shoulder and head toward the terminal.

Your boots echo across the pavement. The air inside is warmer than you expected, and loud. Rolling suitcases, babies crying, someone’s name being paged overhead. You scan the arrivals board as if you don’t already know—Flight 202. London to New York. Landed.

He steps through the sliding doors like he’s walking into a scene that’s been waiting for him.

Loose brown trousers, soft white tee, sunglasses hanging from the collar. His hair’s shorter than when you last saw him, brushed back with that casually undone look that somehow makes it worse—makes your heart thud harder in your chest. There’s a little color to his skin, a post-tour flush like he’s been somewhere warm, somewhere you weren’t. His duffel hangs from one shoulder, hand gripping the strap, and he scans the crowd like he’s looking for something he lost.

Until his eyes land on you.

He doesn’t smile at first. Not really. His whole body just seems to pause, his gaze locked on yours like he forgot how loud the world is. You feel it like a pull—an ache that settles low in your belly, sharp and immediate. Because it’s not just recognition in his eyes. It’s hunger.

You don’t move. Neither does he. The space between you hums.

Then someone breaks it.

“Harry?” A man, maybe in his twenties, stepping hesitantly forward with a phone in hand. “Sorry, I know you just got in, but—could I get a quick photo?”

Harry blinks. Just once. Then turns to him with a practiced, polite smile.

“Yeah, of course.”

He poses without effort, one hand still gripping his bag. The smile doesn’t touch his eyes.

You watch him thank the guy, watch the fan beam as he walks away. And then Harry’s looking at you again, already moving toward you. Slower this time. Like he’s trying to stay calm. Like he knows he won’t be, not for long.

He doesn’t say anything.

Not at first.

He just lets the strap of his duffel fall to the floor with a quiet thud and steps into you, arms winding tight around your waist like it’s instinct. You barely have time to breathe before he’s pressing you close, his body all solid warmth and tension, chest rising fast against yours.

Then he leans in.

Not for a kiss—not yet. He presses his face into the side of your neck and just breathes. Long, slow, deliberate. Like he’s been holding off for this exact moment, saving it, needing it more than he let on.

You feel it before you hear it—the way his exhale trembles just slightly, the way his fingers grip a little harder at the small of your back. Like maybe this hit him harder than he was ready for.

“God, I missed you,” he mumbles against your skin, the words thick and barely there.

Your eyes flutter shut. Your hands slide up his back, curling in the fabric of his shirt at his shoulders. He’s here. He’s really here.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his thumb brushing the hem of your shirt where it meets your jeans. His eyes roam your face like he’s memorizing it again, slower this time, softer. His voice is a whisper, the accent heavy and real in a way you’ve only heard on the phone lately.

“Y’look so fuckin’ good, baby.”

Your heart trips. You open your mouth to say something but nothing comes out.

He tilts his forehead to yours, eyes half-lidded, and smiles like he’s already thinking ten steps ahead.

“Been thinkin’ about you non-stop. Every night. Every bloody city. Drove me mad.”

You laugh, soft and breathless, and pull back just enough to see him clearly.

“I missed you too,” you say, grinning now, the weight in your chest finally loosening. “Even the dramatic part of you.”

He smiles like he’s proud of that, dimples deep and eyes flicking to your mouth like he’s thinking about kissing you again. But instead, he slips a hand into yours and starts walking, his duffel back over his shoulder, your fingers laced like they’ve never been apart.

Outside, the sky’s shifting to gold. The kind of light that softens everything, that makes moments feel like memories while they’re still happening.

As you make your way to the garage, you glance over at him. “D’you wanna stop for food before we head home?”

He doesn’t miss a beat.

“Nah,” he says, voice low, a lazy smirk playing on his lips. “Only thing I wanna eat is you.”

You choke on a laugh, your whole face heating. “Harry.”

“What?” he says, eyes wide like he’s innocent, but his hand tightens around yours. “I’m starvin’, love.”

You shake your head, biting back a smile as your stomach flips. Two months apart, and of course this is how he comes back. Cocky. Gorgeous. Starving.

And apparently, not for takeout.

The elevator ride to the garage is quiet, but only because his hand won’t stop wandering—thumb tracing slow circles into your palm, pinky brushing your wrist like he’s trying to remember every inch of you without making a scene.

Once you reach the car, he tosses his bag in the back like it weighs nothing and slides into the passenger seat, reclined and smug. His legs spread a little wider than necessary. You try not to look, but he catches you anyway.

“Eyes on the road, sweetheart,” he murmurs as you pull out of the garage.

You roll your eyes. “You’re the one sitting like you’re in a Calvin Klein ad.”

He grins, slow and wicked. “Don’t act like you weren’t lookin’. Missed that face of yours when you get all flustered.”

“I’m not flustered.”

“You are,” he says, tipping his head against the headrest. “Little pink right there.” He lifts his finger and brushes it under his own cheekbone to show you. “Cute.”

You let out a sharp breath through your nose and flick on your turn signal. “Do you want something quick? Like drive-thru? Or—”

“I meant what I said,” he interrupts, voice a little lower now. “Didn’t spend nine hours on a plane just to ruin my appetite with fries.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

He hums like it’s a compliment. “Reckon I’ve had that dream at least five times. You. Couch. No clothes. Me starvin’.”

You grip the steering wheel tighter and do your best to keep your eyes on the road. It’s not going well.

“Harry,” you warn.

“Don’t worry,” he says with a shrug. “I’ll wait till we get home.”

A pause.

“Probably.”

You glance at him, lips twitching. “Bold of you to assume you’re the one doing the eating.”

He turns his head slowly, that smug little smirk faltering as his eyebrows lift. “Yeah?”

You shrug, eyes back on the road. “You’ve had dreams? Babe, I’ve had entire scenarios planned. You don’t even know.”

He’s quiet for a beat, and when you look over, he’s staring at you like you just flipped the game on its head.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters under his breath, shifting in his seat. “I’ve been gone too long.”

You bite back your grin, suddenly enjoying how the air in the car feels thick now, humming with that delicious tension. Payback feels good.

He leans closer, voice like gravel against the warm press of sunset through the window. “Tell me one of ‘em. Just one.”

“Nope.”

“Please?”

“You can earn it.”

His head falls back with a groan, one hand dragging down his face. “You’re evil.”

“And you’re desperate.”

He lets out a soft laugh, low and turned on. “That I am.”

The car ride softens after that.

He reaches over and rests a hand on your thigh, fingers splayed warm against your jeans. Not moving, not teasing—just there. Grounding. You drive one-handed the rest of the way, stealing glances at him whenever the road lets you.

He looks more like himself now. Less performer, more person. His eyes are a little heavy, his curls ruffled from the headrest, his body sunk deeper into the seat like it’s finally catching up with him—how long he’s been gone, how much he missed this. Missed you.

You slow as you turn down your street. Familiar trees, familiar windows. The kind of quiet that tells you you’re nearly home.

He shifts beside you, eyes opening again as he recognizes the corner. “Flat’s still standing, yeah?”

You nod, lips tugging into a smile. “I only set it on fire twice.”

He grins, squeezing your leg gently. “Knew I could trust you.”

The car rolls to a stop outside your building. The sun’s dipping lower now, casting long shadows across the pavement. You don’t move yet. Neither does he.

There’s a beat of silence, heavy in a different way this time.

Then, softer—

“You sure you’re ready for me?” he asks, like he’s only half-joking. “Been thinkin’ about this for weeks.”

Your heart stutters, but your voice stays steady.

“Been ready since the day you left.”

The lobby is quiet except for the soft hum of the overhead lights and the echo of your footsteps on the tile. You feel him behind you—close, so close—his presence brushing up your spine like static. Neither of you says much. There’s nothing left to say, not right now. It’s all waiting just under the surface.

You press the elevator button. The light flickers on, then nothing. You glance at him.

His eyes are dark.

The elevator arrives with a slow chime, and you both step inside. The doors slide shut and it’s just the two of you now, standing side by side in the warm silence.

You can feel the way his fingers flex at his sides. Can hear the slow rhythm of his breathing. There’s a twitch in your own hands—an urge to touch, to reach, to give in already—but you keep still. Barely.

The numbers tick up. Seven. Eight. Nine. It’s excruciating.

He leans in, whispering just loud enough for you to hear. “This thing’s takin’ the piss.”

You bite your lip. “Almost there.”

When the doors finally open, you step out first. You don’t wait. Not this time.

You lead the way down the hall, heart pounding harder with every step. You reach the door, slide your key in with a hand that isn’t quite steady. The lock clicks.

Before you can even reach for the light switch, you hear the thud of his bag hitting the floor.

Then he’s on you.

His hands are on your hips, your back, your waist, pulling you into him as the door shuts hard behind you. His mouth finds your neck, warm and hungry, and your gasp fills the dark hallway. You don’t need the lights. You just need him—right here, right now.

He lifts your shirt slightly, lips brushing just beneath your jaw.

“Couldn’t wait another bloody second,” he mumbles against your skin.

And then he kisses you like he means to make up for every second he’s been gone.

Your back hits the door with a soft thud, the wood cool through your shirt, but everything else is heat. His hands are everywhere—one at your waist, the other sliding up your side beneath the hem of your top, rough fingertips skimming bare skin like he’s rediscovering you inch by inch.

His mouth crashes into yours before you can speak, and all the air leaves your lungs at once.

It’s not frantic. It’s not rushed.

It’s worse than that.

It’s slow. Intentional. Full of that maddening kind of restraint that only comes from someone who’s been imagining this in vivid detail for weeks. His lips move over yours like he’s tasting a memory—soft, then deep, then soft again. He kisses you like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.

You melt into him without meaning to, hands sliding up under the hem of his shirt, fingers grazing the curve of his waist, the slope of his back. He shivers under your touch.

When you pull away just enough to breathe, his mouth doesn’t stop. He trails kisses across your cheek, down the curve of your jaw, to that spot just below your ear that makes your knees go weak. He knows it does. He lingers there, mouth warm and open, the scrape of his teeth just enough to make you gasp.

“Fuckin’ missed this,” he breathes, voice thick and rough, his accent slurring the edges of every word. “Missed you.”

You don’t even try to answer. You just kiss him again, harder this time, your fingers fisting the fabric of his shirt like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you let go.

He presses closer, slotting a leg between yours, the weight of him pressing into every line of your body. You feel the tension in his muscles, the way he holds back, jaw tight like he’s clinging to control by a thread.

And God, it makes you want him more.

His thumb strokes the underside of your breast through your bra, slow and teasing, while his other hand cradles the back of your head like he can’t bear to be any further from your mouth.

When he kisses you again, it’s deeper. Wetter. His tongue slides against yours and it’s all heat now, all need. You arch into him, breath catching in your throat.

“Let me take care of you,” he whispers against your lips. “Yeah?”

You nod, eyes locked on his, and he presses one last kiss to your mouth—soft, like a promise—before guiding you away from the door.

His hand stays at the small of your back as he walks you through the flat, steering you gently down the hallway. The air feels warmer here, more still, like even the rooms missed him. When you reach the bedroom, he nudges the door open with his foot and leads you in like it’s something sacred.

He stops at the edge of the bed and looks at you, eyes dark and steady.

“Sit down for me, love.”

You do, heart hammering as you settle on the edge of the mattress, legs just barely parted, your eyes tilted up to him. He steps between your knees, fingers reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face. Then both hands slip beneath the hem of your shirt.

“Arms up.”

You raise them without hesitation, and he peels your shirt off slow, knuckles grazing your skin as he lifts the fabric over your head. It drops to the floor behind him, forgotten.

He leans in again, mouth catching yours before you can speak. His kiss is deeper now, slower, hands resting just beneath your ribs as he presses into you. Every inch of him is warm. Grounded. Certain.

Between kisses, his fingers move to the button of your jeans.

You feel the faint pop of denim giving way, the soft drag of his knuckles as he works them open. He doesn’t look down. Doesn’t break the kiss. Just keeps kissing you like he’s starving, like you’re the only thing he’s craved since he left.

You lift your hips for him and his hands slide around to your thighs, easing your jeans down, dragging the fabric slow over your skin. The kiss never falters. His lips move with yours like he’s drinking you in, like nothing—not time or distance or fabric—should’ve ever been between you to begin with.

When he finally pulls back, your jeans are on the floor, your chest is rising fast, and his mouth is pink from how long he’s kept it on yours.

His eyes rake over you, voice low and ragged.

“Fuckin’ hell, look at you.”

You laugh softly, a nervous little sound that slips out without warning. He catches it right away, eyes narrowing like he’s just found a crack in the wall.

“What’s that for?” he asks, voice low but amused. His hands rest on your bare thighs, thumbs brushing lazy circles into your skin. “Somethin’ funny, sweetheart?”

You shrug, lips twitching like you’re trying to play it off, but he doesn’t buy it. Not for a second.

He leans in, mouth brushing just beneath your ear. “Tell me somethin’,” he murmurs, breath warm on your skin. “What do you do when I’m not here? When you’re feelin’ like this. D’you take care of yourself?”

You go still. Not because you don’t know the answer. But because you do.

His lips curl against your cheek. “You get shy on me now?”

“I don’t—” you start, then falter. Your voice is soft when you finally speak. “I don’t really do that.”

He pulls back just enough to see your face, one brow raised. “Liar.”

You flush.

“C’mon,” he coaxes, brushing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I’ve been gone two months. Don’t tell me you haven’t done a single thing. That’s cruel.”

You hesitate.

Then, barely audible—

“I read.”

His brow furrows, amused. “You read?”

You nod, eyes flicking down to his collarbone. “Stuff online.”

There’s a pause.

And then, his voice drops, accent thick with curiosity and something darker.

“Fan fiction?”

You nod again, smaller this time.

He stares at you like he’s just been handed a gift he wasn’t expecting.

“No fuckin’ way,” he murmurs, smiling now, a little breathless. “You read fan fiction about me?”

Your face burns.

He leans in closer, one hand cradling your jaw.

“Gonna need you to walk me through that, baby.”

Your eyes dart away from his, and your fingers fidget with the hem of your underwear, suddenly very aware of how little you’re wearing—and how close he is.

He watches you carefully, waiting. Patient, but barely.

“It’s just…” you start, then trail off, chewing your bottom lip. “Stuff people write. About you. About… you and someone like me.”

His brow arches. “Someone like you?”

You nod, embarrassed. “Normal. Not famous. Not anyone special. Just… someone.”

You feel his hand tighten slightly on your thigh, and when you glance up, there’s a glint in his eye. He’s not laughing at you. He’s fascinated.

“And what happens in these stories?” he asks, voice soft, coaxing. “You get shy? Or do they make you do filthy little things?”

You press your lips together, face flaming, but he can see it. The answer written all over you.

He chuckles, low and warm in his chest, leaning in to kiss your shoulder. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “You’re tellin’ me you’ve been sittin’ in our bed at night, readin’ about me fuckin’ you senseless?”

Your breath hitches.

He pulls back just enough to look at you again, eyes sweeping your face like he wants to see every flicker of reaction. His voice is husky now, rough with interest.

“That’s so dirty, love.”

You try to speak, but he’s already leaning in, pressing a kiss just below your jaw.

“And you just sit there with your little phone,” he murmurs, lips brushing your throat. “Readin’ things I haven’t even done to you yet.”

You swallow hard, eyes flicking down before you can stop yourself—and there it is. The outline of him, straining against his trousers, the fabric doing nothing to hide just how much he wants you.

Your breath catches. The sight makes your thighs press together involuntarily, a quiet ache growing where his hands haven’t touched yet.

He notices.

Of course he does.

His smirk deepens, dark and lazy. “Gettin’ worked up just from that, are you?” he teases, thumb brushing the inside of your knee. “Didn’t even have to touch you yet.”

You exhale shakily, your voice soft. “I want you to.”

He stills for a beat—just one. Then his expression shifts. The playfulness doesn’t vanish, but something darker, more focused, settles into his eyes.

“Yeah?” he murmurs. “You lettin’ me take over now, baby?”

You nod, already breathless. “Please.”

That’s all it takes.

He leans in and kisses you again—harder this time, deeper, like permission unlocked something in him. His hands are on your hips, your waist, your ribs, sliding up until they’re cupping your breasts through your bra. He palms you there, slow and firm, like he’s been missing the weight of you in his hands.

“You’ve got no idea what that does to me,” he mutters into your mouth. “You, sittin’ all pretty, readin’ about me fuckin’ you just like this…”

His fingers reach around to undo the clasp of your bra, taking his time, letting the tension pull tight as elastic. When it finally falls away, he breathes you in like he’s starving again.

Then, without a word, he lowers himself to his knees in front of you, lips brushing your stomach, hands gripping your thighs.

“Gonna take my fuckin’ time with you,” he says, voice a promise against your skin.

He drags his hands up the backs of your thighs, thumbs brushing the crease where they meet your hips as he settles between them. You’re already trembling under his touch, legs slightly parted on instinct, eyes locked on him as he looks up at you from the floor like you’re something sacred.

“Lie back for me, love,” he says, voice rough and low.

You shift back onto the bed, elbows catching you for a second before you sink into the pillows, legs still dangling over the edge. His hands follow you the whole way—never losing contact—until he’s got your thighs open just the way he wants them.

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your underwear and looks up again.

“This what you pictured when you were readin’?” he asks, a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Me down here, beggin’ for a taste?”

You nod, breath shallow. “Yes.”

That’s all he needs.

He pulls your underwear down slow, eyes following every inch of skin he reveals like he’s memorizing it, storing it away. Once they’re off, he leans in and presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, then your thigh, then higher—trailing heat until your whole body’s drawn tight with anticipation.

Then his mouth is on you.

His tongue flicks over you gently at first, teasing, testing. Then he flattens it, licking a slow stripe up your center that makes your hips jerk and a soft cry spill from your lips. His hands slide under your thighs, keeping you open, anchored, at his mercy.

He groans when he tastes you fully, the sound vibrating against your skin.

“Fuckin’ missed this,” he mutters, voice muffled against you. “Missed how sweet you are.”

He settles in deeper, his mouth working you in slow, steady movements—tongue swirling, lips sucking just enough to make your toes curl. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t let up. Just builds it slowly, deliberately, like he’s got nowhere else to be but here, worshiping you.

Your hand slides into his hair, gripping when his tongue flicks just right, hips lifting into him as the tension coils hard in your belly.

“You’re gonna come for me, yeah?” he murmurs against you, breath hot. “Right on my fuckin’ tongue. Let me have it.”

You’re close—so close it almost hurts. The pressure’s built tight in your belly, your thighs shaking around his shoulders, his name falling from your lips in broken pieces. He doesn’t let up. If anything, he gets hungrier, tongue working you with that slow, steady rhythm that undoes you completely.

Your back arches off the bed. Fingers tangle in his hair.

“Harry—fuck—Harry, I’m gonna—”

He groans against you like that’s exactly what he wants, like the sound of your voice wrecked and desperate is the only thing keeping him alive. And then you’re falling apart. The orgasm hits hard, flooding through you in waves, and he holds you right there, mouth never leaving you, like he wants every last bit of it.

You whimper as you come down, your body twitching from the aftershocks, chest heaving. He finally lifts his head, lips slick, eyes dark and blown.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, kissing the inside of your thigh. “Knew you’d be sweet for me.”

You’re still catching your breath when you reach for him, fingers curling into his shirt.

“Take your clothes off,” you whisper. “I need you to fuck me.”

That gets his attention.

He laughs softly, rising to his feet. “That desperate, hm?”

“Yes,” you say, no shame in your voice. “I need you.”

He leans over you, bracing his hands on either side of your head, his mouth ghosting just over yours. You can feel him, hard against your thigh, still fully clothed, and it’s maddening.

“Could keep you like this a while,” he says, teasing. “All needy and wrecked and beggin’ for it. Could make you wait.”

You whimper, hips shifting beneath him. “Don’t be cruel.”

He grins, dipping down to kiss you slow, tongue sweeping into your mouth like he owns it. Then he pulls back just enough to whisper, voice low and hot—

“Then tell me how you want it.”

You open your mouth to answer, but he’s already moving.

“Don’t need you to tell me,” he murmurs, straightening up with that look in his eyes—confident, dark, completely in control. “I know exactly what you need.”

You watch from the bed, breath shallow, as he reaches for the hem of his shirt and peels it off in one fluid motion. His chest is golden from the sun, stomach tight, the familiar trail of hair disappearing into his waistband making your mouth go dry.

Your thighs press together without thinking.

Then he unbuttons his trousers. Slow. Deliberate. He holds your gaze the entire time, like he knows what he’s doing to you—like he wants you to see exactly what you’ve been missing. He pushes them down along with his briefs, and the second they fall, his cock springs free—thick, flushed, heavy against his stomach.

Your breath catches.

Precum glistens at the tip, already leaking, and he wraps a hand around the base with a low sigh of relief, stroking once.

“Been hard since the bloody airport,” he mutters. “Soon as I saw you. Didn’t even make it through baggage claim without thinkin’ about bendin’ you over the nearest flat surface.”

You moan, hips shifting against the sheets.

He steps between your legs again, stroking himself lazily now, eyes raking over your body like he’s trying to decide exactly where to start.

“You ready for me, love?” he asks, voice thick, teasing. “You want this cock inside you?”

You nod, desperate. “Yes. Please, Harry.”

He leans over you, pressing the head of his cock against your entrance, teasing just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Gonna fuck you slow,” he says, kissing your jaw, your neck, the space just beneath your ear. “Wanna feel every fuckin’ inch of you.”

Then he pushes in.

He pushes just the tip inside, then stops.

Your hands clutch at the sheets. “Harry—”

“Shh,” he murmurs against your skin, brushing his nose along your neck. “Not yet.”

He pulls out slowly, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds, teasing your entrance, your clit, everything but what you need.

“Wanna know somethin’ first,” he says, voice thick with amusement, but his hips stay steady, cruelly patient. “You never told me what your favorite part was.”

You blink, dazed. “What?”

“In those stories,” he murmurs, sucking gently at your throat. “The ones you read at night. About me. What’s your favorite part?”

You shake your head, breath catching as he presses in again—just barely—then pulls back.

“C’mon, love,” he says, his voice laced with a dark kind of sweetness. “I wanna hear you say it.”

You whimper. “I like when you talk.”

He stills, grinning against your jaw. “Yeah? When I’m filthy with you?”

You nod quickly, lips parting, breath uneven. “And when you—” You falter, heat blooming across your chest. “When you go down on her and don’t stop. When you say it’s yours.”

That breaks him.

“Jesus,” he groans, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He shifts his hips again, just enough for the head of his cock to push inside once more.

“Say it now,” he breathes. “Say you’re mine.”

Your fingers curl around his biceps, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m yours, Harry. I’m yours.”

His mouth crashes into yours again, and this time, he doesn’t hold back.

His mouth finds yours again, hot and hungry, and he sinks into you all at once—slow but deep—his cock stretching you open inch by inch until you’re full of him, breath caught in your throat. The moan you let out is pure instinct, helpless and raw, and it makes him groan right back, low in his chest like it physically knocks the air out of him.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, jaw tight, buried all the way to the hilt. “You feel—Jesus, baby—you feel so fuckin’ good.”

Your fingers grip his shoulders, your legs hooking around his waist, trying to draw him in deeper even though he’s already as close as he can get. He stays there for a second, not moving, just letting you feel it—letting himself feel it.

Then he pulls back slow, almost to the tip, before thrusting in again, harder this time. Your head tips back, mouth falling open with a gasp.

“There she is,” he growls, one hand sliding up your body to wrap around your throat—not tight, just enough to hold you there, eyes on him. “That the part you like, yeah? When I fuck you like I ownyou?”

You nod, whimpering. “Yes—Harry—”

“God, I missed this pussy,” he says, hips snapping into you again. “Dreamt about it. Woke up hard on the fuckin’ tour bus thinkin’ about you spread out like this.”

He’s moving now, really moving, fucking you slow and deep but with purpose, every thrust hitting that perfect spot inside you that makes your vision blur. Your body meets him with every roll of his hips, greedy, desperate, like it’s been waiting for him just as long as your heart has.

You moan again and his lips find your ear.

“That what you wanted, baby?” he pants. “Wanted my cock stretchin’ you out just like this? Bet none of those fanfics made you feel like this.”

“N-no,” you choke out, nails digging into his back. “Nothing like this.”

“Yeah?” His pace quickens slightly, his voice going rougher. “Tell me whose it is.”

“Yours,” you breathe, eyes wide and glassy. “Yours, Harry.”

“Say it again.”

“Yours—fuck—yours.”

He leans down and kisses you hard, messy, full of tongue and teeth and heat, his hips relentless now. He’s grunting with every thrust, sweat beading at his temples, his whole body working to bring you right to the edge again.

“I can feel you squeezin’ me,” he groans. “You’re close, aren’t you? Gonna come for me, sweetheart?”

“Yes—don’t stop—don’t—”

He slips a hand between your bodies, thumb circling your clit in tight, wet strokes while he keeps fucking into you deep and fast.

“Come on, baby,” he murmurs, voice cracked and wild. “Come on. Let me feel it.”

And that’s all it takes.

You shatter around him with a cry, your whole body pulsing, shaking, coming hard on his cock. He fucks you through it, eyes locked on your face like he wants to remember everything.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—”

He pulls out at the last second, hand stroking himself twice before he spills all over your stomach with a groan so guttural it makes your toes curl. Thick, hot, and messy. He leans over you, breathing hard, eyes dark and wrecked, thumb brushing your cheek.

“You’re somethin’ else,” he whispers, leaning in to kiss you again, slower now, sweeter.

You’re still trying to catch your breath when he leans back on his heels, eyes dragging over your body—sweat-slicked, legs still trembling, his release glistening on your stomach. There’s a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, but it’s not just cocky. It’s hungry. Like he’s already thinking about what comes next.

“Can’t believe I spent weeks in hotel beds with my hand wrapped ‘round my cock,” he mutters, one hand sliding up your thigh again. “When this was waitin’ for me.”

You open your mouth to respond, but then he’s dipping down again, licking a slow, deliberate stripe up your stomach. You jolt, a whimper escaping your lips as his tongue drags through his own mess.

“Harry—”

He hums, like it’s nothing. Like the taste of you—of both of you—doesn’t drive him mad.

His tongue swirls over your skin, not in a rush this time, just savoring. Teasing. His hands slide back up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts before he lowers his mouth again and sucks one nipple between his lips.

You gasp, arching into him.

“You still sensitive?” he asks, voice muffled against your skin. “That why you’re shakin’ like that?”

You nod, legs twitching around him. “Y-Yeah.”

He grins against your breast, mouth moving to the other. “Good.”

He slides a hand between your legs again, fingers pressing right where you’re still dripping, still open from him.

“‘Cause I’m not finished with you yet.”

He looks up at you, eyes dark and wild, fingers circling your clit again in slow, deliberate strokes.

“You’re gonna come again, baby. Just like in those stories you read. Over and over ‘til you can’t even say my name.”

526 notes · View notes

heirloomgem · 6 months ago

Text

Infatuation Series

Summary: Small snippets and cute scenes on your crush on Sung Jinwoo and how Sung Jinwoo courts and wins over you in high school after using the cup of reincarnation.

His sole purpose in this life is to win your heart, become your faithful husband, and have you be the mother of his children. No one else but you. (Mini chapters)

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything except for my characters and plot.

Warning/Genre: OOC, Romance, fluff, high school life (Sorry for the miss grammar)

Chapter 1: Chances

Lately, you have been too flustered for your own good but that’s because you’ve started liking someone.

In a classroom filled with students, the sound of pens scratching on paper echoed as students took notes while listening to their teacher.

Some people were diligent, some were dozing off and some were distracted, and you were among them.

Twirling your pen in one hand and leaning on the other, you did your best to listen to the lesson.

However, the calm spring breeze coming through the window seemed to lull you, and your mind gradually began to drift away.

Slowly, your eyes were closing.

Just as you were about to nod off, you caught yourself and quickly straightened up. Opening the back of your notebook you opted to doodle so you won't fall asleep.

It begins with a flower, followed by a bear, a knight's helmet, dragon wings, a dagger and various other unusual and unrelated items until finally you unconsciously draw a chibi version of him.

You felt your cheeks heat up.

Sung Jinwoo.

A second-year student in your high school, whom you started liking recently.

He was your senior by a year as you were in your first year. He was one of the handsome, popular and competent students in your school that most girls fawn over and for boys to idolize.

Like most girls in your school, you were no different from them, who accidentally glanced at him and were instantly smitten.

Foolishly and stupidly smitten.

You didn't know why, but after catching a glimpse of his soft black hair reminiscent of the night, his slender yet beautiful grey eyes, framed by long eyelashes, and his lips, which had a slight reddish tint.

That day, a deep sense of familiarity surged within you. Those feelings captured you and he entangled you with his very being without hesitation.

Even to this day, just remember that moment and how your eyes met made your body heat up, your cheeks flush and a deep aching echo inside you.

Finishing your doodle, you took a moment to admire your drawing of him.

Even though it's just a silly drawing, you couldn't help but caress his small face. A sweet smile appeared on your lips before shaking your head, catching yourself.

Looking at the front, you let out a sigh of relief when you saw that the teacher and your classmates didn't catch you making a silly face out of nowhere and were focused on the lesson instead.

You didn't want anyone, particularly your teacher, to catch you daydreaming especially when your mind wandered toward your silly little crush or else with just a slip everyone in your school would talk about it no doubt and soon he would hear about it.

Just imagining his uncomfortable expression made you shudder, scared and embarrassed.

There's no way you would be able to endure such humiliation if such a thing were ever to happen.

Slapping yourself awake, you flip your notes back and resume jotting down points.

Soon the bell rang, signalling for a break.

You gratefully took the time to stretch your stiff body, worn from sitting in class for almost half of the day. Hearing your bones crack, you let out a sigh of relief, you turn toward your friend before happily inviting her to go out and buy some snacks.

Walking down the hallways while talking to your friend, you furtively give a few glances at his classroom as you pass it. Hoping to catch a glance of him.

However, it seems that luck wasn't on your side, as you didn't even see a glimpse of his clothes. A sense of sadness envelops you, leaving you disheartened.

Unfortunately, you weren’t in the same class or year as him so there were only a few times when you could see him.

Although you envy the students that were in the same year as him, that didn’t dismay you from time to time to wander the hallways of his classroom to try to catch sight of him.

This was one of the few times you hoped to see him, but it seemed the gods were not in your favour today.

You haven't seen nor heard of him at all throughout the morning and now it's already past noon.

You were hoping to at least even just once, you would see him.

Glumly choosing some snacks, you paid right away and waited for your friend's turn before the both of you walked back to your classroom.

Your head hung low as you considered the rest of the day would be unmotivated and restless due to not seeing him.

You wonder why you weren't born in the same year as him. If you had been, you might have had the chance to be with him that year or, even better, have him as your classmate instead of your senior.

Probably because you were too busy weeping childishly, you didn't pay enough attention to where you were going, causing you to crash into someone.

Expecting the painful impact, you held your breath when suddenly, you felt a strong hand holding your waist and pulling you into a warm embrace, steadying your fall.

With your heart racing from fright and still dazed from the incident, it took you a moment to come to your senses before you looked up, ready to apologize.

But your eyes widened instead, your tongue stuck in your throat, and not a word came out.

You felt your face blush uncontrollably, and your whole body trembled. This time, you knew your heart was racing not from fright, but from the nervousness of your crush's sudden appearance.

Standing face to face with your crush, Sung Jinwoo, you could feel his breath as your faces were close to each other, his head bent down, looking at you.

“I’m sorry. Are you alright?” He asked as he gave you a worried look while you, in turn, could only look at him with your mouth wide open.

Both of your friends, who saw the whole situation stood frozen.

For one, your friend knows who your crush is while the other was bewildered with the whole situation.

Lifting his eyes, Sung Jinwoo’s eyebrow furrowed, concerned in his beautiful grey eyes, then brought a hand to touch your forehead which was now red from the earlier collision with his back.

“Your forehead’s bruised. We should go to the infirmary.” He murmured as he caressed your forehead.

Feeling his gentle touch, you snap out of your bewilderment and start rambling nonsensically, your arms flailing, your voice squeaking, and your face all messed up.

You couldn't help but cry in your heart.

Of all times, your bad luck just has to kick you when you least expected it and now you're making a fool of yourself in front of him.

Worst of all you just showed him yourself gawking at him unreservedly.

Not taking it anymore and embarrassed from head to toe, you immediately took your friend’s hand, apologizing before dashing away from the awkward situation.

You’re sure not only your face but your whole body is red as a tomato. Your back sweating profusely.

You’ve always imagined countless scenarios in your head. If you ever got the chance to talk to him, you would act smoothly and gracefully, ensuring that not a hint of your crush would show.

But now! BUT NOW!

You cried in despair.

God! You wish you could burrow yourself in a hole.

You were just grateful that only the four of you were in the hallway; otherwise, not only would you be mortified by your embarrassment, but you were certain that his fans would be furious with you for getting too close to him. And for sure you would be dead meat by the end of the day.

You were so grateful that wasn't the case.

As you and your friend were still running toward your class, a shameless thought popped into your mind, causing your once-red face to turn even redder.

Even though it was but a moment, you shamelessly recalled how his body felt against you.

His body was hard and built.

If you bet with anyone that he absolutely has abs even though he's only a high schooler, you will surely win.

With your mind clouded by immoral thoughts, you didn't notice the classroom door was closed, resulting in you running into it.

A loud sound echoed down the hallway, causing your friend to yelp in concern at your unhinged state.

You muttered a whole storm of curses under your breath.

You're certain the gods intended for you to die in shame today, leaving no corpse behind.

Meanwhile...

As Jinwoo watched you run off, he chuckled, his ears turning red from your cute reaction. After all this time, he had finally reunited with you.

He is eagerly looking forward to the days when you two can finally be together again.

A/N: Ahh, the taste of high school crushes! It’s so fresh but SO cringe at the same time, I couldn’t help but look back at my past crushes. SO CRINGE AND YET SO BITTER AND SO GOOD! Lol!🤣

Anyway, Sorry for the late post. Life has been too busy though I hope you enjoyed this fanfic!

{All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author}

#solo leveling #sung jinwoo #jinwoo sung x reader #sung jin woo x reader #solo leveling x reader #solo leveling x you #sung jinwoo x you #crushes #romance #fluff #comedy #school #high school #sung jinwoo x reader #divider by saradika #credit to the artist

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witchingwithscissors · 18 hours 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.)

🏀 🦐 🏀 🦐 🏀 🦐 🏀 🦐 🏀 🦐 🏀 🦐 🏀 🦐 🏀

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’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.

She was six interviews deep when she saw her.

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?”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.”

Agatha met her halfway.

Pregnant, glowing, grinning.

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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hearts4hughes · 10 days ago

Note

Hello!!! I'm so sorry to bother you but when you do get the time could you do a more detailed fanfic of the last request I sent, no rush at all I was just wondering!!

ೃ࿔:･ three things rafe did to get you back, and the one that worked

he doesn’t sleep in his house for three nights.

not since your perfume curdled in the walls, not since your toothbrush disappeared and your favorite hoodie ended up folded in the laundry room like it didn’t mean anything.

he takes the truck and sleeps on the beach instead. driver’s seat reclined, cigarette burns on the floor mat, your voice echoing through his phone from some video you filmed months ago—shaky footage of him making you laugh in the cereal aisle at 3 am. you called him stupid in that video, grinning like you didn’t mean it. he keeps replaying that part.

he’s angry. not at you—never really at you—but at himself, for letting it get that far. for saying the kinds of things you don’t come back from, the kind that sit heavy in your chest when you’re trying to fall asleep. he doesn’t even remember how the fight started, just that it ended with the door slamming so hard a picture fell off the wall. just that you didn’t look back.

and god, he’s been trying to get you back everyday since.

1. he left flowers every day.

not store-bought roses, not the kind you see in glossy instagram proposals, no, they were wildflowers, hand-picked, stems crooked, petals bruised, sometimes tied with ribbon, sometimes with a handwritten note.

every morning, they showed up on your doorstep like clockwork—lilies, bluebells, dandelions stuffed in mason jars or beer bottles. he never knocked, never rang the bell, just left them. he figured you’d know who they were from anyway.

you left them outside until they filled your porch. the day you brought them all in was the day he stopped leaving them. figured you got the message. figured you’d call him, maybe send him a heartfelt text.

but he never got one.

2. he sent videos…too many.

they were always old ones. the ones you filmed when you were still his. the ones that you two were happiest in.

you in the passenger seat singing off-key, wind in your hair. you chasing him down the beach, laughing so hard you couldn’t breathe. his favorite—shaky footage of you asleep on his chest, his hand brushing your back like it was instinct.

he sent one every night. he watched your read receipt every night. he did that until the texts turned green and couldn’t go through.

3. he crashed your friend’s party.

it wasn’t subtle. he showed up in a backwards hat with low intentions, smirking like he didn’t already know the second he crossed the threshold, the room would turn against him. it didn’t matter. not when he saw you across the kitchen in that sundress, smiling at someone who wasn’t him.

“you invited him?” your best friend hissed when she saw him.

“wasn’t invited,” he replied, unbothered. “just came to see her.”

he didn’t fight, didn’t yell, didn’t try to make a scene. he just tried to talk. his voice was low, eyes glassy, and lip red with bite marks. but you didn’t budge, didn’t flinch, didn’t let him twist this into something that could be forgiven on a front lawn at 1:00 am.

you only told him to leave, and this time—for once—he did.

4. he annotated your favorite books.

he showed up at your house. it was late. your porch light was off, blinds closed, similar to the rest of the neighborhood.

he knocked a few times, hoping you were still awake, praying there wasn’t another guy over. you finally opened the door and he was just…standing there. hoodie pulled over his head, eyes red, not from weed this time—just from not sleeping. not eating, not knowing how to live in a world where you don’t love him anymore.

he didn’t say anything at first. just held out a stack of your favorite books. they were dog-eared, spine-bent, underlined in black ink.

“i read them,” he said, voice hoarse. “all of them. so i’d know what you meant when you said things. so i’d understand you better next time. if there’s a next time.” your breath caught. he looked down, added, quieter, “i even liked the sad ones.”

you took the books and he took one step back like he was ready for you to shut the door, but you didn’t. you opened it wider, allowing him to step inside.

“rafe, i-”

“don’t, don’t say anything.” he whispered, tears pooling at his waterline. he let out a shaky breath, fingers curling at his sides like he was holding himself back. “not yet.”

you placed the books down onto your coffee table and he looked around. his shoes were still in your mudroom, his rings still in your bowl, and his bouquets on your counter.

when his gaze fell back to you, you were walking towards him with open arms. he melted into your embrace. it was like water during a restless night, like a warm blanket on a cool winter day, like home.

he nuzzled his face into your neck, lip quivering as he tried to compose himself. “never leave me again, baby. i was ruined without you.” he whispered, pressing kisses to your neck.

“that makes two of us,” you chuckled through broken sobs.

and it wasn’t forgiveness. not yet, but he hugged you like he’d just been told the world wasn’t ending after all.

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @mojitrvo @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @favbrnette @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @bibissparkles @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife

#nora’s writings 💐#rafe cameron #rafe cameron blurb #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron obx

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kissandtellus · 16 days ago

Text

Prepare for Takeoff

Synopsis: Caleb is still as in love with MC as he was pre-kids, back when they were younger and deep in love. He doesn’t plan on changing, ever.

Warnings: Fluff, breeding, pregnancy, light choking, overstim.

The tarmac runway of Farspace Fleet's military base thrummed with activity as military planes and fighter jets roared overhead, the sound echoing like thunder through the air.

Caleb stood at the edge of the landing strip, his boots planted firmly on the ground as fellow recruits and commanders saluted him in passing. The bright late afternoon sun beat down on his back and caused him to squint.

He was just about to head back to the locker room when he heard a familiar cry ring out across the air.

"Daddy! Daddy!"

Recognizing the high-pitched voice, Caleb turned around just in time to see a small tornado of energy barreling towards him.

A beaming smile immediately broke across his face, the weariness he felt from the training disappearing almost instantly.

"There’s my little man!" Caleb chuckled as he crouched down and spread wide his arms, ready to welcome his little 3 year old boy into a tight, loving embrace.

The boy leaped into his father's arms, burying his face into Caleb's chest. His small arms and legs were wrapped tightly around his dad’s waist, like a koala clinging onto a tree branch, as if the very act of holding on would ground him to his father for all eternity.

Caleb straightened up, wrapping his arms around the child in return, holding him close and steady. He chuckled, running a hand through the boy's messy hair.

"What are you doing here, huh? Shouldn’t you be with mommy?"

As if on cue, MC came waddling as fast as she could while cradling her 5 month belly. “Atlas! I told you to wait for me.” She huffed, but her face softened when she saw the scene in front of her.

Caleb looked up and saw MC approaching, a fond smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He hoisted his son up easily, resting the boy on his broad shoulders. The boy’s legs dangled on either side of Caleb's head playfully.

Caleb met MC’s gaze, his eyes sparkling with a mixture of fondness and pride. “Atlas wanted to surprise his old man, didn’t he?” he said, affection evident in his voice.

MC shook her head, but a soft smile still lingered on her lips. She let out a small sigh, her hand instinctively moving to rub her heavily pregnant belly. "He's getting too big for his own good."

She looked at her son, perched on his father's shoulders like a little king, and reached out to gently tap the tip of his nose. "And you, young man, need to listen to mommy."

Atlas giggled in response, sticking out his tongue at his mother.

Atlas squealed and kicked his feet. “Daddy! Can I sit in your jet? I promise to be really good!”

Caleb chuckled, the sound deep and rumbling, and looked up at his son perched high on his shoulders. "You want to sit in Daddy's jet, huh?"

Atlas nodded enthusiastically, his eyes wide with excitement. "Yes, please! I'll be so good, I promise!"

Caleb pretended to consider the request, tilting his head thoughtfully to the side. "Hmm...I don't know. My jet's pretty complicated for a little boy like you. Are you sure you're ready for that?"

"I'm big enough! I'm three and a half!" Atlas protested, puffing out his cheeks in protest.

Caleb laughed, the sound booming through the air. "Well, you've got me there. Three and a half is practically an adult."

MC just rolled her eyes at the banter, gently shaking her head. "You're encouraging him. You know he's going to want to fly the jet now, right?"

Caleb shrugged, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Hey, I'm just instilling a love for aviation in the next generation. It's never too early to start."

He reached up and grabbed one of Atlas's little feet, giving it a playful tug. "But if you want to sit in my jet, you need to promise to listen to every word I say. Safety first, buddy. Understood?"

"Jet! Jet!"

Atlas chanted, kicking his legs back and forth in the air.

MC couldn't help but laugh at the expression on his face. Even at three, he looked so much like Caleb, from the same bright purple eyes and dimples to the same cheeky grin. And just as stubborn too, it seemed.

"All right, all right, settle down." Caleb chuckled again, trying to calm his over-excited son. He looked at his wife, an eyebrow raised in silent question.

She sighed dramatically, although there was a hint of amusement in her eyes. "Oh, go ahead. But if he turns the autopilot on and takes it for a joy-ride, I'm telling them it's all your fault."

"And here I was, thinking you actually trusted me." Caleb feigned hurt, his lips curving into a playful pout.

He adjusted Atlas on his shoulders before starting to walk towards the hangar where the jets were parked. "You coming, Pipsqueak?" He called back to MC over his shoulder.

MC rolled her eyes once again, but followed them nonetheless, her hands protectively cradling her belly.

When they reached the hangar, she hung back by the entrance, leaning against the side of the wall as she watched her husband and son approach one of the sleek fighter jets.

Atlas was absolutely enthralled by the sight of the jet. He stared at it with wide eyes, almost falling off Caleb's shoulders in excitement.

Caleb laughed, quickly steadying his son before he could take a tumble. "Careful, sprout. You can't pilot the jet if you're flat on your face."

He gently lifted the boy off his shoulders, setting him down on the ground in front of the jet. Atlas immediately reached out to touch the cool metal of the belly of the jet, his little hand tracing the insignia of Farspace Fleet's emblem.

"Daddy, how does it fly?" Atlas asked, looking up at Caleb with curious eyes.

Caleb crouched down to be eye level with his son. "Well, kiddo, it's all about science. You see, the engines at the back create a lot of force, which pushes the jet forward. And the wings at the side help it stay in the air. It's pretty neat, huh?"

Caleb’s eyes softened as he saw the sheer awe on his face. "You like it, huh?"

Atlas nodded vigorously, his hand still running along the length of the jet, as if trying to commit every detail to memory. Caleb ruffled his hair once again, a look of pride on his face. "That's a Black Star. Fastest fighter we have, and the one I fly."

"Wow!"

Caleb chuckled again at his son's reaction. "Not bad for a beginner, huh? But this baby right here..." He patted the jet affectionately. "...is just for grown-ups," he said with a mock stern tone.

Atlas looked up at him, pouting just like his mother. "Why?"

"Because you have to be a certain age and rank to fly it. And you're still too little for now." Caleb explained, ruffling the boy's hair again.

“Andddd little pilots who miss dinner time don’t get dessert. That’s why daddy hasn’t had ice cream in a very long time.” MC cheekily says, stroking Atlas’ dark hair out of his face.

"Hey! I did not miss dinner time!"

Caleb protested, feigning offense, though the twinkle in his eyes showed that he was enjoying the banter. He stood up, dusting off his knees.

Atlas giggled, clearly enjoying the banter between his parents.

MC rolled her eyes dramatically again, but her smirk showed she was just kidding. "Sure you didn't, Colonel. And I'm the Queen of Farspace."

But when they are alone that night, Caleb is sure to treat his wife like a queen.

Once the house is quiet and Atlas is safely tucked in bed, Caleb loses no time in carrying MC to their bedroom. He lays her gently on the bed, his uniform already halfway unbuttoned. Kneeling between her legs, he removes her panties slowly, revealing her swollen belly and glistening folds.

He runs his gloved hands up her thighs, parting them wider. Caleb leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to her mons before trailing his lips down to her entrance. He inhales her scent deeply, his breath hot against her core. “You smell like heaven, love."

MC covers her face with the back of her hand. “C-Caleb that’s so….dirty.” She blushes.

Caleb smirks against her skin, his gloved fingers parting her folds to reveal her soaked, swollen clit. He flicks his tongue out, circling the sensitive nub slowly. “Dirty? Or just a husband worshipping his pregnant wife?"

MC gives a short nod, her throat bobbing as he hooks one of her legs over his shoulder to open her up wider.

He hums in approval at her submission, then dives in again, this time flat against her center. His tongue explores every inch of her folds, circling her clit slowly before slipping lower to rim her entrance. He's deliberate and gentle, knowing just how sensitive she is in her current state.

He spreads her wider with his hands, his thumbs hooking inside her thighs. He can see how swollen and needy she is, her juices coating her inner thighs. "God, Pipsqueak." He mutters before covering her core entirely with his mouth, sucking softly like he would a ripe fruit.

MC mewls, her hips bucking off the bed as she desperately covers her mouth so they won’t wake Atlas.

He notices her move to muffle her sounds and smirks against her center. He replaces his finger with his tongue, lapping at her clit with long, slow licks. His hands grip her hips, holding her in place as he eats her out with relish.

Her mewls grow louder despite muffling her mouth. He can feel she's close. Suddenly inspired, he adds a finger inside her, curling it upwards to hit that sweet spot while continuing to lick her clit fervently. "Come for me, love," he muffles against her pussy.

He slowly pulls his finger out, watching her carefully. He knows she's sensitive now but he can't resist one more taste. He leans down and presses a soft kiss to her swollen clit before pulling back to admire his handiwork.

MC moans softly, reaching down to the front of his uniform pants to paw at his aching length. “I need you inside. Please?”

His eyes flash with desire. He quickly unbuckles his pants, freeing himself. He's hard as steel, already leaking pre-cum. Seeing MC like this - pregnant and needy - drives him wild. He positions himself between her thighs and slams home in one smooth stroke.

MC arches her back, taking him to the hilt. They both groan softly, careful not to wake Atlas. Caleb begins to move slowly, his hips rolling in gentle circles. He's careful not to be too rough, knowing she's sensitive and pregnant. Instead, he focuses on pressing deep.

He watches her carefully as he thrusts, his hands gently holding her hips. He's hitting that spot deep inside her that always makes her eyes roll back. He leans down to capture her mouth in a soft kiss, swallowing her whimpers as he starts to move a bit faster. "Fuck..."

MC wraps her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. Her nails dig into his back as she meets his thrusts, her moans growing louder. He silences her with kisses, fucking her slower but deeper, hitting that sweet spot perfectly.

He pulls almost all the way out, then guides her legs up over his shoulders. The new angle allows him to slide even deeper inside her. The change in position makes her gasp. "Shh..." he whispers, covering her mouth with his hand to muffle any noises.

He starts to move faster, his hips snapping forward in quick thrusts. He's hitting that spot with every push, filling her completely. His hand over her mouth muffles her moans as she starts to shake, her eyes rolling back in pleasure. “That's it, love. Take it.”

MC wriggles around, almost as if she’s trying to escape his thrust from overstimulation. She’s unfortunately grounded in place with her swollen stomach.

He holds her in place, his strong arms keeping her legs trapped over his shoulders. He starts fucking her mercilessly, his deep thrusts shaking the bed. He's deliberately hitting that overstimulated spot inside her, knowing it drives her wild. “Try running now, baby..." he challenges.

He leans down, his breath hot against her ear. “I'll catch you every time. You're mine to fuck tonight." He picks up the pace, his cock slamming into her harder and faster. Her moans are muffled by his hand but he can feel her body shaking beneath him.

His other hand reaches around to play with her clit, knowing it'll send her over the edge. She tries to push his hand away, but he just laughs softly and keeps going. “Nope. You're going to cum on my dick, pregnant or not."

Tears of pleasure and pain prick her eyes. “C-Caleb!” She cries out behind his hand covering her mouth. “C-Can’tttt!”

He smirks at her weak protests, knowing she's on the verge. His fingers move faster on her clit, pressing down hard. He thrusts deep and stays there, his thick cock stretching her open and applying delicious pressure. “You can and you will."

With a final, hard push of his fingers and a deep thrust of his hips, he sends her spiraling over the edge. She cries out behind his hand, her body convulsing with pleasure. He keeps thrusting slowly, riding out her orgasm and drawing it out as long as possible. “Good girl."

He leans down, his voice a low growl in her ear. “ Take Every. Single. Drop." *His hips move faster, his cock pounding into her with renewed vigor. He can feel his orgasm building, his balls tightening as he drives deeper into her wet heat. His gloved hand wraps around her throat, applying just enough to make her eyes water.

His grip on her throat tightens slightly as he hits his peak. With a final deep thrust, he buries himself inside her and comes hard, filling her up just like he promised. He stays there for a moment, enjoying the feeling of her wrapped around him before pulling out slightly and pushing back in again.

Caleb would keep her barefoot and pregnant with his babies until the end of time. They only needed him.

They would only ever need him.

#lads #lads x reader #love and deepspace #lads smut #caleb lads #caleb love and deepspace #caleb x fem reader #caleb x mc #caleb x you #caleb hybrid #caleb pull #caleb fluff #caleb smut #love and deepspace caleb #caleb x reader #lnds caleb #lads caleb #caleb #love and deepspace smut

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edensrose · 27 days ago

Note

Saw ur headcanons yes give me brat taming suguru who’s so mean but praises u for taking it when u submit

𐔌 𖹭 𝑺𝒖𝒈𝒖𝒓𝒖 𝑮𝒆𝒕𝒐 ˖ ࣪✧

ᡴꪫ. mean suguru & brat taming, fingering, choking 𖹭 f. reader ˖ ࣪ꮽ˳

˖ ࣪ 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕. ۫ ۶ৎ idk if this was a request but I got inspo so anw here !

"did I say you could squirm?"

the sharp shmack! to your wetness echoes through the room. your pussy throbs at the aftermath, slick from two carelessly fingers that stuff along your slit. so quick to rub on your clit and pinch the pathetic pearl until your face hangs into the mess of sheets. until you sob, jerk your hips back and splutter so pitifully.

" 'm sorry - sorry sugu - please."

another sharp spank. you whimper at the cool metal of silver rings that grazes over your sopping folds as he returns to his long-winded strokes. "oh you'll be sorry. fucking brat." the hand in your hair abandons for your jaw instead. long fingers encase you tight, a clamp of his authority. suguru yanks you back into him with only a cruel grin.

"slutty lil' pussy doesn't seem so sorry right now." his huffs to your ear send shivers down your spine. heat pools around your thighs. they clench, trap his mean hand. he reprimands with a sharp bite to your ear. "look at her."

two fingers wriggle their way through the tight expanse. feeling for treasure troves he already knows by heart. calloused pads curl into a gummy patch which sends your eyes fluttered back. another whimper. this time you earn his thumb shoved into your lips. to pacify your pitiful whines — or perhaps, to spill your drool all over.

his wrist falls into rhythm. chasing squelches and symphonies your spilling cunt offers eagerly. slick coats his palm in seconds. violet eyes grow in their greed. how he wishes to shove you down and pull your thighs back onto his face. swallow your nectar and fuck you on his tongue like an addict.

"sugu . . . suguru," you attempt. your gulp follows the stroke of his palm now on your throat. "s'rough, baby." there you go, squirming again. your hips knock forward into the bed's edge. you bite back a smile. that bratty little smile that meets the sheets when his hand returns to your hair.

not a word. his hand does all the talking. two fingers become three and soon your poor pussy is the victim of your brattiness. his thumb joins the mix, your clit's caught in the crossfire. when your thighs try to clench his legs split yours open in a steel lock.

"no you don't," suguru's glower meets an all-time-low. not once does he meet a beat. every plunge of his fingers attacks another sweet spot. spills more arousal over his palm and splatters the floor on impact. you'll be standing in a puddle soon. "don't even thing about it. you're gonna take it. bratty whores take it and don't fucking complain."

oh, you have him now. the second his tone switches to that deep, dark cadence, you know you're in for it. there's no fighting him when your juices cause a scene. splash the floor and the sheets. once - twice - thrice — until you sob.

no reprieve when he shoves you further up the mattress. shoves your shirt over your tits fucks you back onto his cock. it only took a wet pop! before your sweet cunt welcomes every vein, every bump and throb. one slow pump, maybe two - and then you're mouthing the sheets and lost in the onslaught.

squirming is pointless. you learnt that after the first few battered thrusts. surely the backs of your thighs will be bruised by him. suguru doesn't care. it's just another reminder for your bratty pussy.

one hand in your hair to keep your head shoved. he didn't need to look at you. not when your mouth and sloppy heat make up for it all. the feral smacks of skin join the sinful symphony. you're spilling. gushing, even. all while your body becomes a canvas to his other rough hand. pinches to your nipple, flicks to your clit. he paints sin across your skin, evidence together with his biting mouth and sucking lips.

you're down in a prone before you know it. fisting the pillow. eyes glossy and rolled to the ceiling. his thrusts shallow into a merciless hump as he milks another orgasm from your swollen cunt. you can't bear any more squirting, so instead you bubble cream to splatter his ravaging cock.

"fuck, there she is," he croons. there's that satisfying limp he's been waiting for. with a bicep round your throat, he's able to nudge your head up a bit. he crooks over you, haughty violets drinking in your debauchery. "there's my pretty fucked-out whore - hah - there's m'good girl."

a sloppy, heated kiss is your reward. messy, drool catching, controlling. all while his cock continues to bully you into further submission. strains and stretches your walls. creams you full until you slur and whine in agreement with him.

"yeah, I know baby, I know," he smooches your cheek in a grunt. "doing s'good for me. pretty girl. prettiest bratty pussy. just for me."

because at the end of the day, suguru knows what you want; a rough loving and mean tongue to quell your bratty fervour.

͝ ⏝𝅄︶ ͝ ⏝ ⊹ ⏝ ͝ ︶𝅄⏝ ͝

#. ۫ ۶ৎ . 𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 '𝒏 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎 ﹕ suguru geto ꒱ . ˚◞✧#geto x reader #jjk smut #geto smut #suguru geto x reader #geto x you #geto x y/n #suguru geto smut #suguru geto x you #suguru geto x y/n #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #smut

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mssishipi · 3 months ago

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the fall of a man — sjy

SYNOPSIS: You were taught that virtue was a woman’s greatest strength, that temptation was a test of will, that desire was the serpent’s whisper leading you astray. But when temptation comes in the form of Sim Jaeyun—holy, untouchable, the very image of devotion—your faith begins to waver.

content tags: slow burn, plot with little bit of porn, mutual pining, both of them are religious and virgins, set in catholic university that is lead by nuns, they don't have sex ed!! adam and eve references, religious guilt, reader crushing and thirsting over jake in religious way that's been written for almost 5k words, some of the scenes are heavily inspired by 'guilty as sin' by ts.

warning: heavy sacrilegious content, karina kind of represent the serpent in reader's pov, blasphemy, explicit content (smut): reader masturbate in the chapel, virgins trying to fuck, virginity loss (obv), blowjob, fingering, unprotected sex (condom don't exist), jake call out god's name a lot of times. wc: 16.7k

note: my darling, @fangel really inspired me and make me overcome my fear in writing the most unholiest thing in the world, i'm inlove with you, bae and you really changed my world with your fics <3 i wrote this fic for armin arlert way back 2023 but never had the guts to publish it, but hey u give me a reason to continue this fic. and to my readers out there, i hope you enjoy reading this fic, i love writing jake's pov here :)

Ever since you were a child, you followed everything your parents told you. Raised in a devoutly religious household, your days revolved around faith—joining church activities, attending every Sunday mass without fail, even flying to Puerto Rico with your family to take part in Misa de Aguinaldo.

Religion wasn't just a part of your life; it was your life.

You loved God. You loved listening to preachers, absorbing their words like scripture carved into your soul. You loved spreading the message of Jesus Christ, the warmth of faith filling you every time you shared His name.

You prayed constantly—palms pressed together, head bowed, whispering words of gratitude for every blessing, of repentance for every misstep. You prayed for strength, for purity, for the will to resist temptation.

And yet—temptation had a name.

And his name is Sim Jaeyun.

You remember the first time you saw him walking through the gates of the Catholic university you both attended.

Jake Sim was the very embodiment of devotion, of unwavering faith. He carried himself with an air of holiness, always with a rosary wrapped around his fingers or a Bible tucked beneath his arm. He spoke with conviction, every word laced with the kind of certainty only true believers possessed. And yet, to you, he was something else entirely.

The way he moved, the way his voice echoed through the chapel—it was hypnotic. Your prayers would falter on your tongue whenever he stood at the altar, leading hymns with a voice so steady, so sure.

You had watched him, your eyes tracing the curve of his lips as he spoke, the way his lashes fluttered when he blinked. You had memorized the way candlelight danced across his skin, the way the veins in his hands shifted when he clasped them in prayer.

The boy who knelt before the cross with his eyes closed in deep, persistent faithfulness.

The boy who touched the rosary beads with such reverence, his fingers gliding over each one as if they held the weight of his salvation.

But all you could think about was how those same fingers would feel tracing the lines of your body, how they would press into your skin—not in prayer, but in something far more sinful.

How his lips would taste if they weren't murmuring scripture, if instead, they whispered your name in the dark.

How his faith would crumble if he ever looked at you the way you wanted him to.

And as you sat in the pews, hands clasped, head bowed, you prayed—not for strength, not for purity, but for him.

You shouldn't think about him that way. You shouldn't let your mind wander, not here, not in the house of God.

You knew the weight of sin, the warnings etched into you since childhood. Your family had made it clear—masturbation, desire, sex before marriage—each was a path to damnation. To act on them was to betray God.

Do not lay a hand on any boy. Do not think of flesh, of pleasure, of sin. Do not touch your body with thoughts of another.

But if you had never touched him, never let your hands stray to your own skin —if all you had were thoughts, then how could you already feel guilty as sin?

The golden light of the late afternoon filtered through the stained-glass windows of the university chapel, casting soft hues of red, blue, and gold onto the polished wooden pews. The air was still, filled only with the faint scent of old parchment and melting candle wax.

You sat near the front, fingers absentmindedly tracing the spine of your prayer book. The chapel was mostly empty, save for a few students lingering in quiet reflection. And him.

Sim Jaeyun stood near the altar, carefully arranging hymnals. Even in the simplicity of his tasks, there was a quiet devotion to him—an unshaken faith that made it impossible to look away.

You tried to focus on the words of the scripture open in front of you, but your thoughts were restless. It wasn't the first time you had stayed after midday prayers, and it wasn't the first time you had found yourself stealing glances at him.

A quiet sound of footsteps against the marble floor.

"You're here again."

You glanced up to find Jake standing at the edge. You nodded, offering a small smile. "I like the chapel in the afternoon. It's peaceful."

Jake hummed in agreement, sliding into the pew beside you, though he kept a respectful distance. "It's my favorite time, too," he admitted, clasping his hands together. "When the day is slowing down, but the world isn't quite asleep yet."

You studied him for a moment, watching as the sunlight touched his face, illuminating the softness in his features. "What do you pray for?" you asked.

Jake exhaled, his gaze fixed ahead. "For strength," he said. "To always follow the right path."

You nodded slowly, looking down at your hands.

"And you?" he asked.

You hesitated. You knew what you should say. Strength. Wisdom. Purity.

But instead, you murmured, "For understanding."

Jake turned to you, brow slightly furrowed. "Understanding?"

You swallowed. "There are... thoughts I don't always understand." You hesitated, fingers tightening around the pages of your prayer book. "And I ask for guidance. To know what is right."

For a moment, Jake was silent, then he offered a small, knowing smile. "God sees our hearts even when we struggle to see them ourselves." His voice was gentle and reassuring. "Sometimes, we don't need to have all the answers. We just need to trust Him to show us the way."

His words should have comforted you. But as you looked at him—at the boy who made your heart race in ways you couldn't explain—you weren't sure if the path you longed for was the one God had intended for you.

Sim Jaeyun barely even knew you. The two of you only shared a religion class, occasionally finding yourselves in the same prayer group. Your interactions were brief—just passing glances, a quiet exchange of smiles. Sometimes, after kneeling in prayer, he would hand you a sandwich and a bottle of water and you always accepted with a small nod of thanks, though the warmth in your chest lingered long after.

During every community outreach, you would catch glimpses of him—kneeling to pet stray dogs and cats, laughter spilling from his lips as children clung to his arms, their tiny hands gripping at his sleeves. He spoke to the elderly with a patience and gentleness that felt almost sacred, offering up his seat without hesitation, carrying their bags.

He was the kind of person people gravitated toward, the kind of person who made faith feel tangible—something living and breathing, rather than just words in a book.

You wondered if someone like him, someone pure as gold, ever sinned.

Sim Jaeyun was a name whispered often in the girls' residence hall. Every night, as curfew neared, you would hear them murmuring from their bunks.

"He'd make such a good husband." "Imagine him as a father—he'd be perfect." "Any girl would be lucky to have him."

A quiet admiration, soft and innocent. So why was yours so much heavier? So much more?

Why did yours feel like something that sat in your chest, something that pressed against your ribs with every prayer, something that burned?

"Your body is sacred."

The nun's voice rang through the classroom. She moved slowly between the rows of desks, the wooden stick in her hand tapping lightly against her palm with every step.

It was an all-girls class since she was teaching anatomy. But this wasn't just about the body. It was about purity.

She stopped near the front of the room, turning to face the class. Her gaze swept over each of you, as if she could see straight into your thoughts. "God has given you this body," she continued. "A temple. A gift. A vessel meant for holiness, not for sin."

You swallowed, shifting slightly in your seat.

"Temptation is everywhere," she said. "It creeps into your thoughts, into your hands, into the desires you do not speak of. But hear me, girls—"God is watching.""

The stick tapped against her palm again.

"Masturbation," she said, the word itself feeling heavy as it filled the silence, "is a sin against your own flesh. To lay a hand upon yourself in lust is to defile what was meant to be pure."

A hush settled over the room. Some girls looked down at their desks, others sat rigid, eyes wide, hands folded neatly in their laps as if to prove they had never done such a thing—never even thought about it.

You felt a heat crawl up the back of your neck.

"When you indulge in these acts," she continued, voice sharp with a warning, "your body burns—not with passion, not with pleasure, but with sin. A fire that does not cleanse, but corrupts."

She paused, her gaze sweeping the room again,

"And when you engage in sex outside of marriage, when you surrender yourself to the desires of the flesh, that fire does not leave you. It stays. It marks you. And on the day of judgment, when you stand before God, He will see it. He will know."

A shudder ran through you. You clenched your hands together, nails pressing into your palms.

Then, the nun's eyes landed on you.

"You understand, don't you?" she asked, though it wasn't really a question.

Your lips parted slightly, but no words came.

And just for a moment, you thought of him.

Sim Jaeyun.

Of the way his fingers brushed over rosary beads in prayer. Of the way his voice sounded when he spoke of faith, of devotion. Of how those hands, that voice, could ruin you.

And as the nun continued, warning of damnation, of the watchful eyes of God, you couldn't help but wonder.

If God was watching, did He already know what was in your heart? And worse—had He already condemned you for it?

"Yes, I understand," you said, though the words felt heavy on your tongue.

Guilt settled deep in your chest. Your palms were damp, fingers twitching slightly as you clasped them together.

You needed to repent.

You needed to pray until the thoughts left you, until the weight of sin lifted from your heart. Until the fire the nun spoke of no longer burned beneath your skin.

"Here, an apple for you."

A small hand reached toward yours, fingers curled around a tiny, imperfect apple. The child's eyes were bright with innocence, his smile wide as he offered it to you.

It was community outreach day in the mountains, where children ran barefoot over the uneven ground, laughter ringing through the crisp afternoon air. The scent of earth and firewood lingered, mingling with the distant voices of volunteers.

You knelt slightly, accepting the apple with a gentle smile. "Thank you," you said, your voice soft.

The boy beamed, pleased by your gratitude before running off to join the others.

You were about to take a bite of the apple when a sudden tap on your shoulder made you pause. Turning, you found your classmate standing behind you, her expression impatient.

"I need you to find Karina," she said, arms crossed. "She's missing again. And we need to leave by three."

You sighed, tucking the apple into your pocket. "Alright, I'll look for her."

With that, you made your way up the stone steps leading further into the hills, where the trees grew denser and the voices of the other volunteers faded into the rustling of leaves. The fresh mountain air brushed against your skin, carrying the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke.

As you climbed higher, a small tug on your sleeve made you stop.

"Lady, where are you going?"

You looked down to see a little girl standing beside you, her dark eyes round with curiosity. She was sucking her thumb, her tiny fingers clutching the fabric of your shirt.

Crouching down to her level, you offered a reassuring smile. "I need to find my friend."

The girl tilted her head, studying you with the kind of seriousness only children could manage. Then, after a moment, she leaned in slightly and whispered, "Be careful out there."

You raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

She pulled her thumb from her mouth and grinned, baring her tiny teeth. "There's a snake," she hissed, making a slithering motion with her hands. "They bite!"

You laughed, shaking your head. "I'll be careful."

With a gentle pat on the girl's head, you urged her to go play with the others before continuing your search.

"Karina!" you called, your voice echoing through the trees. The afternoon air was with the scent of damp earth and pine, the only sounds around you the rustling of leaves and the distant chatter of children below.

After what felt like ages of wandering, you sighed, pulling the apple from your pocket. Your thumb brushed against its smooth surface as you took slow steps forward, letting yourself take a small break.

Then, just as you were about to take a bite, something caught your eye.

It was small cabin, worn by time, tucked between the trees. You hadn't noticed it before, hadn't even realized anyone lived this far up the mountain.

Lifting your head, you parted your lips to call for Karina again but you heard a low, quiet, barely audible voice over the wind.

Your breath hitched slightly, and instinctively, you stayed silent.

Tilting your head, you slowly took a bite of the apple, the crunch loud in the stillness. Step by step, you moved around the cabin, careful not to make a sound.

You crept closer, your breath shallow, your fingers curled tightly around the apple. The rough wooden cabin stood against the trees, its single window slightly ajar. Through the gap, the muffled voices inside grew clearer—soft murmurs, hushed laughter.

A breathless moan.

Your body tensed, You hesitated for only a moment before tilting your head, peering through the dust-coated glass.

And that's when you saw the most sinful acts you've ever witness.

Karina was sprawled against the wooden table, her back arching beneath the weight of the farmer pressing into her. Her dress was bunched up around her waist, her bare thighs caging his hips. His hands gripped her skin, fingers digging into the softness of her legs, his mouth trailing down the curve of her neck.

Your stomach twisted, but you couldn't look away.

Karina wasn't resisting. She wasn't recoiling in shame or horror. There was no fear in her expression, no sign of guilt or repentance.

She was pulling him closer.

Her fingers wove into his hair, tugging slightly as her head fell back, exposing more of her throat to his lips. Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, her mouth parting with quiet, trembling gasps.

Your heartbeat thundered in your ears.

The nun's words echoed in your head, warnings of fire, of suffering, of bodies burning for their sins.

But Karina wasn't burning.

Your breath trembled as you stared, as the world you had known—the one built on prayer, on restraint, on the fear of temptation—began to splinter.

How is she not burning?

The apple slipped from your fingers, tumbling to the ground with a dull thud.

A hiss was heard. The sound was sharp, unnatural, cutting through the silence of the forest. Your body stiffened, a cold shiver crawling up your spine. Slowly, your gaze flickered to the tree beside you.

A snake. Its body coiled around the rough bark, scales glistening in the fading sunlight. It was watching you, its tongue flickering out.

Eve was tempted. Eve took the fruit.

Your stomach twisted violently as you staggered back, tearing your eyes away from both the serpent and the scene inside the cabin.

You ran. Branches scraped against your skin as you pushed through the trees, your feet barely touching the ground. The echoes of Karina's breathless moans clung to you, no matter how fast you tried to outrun them.

You needed to forget. To erase the moment of sin that had burned itself into your mind. To cleanse yourself before the weight of temptation swallowed you whole.

"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee..."

Your eyes clenched shut as you muttered the prayer, over and over, you repeated the words, as if their rhythm alone could cleanse your mind, could undo what you had seen.

The rosary felt heavy in your hands, the beads pressing into your palm. But no matter how tightly you held it, no matter how desperately you clung to prayer, the memory would not leave you.

"Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus."

You sucked in a sharp breath, your chest tightening.

"Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners—"

Your voice broke. This was your fall.

A single tear slipped down your cheek, then another, until you were gripping the rosary so tightly your knuckles turned white. A quiet sniffle escaped you, but the tears kept coming, blurring the dim candlelight of the chapel.

You could not stop trembling, your stomach tightening, a dull ache spreading between your legs, heat pooling where it should not.

Your thighs pressed together instinctively, but it did nothing to stop the throbbing. You clenched your fists, willing the sensation away, but the images had already taken root.

Karina. The farmer. The way her body had arched into him, how she had clung to him. It should have horrified you. It should have disgusted you.

Instead, a shudder ran through you as your mind betrayed you, as the image shifted, reshaped itself into something far more forbidden.

Not Karina.

You.

And not the farmer.

Jake.

Your breath hitched. The thought was wrong—blasphemous. But it came unbidden, vivid and consuming, slipping into the cracks of your mind like sin itself. You saw him above you, his hands gripping your waist, his lips murmuring something against your skin.

Your rosary slipped from your fingers, the beads scattering against the marble floor.

You gasped softly, snapping your eyes open as if waking from a dream—no, a nightmare.

Your hands flew to your chest, pressing against your heart as if you could smother the racing beat beneath your skin.

No. No, no, no.

Tears welled in your eyes again, this time not just from guilt but from fear—of yourself.

This was your fall.

The serpent had coiled itself around you, whispering its venom into your ears, seeping into your thoughts, your body.

Karina was expelled after the nuns discovered what she had done during the community outreach.

You helped her pack in silence, folding the last of her skirts into a worn-out suitcase.

Your nose was red, your eyes swollen—for many reasons. Of course, you hadn't told anyone what you saw. That was yet another reason you were a sinner. You had kept her secret, watched in silence as she was cast out.

But worse—you couldn't stop thinking about it.

And worst of all, you had lost another prayer partner.

Your voice was quiet when you finally asked, "Do you regret it?"

Karina's hands stilled over the fabric of her blouse. She stared at the ground for a long moment before exhaling slowly. "No."

"They're sending me away," she continued. "Some isolated place, far from men. Away from temptation. They'll make me enter seminary, force me to repent, try to fix me."

She let out a dry laugh, shaking her head. "Fix me. As if I'm broken."

You said nothing, letting her words settle between you.

Karina turned then, her gaze finding yours. "But I don't regret it. No matter what they try to tell me." A small, humorless smile tugged at her lips. "But you wouldn't understand, would you?"

Your fingers curled into the fabric of her dress as you folded it, staring at the delicate lace trim. "There are a lot of things I don't understand," you admitted. Then, meeting her eyes, you added, "But I do not judge. I am here to listen."

Karina studied you, her expression is pained. Then she let out a slow breath, sitting on the edge of the bed. "You know the story of Adam and Eve," she said.

You nodded. "Of course."

"They call it the fall," she murmured, tilting her head slightly. "But have you ever thought that maybe it wasn't a fall at all?"

You frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her fingers intertwined. "Eve took the apple. She chose knowledge, chose to know desire, hunger, craving. And for that, she was cast out." Karina exhaled through her nose, a bitter smile on her lips. "But maybe that was never a punishment. Maybe it was freedom."

She glanced at you then, "Christianity tells us that craving is sinful. That wanting—whether it's knowledge, pleasure, or love—will ruin us." Her voice lowered, "but tell me—why would God give us bodies that feel if He didn't want us to use them?"

Your throat felt dry.

"You've thought about it, haven't you?" Karina questioned. "You've felt it."

Heat crept up your neck, shame curling tight in your stomach.

Karina smiled, but it wasn't mocking. If anything, it was knowing. "It's normal to crave, you know," she said. "To want."

"In the city," Karina continued, "I heard students openly talk about sex. About how it's natural. They even discuss things like hormones, the way the body reacts to desire. When your clitoris—"

"Shhh!" Your eyes widened as you shot a panicked glance toward the door. Your hand moved on instinct, pressing against her lips to silence her.

"Do not use such vulgar words!" you hissed, even hearing such a thing felt wrong, like an invitation for sin to take root inside you.

Karina only laughed, she gently pulled your hand away, her lips curling into a teasing smile. "Why? Because the nuns don't want you to know your own body?"

Your cheeks burned, your fingers curling into your lap as you looked away. "Because it's wrong," you muttered. "You speak of things that lead to damnation."

Karina sighed, tilting her head. "Says who? The nuns? The ones who tell us that touching ourselves will set our bodies on fire?" She leaned in slightly, "Tell me, have you ever actually tried it?"

Your breath hitched as you swallowed, your pulse hammering against your skin. "I—I would never—"

Karina smiled knowingly. "Of course you wouldn't. Because you're afraid, aren't you?"

You stiffened. "Afraid of what?"

"That they were lying to you," she said simply.

You stared at her, Karina reached for your hand, her touch gentle as she placed it over your own lap. "If it's really so sinful," she murmured, "if it really makes you burn... then why don't you test it?"

Your breath caught in your throat. Her fingers pressed lightly against yours. "Go on. Just once. Just to see if their words hold any truth."

"If you want to touch yourself," she continued, undeterred by your silence, "put your fingers inside—but don't just push in and out. Curl them inside, find the spot that makes your legs shake."

Your entire body went rigid as Karina leaned closer, her lips curling, almost amused at your reaction. "And your clitoris—"

"Stop," you gasped, eyes widening as you instinctively clamped a hand over her mouth. Your other hand flew to the door, your head snapping toward it, terrified that someone might hear.

She giggled against your palm, her laughter muffled before she gently pulled your hand away. "Why are you so scared?" she teased. "It's just your body. It's natural."

Your cheeks were burning now, hot with embarrassment.

Karina sighed, tilting her head as if she pitied you. "If you ever do find someone," she continued, undeterred, "a boy—"

You swallowed hard.

"Let him play with your nipples." Her voice dipped lower, as if she were sharing a secret meant only for you. "Let him suck them, bite them just a little. It feels so good."

Your thighs clenched involuntarily.

"And a boy," she went on, eyes glinting with mischievous, "his penis—"

"Karina!"

She laughed, completely unashamed of her own words. "What? It's true! If you want to make a boy weak, touch him there. Play with it, stroke it, suck on it—especially the tip."

A choked sound escaped you.

"Giving someone pleasure," she said, watching your reaction, "is just as enjoyable as receiving it. Maybe even more."

Your hands trembled in your lap. You couldn't even look at her now. Your mind felt clouded, a war raging between every lesson the nuns had taught you and the curiosity her words planted deep inside you.

Karina exhaled, shaking her head. "You poor thing," she murmured, you bit your lip hard, trying to drown out the heat rising in your body with pain.

"You should try it, you know," she said after a beat, her voice almost gentle now. "Just once. Just so you know if they were lying to you all along."

Your chest tightened, your heart hammering so loudly you feared it might betray you.

Because the worst part wasn't her words.

It was that you wanted to know if she was right.

So you repented again.

You prayed and prayed for forgiveness, whispering desperate pleas beneath your breath, pressing your forehead against the cold chapel floor. You gripped your rosary so tightly that the beads left indentations in your palm, as if pain itself could cleanse you.

But it was getting harder. Especially now, with Holy Week approaching. Longer prayers, deeper fasting, more time spent in solemn reflection. And yet, the more you immersed yourself in worship, the more temptation gnawed at you.

Especially since Sim Jaeyun was the one leading Passion Week.

You sat among the others, hands folded in your lap, your gaze fixed on the cross, trying not to think about him. Trying not to remember Karina's words.

"If you ever find someone, let him touch you, let him play with you—"

You swallowed hard, clenching your fists against your thighs.

Women and men were not allowed to be seen too close together. A proper distance must always be kept, a respectable space left between bodies. A simple conversation was permitted—but only from afar.

"You do pray very often."

The voice came from behind you. You stiffened, your breath catching in your throat as you turned slightly—only to find him.

Jake stood just a few feet away, hands clasped in front of him. "Is something bothering you?"

You turned back toward the cross, swallowing the lump in your throat. Your fingers curled against your knees, sweat forming at your temples.

"No," you whispered, though the lie burned on your tongue.

Jake was silent for a moment. Then, softly, he said, "You can talk to me, you know. If something is troubling you."

You closed your eyes. How could you tell him?

How could you tell him that the prayers weren't working? That no matter how hard you tried, the thoughts would not leave you? That he was becoming the temptation you could no longer escape?

Your eyes started to water again, he knelt beside you, as his presence settled so dangerously close—closer than what was proper.

Your eyes burned with unshed tears, your fingers tightening around the rosary.

Jake watched you. From this close, he could see the way the candlelight illuminated your face, casting soft shadows along the delicate curve of your cheekbones. Your skin glowed, almost ethereal, as if touched by something divine.

You looked like a painting—one of the old Renaissance depictions of saints and martyrs.

Beautiful.

His gaze drifted lower, to the way your lips barely moved as you whispered prayers, the words shaky, your hands trembled over the rosary, clutched so tightly.

His eyes fell to your knees. The fabric of your skirt had shifted slightly, revealing the barest hint of bruised skin—evidence of hours spent kneeling.

He had seen piety before. He had witnessed countless prayers, watched the most devout of worshippers bow their heads in absolute faith.

But this—the way you prayed, the way you looked before the altar—felt different. He couldn't imagine what sin someone like you could have possibly committed.

His voice came quietly, "You should rest."

You flinched slightly at the sound of his voice,

"I can't," you murmured.

And then softly, without thinking—he reached out.

His hand hovered over yours for just a breath before settling atop your trembling fingers. Palm to palm, warm and steady, stopping you mid-prayer.

He didn't know what possessed him to touch you. Perhaps it was the way you looked so lost, so utterly consumed by something unseen. Or perhaps it was the fact that no nun was watching, no one to scold him for standing too close, for placing his hand over yours.

His touch was meant to be assuring. Nothing more. Nothing sinful.

But then you stiffened beneath him.

Your breath caught in your throat, your shoulders going rigid, your fingers twitching beneath his. Your heartbeat slammed against your ribs.

You turned your face toward him.

Jake sucked in a quiet breath as his eyes met yours—wide, desperate, a single tear slipping down your cheek.

He had never seen a gaze like that before. Not in church, not in prayer, not in the face of someone seeking salvation.

His fingers flexed slightly against yours, the warmth of your skin radiating beneath his palm. His thumb brushed against the back of your hand, a slow, instinctive movement, like a silent reassurance.

Before he could stop himself, his other hand lifted. Gently, hesitantly, he swiped away the tear that had slipped down your cheek, his fingertips barely grazing your skin.

You gasped softly. It was the smallest sound, but it sent something through him, something that made his fingers linger just a second too long against your face.

Your skin was warm beneath his touch. Soft. Alive.

It took everything in him to pull away.

The moment his fingers left your cheek, a strange kind of loss settled in his chest. He reached into his pocket, fingers brushing against the fabric of his handkerchief before carefully pulling it out. Silently, he placed it in your trembling hands.

"Whatever you were praying for," he murmured, "I'm sure God will understand."

As if to anchor you back into the faith you were grasping so desperately onto, he smiled.

The kind of smile meant to bring comfort. But to you, it only made it worse.

"I should go," Jake said, you nodded, unable to meet his gaze. He shift beside you, the soft rustling of fabric as he stood. His presence lingered for just a moment longer before the sound of his footsteps echoed against the chapel floor, growing fainter.

And yet, his warmth remained.

Your hands trembled as you lifted the handkerchief to your face, pressing it against your damp cheeks. His scent clung to the fabric—a faint trace of sandalwood and incense, something undeniably him.

You exhaled shakily, squeezing your eyes shut.

God will understand.

A broken sob escaped your lips as you clutched the fabric tighter, your body trembling with something you no longer had the strength to fight. Tears slipped freely down your cheeks, soaking into the handkerchief as you sniffled against it.

Your fingertips skimmed over the waistband of your skirt, then lower, brushing against the thin fabric beneath.

A sharp breath left you when you felt the wetness, sticky and warm, pooling between your thighs, evidence of the thoughts you had failed to purge.

You should stop. You should repent.

And yet, your other hand only tightened around the handkerchief, pressing it closer to your face, inhaling the faint traces of him.

Still kneeling, you stared at the cross before you. Your body trembled, shame curling in your stomach.

You sobbed, your weight tipping forward, forehead pressing against the marble floor. Your free hand clenched at your skirt, your knuckles white with restraint.

Your finger dipped inside, a choked gasp slipping past your lips at the sudden intrusion.

The feeling was new, startling and unfamiliar. You hesitated only for a moment before pressing deeper, your body clenching around the touch, breath hitching as pleasure licked up your spine.

The nuns had warned you—the body will burn.

But as your fingers curled, as something electric shot through your legs, making them tremble, you realized this was not pain nor suffering.

Your mouth parted, a quiet, breathless sound escaping as you rocked into your own touch, your other hand bracing against the marble floor to steady yourself, the overwhelming scent of him filling your senses.

Sim Jaeyun—his hands hovering over yours, the warmth of his palm against your trembling fingers, the way he had wiped away your tear.

Your fingers pressed deeper, and a soft gasp escaped your lips. You imagined it was his touch, his fingers exploring you with hesitant curiosity.

"You do pray very often," his voice echoed in your mind, "Is something bothering you?"

Yes, he was bothering you.

You pictured him above you, his fingers tracing over the same places your own were now.

"Does it burn?" he would ask, voice laced with something both sinful and sacred.

And you would shake your head—because it didn't.

It felt holy.

Your body arched into your own touch, your legs trembling as heat coiled deep inside you, tighter and tighter, threatening to consume you whole. The pressure, the ache, the need—it was overwhelming. It was blasphemous.

Yet, it was the closest you had ever felt to salvation.

A gasp tore from your lips, soft yet sinful in the silence of the chapel. Your fingers pushed deeper, your body rocking to meet them, each movement sending dizzying waves of pleasure through you.

Beads of sweat dripped from your forehead, falling onto the floor. You added another finger, stretching yourself further, testing the limits of your own body. A choked whimper escaped as your walls clenched around the intrusion, your breathing ragged. Your other hand fumbled against the floor, grasping for stability, but there was none—no safety, no sanctuary, no way to stop now.

You think about his hands on your waist, his lips trailing down your neck. Your body tensed, your fingers working faster, chasing the edge of an unknown pleasure that built higher and higher—until it was too much, too much.

With one final, shuddering breath, the world shattered around you. Your body trembled, pleasure crashing over you in violent waves, a silent cry caught in your throat as your mind went blank.

Your body slumped forward, forehead pressing against the cool marble floor, your fingers slipping out as the aftershocks of pleasure left you breathless.

There was only silence. Only your heaving breaths, the scent of candle wax and incense thick in the air, the fading echoes of his name somewhere in the depths of your mind.

Then, guilt settled in, so heavy. You had really fallen.

And yet, as you lay there, pulse still racing, you couldn't bring yourself to repent.

The days blurred into nights, and with each passing moment, you felt yourself slipping further into something you could no longer control.

You couldn't meet your own reflection anymore. The girl in the mirror was not the same—her eyes hollow with guilt, her lips parted in silent prayer that never reached the heavens. You had abandoned the comfort of your rosary, leaving it untouched on your bedside table. Even the scent of candle wax and incense, once a balm to your soul, now felt suffocating.

It was as if a devil had settled inside you, whispering in your ear, feeding your thoughts with things no holy woman should crave. And yet, no matter how fiercely you fought it, you kept returning to your sin.

Each night, beneath the shroud of darkness, your body became a traitor. Your hands moved without permission, exploring places you had been taught were forbidden. Your bedsheets tangled around your legs, damp with sweat, evidence of your transgressions.

And always, always, his name spilled from your lips.

Each time, you found yourself back in the same position—fingers trembling, thighs clenched, gasping into the silence of your room, drowning in him. And it felt too good to stop.

"Have mercy on me, O God, according to Your unfailing love..."

You whispered it every day in the chapel, hands clutching the rosary so tightly. "According to Your great compassion, blot out my transgressions. Wash away all my iniquity and cleanse me from my sin..."

Tears slipped down your cheeks, soaking into the fabric of your sleeves as you knelt before the altar. You sobbed, your body wracked with guilt, your lips forming words of repentance.

And yet—when you returned to your bed that night, your body trembling with guilt, your prayers still lingering in the air—

You touched yourself anyway.

"It's impressive how you always pray," Jake said, his voice gentle, filled with quiet admiration. A small smile graced his lips. Another interaction. Another moment that would be burned into your mind, another weight added to the burden of your sin.

"How you always find time to speak with Him," he continued. "I'm sure whatever you're praying for, you'd be heard."

You swallowed hard. Would God listen when your prayers were no longer pure? When you begged not for salvation, but for relief from the temptation standing before you?

You forced a polite nod, quickly wiping at your damp cheeks, hoping he wouldn't notice how red your eyes were. How broken you looked. Your knees ached from kneeling for so long, your fingers sore from gripping the rosary too tightly. If only he knew what your prayers had become—not words of devotion, but desperate pleas for deliverance.

You were about to stand, to create distance, to escape before your body could betray you again. But before you could move, Jake lowered himself to kneel beside you.

The proximity sent a shiver down your spine. His presence was grounding, yet it set something uneasy alight inside you.

"You know," he said, voice soft, "I quite admire you."

Jake smiled, warm and sincere, his eyes searching yours as if he was seeing something sacred in you. "You share a special relationship with God," he continued. "The way you pray, the way you devote yourself—it's beautiful."

"I've seen the way you never miss a prayer," he went on. "The way you kneel here for hours, speaking to Him when no one else is watching. I've seen the tears, the way you hold your rosary."

His gaze flickered down to your hands, still red from gripping the beads too tightly.

"And I think... that kind of devotion is rare."

You swallowed, forcing yourself to look away, because his words—his praise—felt heavier than anything the nuns had ever told you.

Because it was him saying it.

He didn't know that your devotion wasn't pure. That your prayers were not for holiness, but for control. That when you closed your eyes at night, it wasn't scripture that filled your mind, but the memory of his touch.

"God must love you very much," Jake murmured, tilting his head slightly. "To have someone as loyal as you."

You inhaled shakily, without thinking, you shifted back, settling onto the wooden pew. Jake stayed where he was, still kneeling, his gaze fixed on the cross. You swallowed. Your fingers curled around the rosary in your palm

"Can I confess, Jake?"

Your voice was barely above a whisper. Jake turned his head, he hesitated for a moment before moving to sit beside you, his posture still composed. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice is with quiet curiosity. "I am not a priest—I can't take such confessions."

You exhaled sharply, your grip tightening around the rosary.

"Forgive me, for I have sinned."

Jake stilled beside you his confusion was evident in the way his brows knitted together, in the way his head tilted slightly as if trying to piece together what you meant. "Why?" he asked slowly.

You couldn't look at him. If you did, you feared he would see it. The truth. The war inside you. The way he was the very thing you needed to confess.

Your throat tightened as you muttered the next following words. "Because," you whispered, forcing the words out before you lost the courage to speak them, "I don't think I want to repent."

Jake stiffened beside you. His breath hitched, his entire body going rigid. His fingers curled against his lap, gripping the fabric of his trousers. "H-How can you say that?" His voice was unsteady, a stark contrast to the usual calmness he carried. His soft features, always composed, always gentle, were now pulled into shock and disbelief.

You swallowed, your throat dry, your heart slamming against your ribs as you forced yourself to continue. If you stopped now, if you let fear take hold, you would never be free of this.

"I think of things I shouldn't."Your voice trembled, but your gaze didn't waver this time. "I touched myself."

Jake's body jerked slightly, his lips parted again, but no words came, as if he had been struck speechless, as if the confession had ripped the breath from his lungs. His Adam's apple bobbed with a harsh swallow, the tendons in his neck tightening. His gaze flickered away, darting briefly to the cross above the altar, as if seeking guidance, as if seeking a way out. But there was none. He could not look at you, not when the weight of your confession was still lingering in the air

"You..." he started, but the words failed him. He shook his head, exhaling sharply through his nose. His brows furrowed, "Why are you telling me this?"

Your hands clenched into fists in your lap, nails digging into your palms as you forced yourself to speak—forced yourself to ruin yourself completely. "Because it was you, Jake."

Jake inhale, his eyes widening, but only for a second. Something changed—something deep inside him, something that flickered behind his dark gaze like a dying flame suddenly reignited.

Your pulse pounded in your ears, your skin tingling under the intensity of his stare. But you didn't stop. You couldn't.

"I touch myself with the thought of you."

Jake's fingers dug into his thighs, gripping so tightly. His breathing turned shallow, uneven, his chest rising and falling at a pace that betrayed his struggle. His gaze dropped—just for a second—to your lips, before snapping back up, but the damage was already done.

He was flustered.

"D-Do not say v-vulgar things," Jake whispered, his hands trembling slightly where they rested against his lap. But it was his eyes that held you captive—wide, burning, conflicted.

Your throat tightened, and before you could stop yourself, tears welled in your eyes again. "I don't think I'm free of guilt if I confess to God."

Jake flinched at your words. His fingers twitched as if he wanted to reach for you, to stop you, to comfort you—but he didn't. Because he shouldn't.

"I keep praying for forgiveness," you continued, your voice trembling, "but I do not regret what I have done."

Jake inhaled sharply. His gaze flickered to the cross for only a moment—as if searching for guidance—before returning to you. Your lips trembled as you forced out the truth, the final confession that sealed your fall.

"I only feel guilty because thinking of you is a sinful act against my own people."

A tear slipped down your cheek, falling onto your lap, soaking into the fabric of your skirt. You weren't sure what you were asking from him—absolution, understanding, or something far more dangerous.

"God is willing to forgive again and again, right?" you choked out. Jake's breath hitched, and then you asked the only question that truly mattered. "But are you willing to forgive me?"

His throat bobbed with another hard swallow, but he couldn't speak. Because there was no answer to give. Not one that would be right. Not one that would be true. He stood abruptly. The movement was sudden, almost jerky, as if he was running—fleeing.

You watched him, lips quivering, hands still clenched together in your lap.

His palm was sweaty as he brushed it against his robe, his pulse erratic as he stepped out of the chapel, the heavy door closing behind him with a finality that made your chest ache.

You didn't call after him. You didn't move. Because what could you say? He was already gone.

Jake arrived early at the residence hall, his movements stiff, controlled, as if forcing himself into habit, but as soon as the door shut behind him, his composure cracked. His chest rose and fell with deep, unsteady breaths, his hands running through his hair in frustration. The ghost of your voice lingered in his ears, wrapping around his mind like a noose.

"I touch myself with the thought of you."

"I do not regret what I have done."

His jaw clenched, his fists tightening at his sides. He sank onto the bed, head falling back against the pillows, eyes squeezing shut.

"But are you willing to forgive me?"

His breath came out shaky, ragged, as he muttered, "Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name..." His voice was strained and the prayer did nothing.

Nothing to rid him of the images flooding his mind, of your tear-streaked face, of the way your voice trembled, of the way you looked at him as if he held the answer to your salvation. He sucked in a sharp breath as his hands gripped the sheets beside him, as the tension in his body coiled so tight it hurt.

And then—he felt the unbearable heat pooling low in his stomach. The painful ache of his cock pressing against the fabric of his pants.

He let out a quiet, desperate whine, the sound muffled against his palm as he ran a hand over his face, as if trying to scrub away the shame, the want, the overwhelming weight of you. Still, the words of his prayer tumbled from his lips, over and over, between broken breaths.

Just like Adam, he had been steadfast. Pure. Untouched by temptation. He had walked the path of righteousness without faltering, without question, his faith as unwavering as the ground beneath his feet. He had known his purpose—to obey, to serve, to resist.

And yet, you— the Eve.

A whisper of temptation. Just as Eve had reached for the fruit, her fingers brushing against the knowledge of sin, you had reached for him—not with hands, but with words.

And now, like Adam, he was failing. He had seen the fruit before him. He had heard the serpent's voice, had felt the first stirrings of doubt deep in his chest, where conviction once lived.

He wanted to reach back.

To taste. To know. To fall.

Because wasn't that what Adam had done? He hadn't been deceived—he had chosen to fall with Eve. He had taken the fruit from her hand, knowing what it would cost.

"Take a bite."

The voice echoed in his mind, low and insistent, curling around his thoughts like a serpent coiled around a branch. Jake sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes remained fixed on the ceiling, but he did not see it.

Instead, he saw you.

He imagined you whispering to him, your lips forming the very words that now tormented him. He imagined your fingers brushing against his wrist, leading him closer to ruin. Just as Eve had turned to Adam with the fruit cradled in her palm, you had turned to him with your confession, tempting him in ways he had never been tempted before.

His cock throbbed painfully beneath the confines of his pants, damp with his own arousal.

"Take a bite," the voice urged again, slithering through the cracks of his crumbling resistance. His hands clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. He should continue praying, to fight whatever temptation the devil was filling him.

But instead, he lay there, panting, burning not with the way the nun teaches, his body betraying him as he squeezed his eyes shut. He let himself imagine.

"Heaven and earth are full," the voices soared inside the chapel, the morning light streaming through the stained-glass windows.

"Are full of your glory."

Jake's lips parted, but he did not sing. His gaze was fixed on you. You stood in the choir, your voice blending seamlessly with the others, yet somehow, to him, it was the only one that mattered.

Your long white dress fell in soft folds to your feet, the fabric catching in the gentle morning breeze drifting through the open doors. The wind moved through your hair, shifting it slightly, making it look almost weightless.

You were a vision of purity wrapped in divinity.

"Hosanna, hosanna."

Your eyes are dull and distant, told a different story. You sang the words, but you were not present. There was no joy, no reverence, only an emptiness that should not belong to someone standing before God.

"Hosanna in the highest."

But to him, you were the highest. More than the chapel's towering walls, more than the altar bathed in candlelight, more than the cross above them all. His fingers twitched at his sides, aching to touch, to reach, to worship. But not as a believer should.

"Show me."

The words slipped from Jake's. Your breath caught in your throat, your eyes widening as you stared at him.

The small room at the back of the chapel felt unbearably tight, with the scent of old books and dust, the faint aroma of candle wax lingering in the corners. A candlelight was at the center of the table.

This was a place of study, of quiet contemplation, and A man and a woman should not be alone together. Not when the door was shut.

"Show me." Jake swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Show me how you touch yourself."

"H-Huh?" You stuttered, barely able to form words, your mind struggling to comprehend what he had just said. "Jake, you're so pure... I don't want you to be tainted like me. I already disappoint God—"

"Please, just show me."

His voice was desperate, his restraint fraying at the edges. Jake stepped forward, closing the distance between you.

Your breath hitched as he leaned over the table between you, hands bracing against the worn wood, trapping you between his body and the cold stone wall.

"I have thoughts about you too."

Your eyes snapped up to his, his eyes were glassy, his lips trembling as if the weight of his own confession was too much to bear, unshed tears brimming in his lashes.

"I thought of you that night," he murmured. You sucked in a breath, pressing yourself further into the table.

"I disappointed God too."

"Jake. . . " Your breath hitched at his confession as your eyes is searching on him. "Are you not afraid? Of the fire that will burn you?" you asked.

Jake's breath was uneven, his chest rising and falling as he leaned closer, his hands tightening against the edge of the table. "Does it burn you when you touch yourself?"

"Because when I thought of you," Jake continued, "my body just ached for your embrace."

Your heart pounded so loudly; you almost want to lower your head due to the proximity.

"It's not the fire that burns me."

He swallowed hard, his jaw clenched as his gaze bore into yours, "It's the ache of longing for you."

You had feared he would resist, that he would turn away, condemn you, beg for salvation. But he wasn't begging for salvation. He was begging for you.

"Take a bite," a voice in the back of your mind hissed—low and insidious.

And without another word, without hesitation, you reached for him. Your fingers curled around the nape of his neck, you pulled him in, lips met his.

A low, desperate moan escaped Jake's throat as he crushed you against him, his hands finding your waist, gripping you so tightly. His body pressed into yours, heat radiating through the layers of fabric that still separated you.

His lips moved against yours with a hunger that startled you. The tears that had brimmed in his eyes slipped down his cheeks.

Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling, needing. The kiss was desperate, both of your teeth are clashing. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, needing more. The pressure of his mouth against yours softened after a moment, his lips parting slightly, then his tongue brushed against yours.

A soft gasp left your lips, and Jake seized the moment, his tongue slipping past the seam of your mouth, exploring, tasting. He groaned into you, the sound vibrating against your chest, making something hot coil in your stomach.

Your grip tightening in his hair as the kiss deepened, his tongue moving in slow, deliberate strokes, coaxing you into submission.

"If you want to make a boy weak, touch him there. Play with it, stroke it."

Still kissing him, your free hand drifted lower, hesitant, until your fingers pressed over the hardness beneath his pants.

Jake cried out. His entire body jerked, his hips stuttering beneath your touch as he broke the kiss with a sharp gasp.

"Oh my Lord—"

His head fell forward, forehead pressing against your shoulder as his breath came out in ragged, uneven pants. His hands clenched at your waist, gripping the fabric of your dress.

You swallowed, watching in fascination as his body trembled beneath your touch.

Carefully, experimentally, you pressed your palm more firmly against him, stroking him slow through the fabric.

Jake whimpered. His hips bucked involuntarily, seeking more friction, chasing the pleasure, more relief, yet it was never enough. Your name slipped from his lips in a strangled moan, muffled against your shoulder.

"I want to see you. Please." You whisper, more like a whine as your fingers continued to stroke him through the fabric of his pants.

Jake lifted his head slowly, his breath ragged, his pupils blown wide with something that had nothing to do with faith. Tears streaked his flushed cheeks, his lips parted as they trembled.

His gaze locked onto yours, vulnerable yet so needy.

"W-Will you touch me more?"

His voice cracked at the end, his body shuddering as he fumbled with the buttons of his pants, his fingers shaking too much to work quickly. You watched as he hesitated, his chest rising and falling rapidly, before finally tugging the fabric down past his hips.

Your breath caught in your throat.

A penis. His cock was thick, long, flushed a deep shade of red. Fluid leaked from the swollen tip, dripping down the shaft in slow, glistening trails.

You remembered feeling disgusted way in anatomy class, staring at the stiff, clinical images in textbooks, thinking the male body was strange, almost grotesque.

Now, your mouth watered.

Heat pooled deep in your belly, your pussy clenching together involuntarily. You didn't even realize what you were doing until you were already on your knees.

Jake's breath hitched, his body going rigid. His wide, teary eyes stared down at you.

"W-What a-are you doing?" He exhaled sharply, his voice cracking. You glanced up at him, your hands settling on his thighs.

A whisper from your past came back to you, "Suck on it—especially the tip."

Your lips parted, and you murmured, "I'm going to pray for forgiveness." then you took him into your mouth.

"Ahhh—!"

A choked gasp tore from his lips, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. His hands flew to your head, fingers tangling in your hair, but he didn't push. He held on for dear life.

His knees buckled slightly, his breath coming in ragged, shuddering gasps as your warm mouth engulfed him.

You tasted the saltiness of his arousal, the unfamiliar flavor spreading across your tongue, but instead of pulling away, you took more.

"Jesus Christ, this is disgusting," Jake cried, his voice shaking—yet his hands remained buried in your hair, his hips jerking forward, pushing himself deeper into your mouth.

His breath came out in broken gasps as he watched you, watched the way your cheeks hollowed around his cock, the way your lips stretched to accommodate him. His fingers trembled where they tangled in your hair, torn between holding back and pushing in further.

"It feels too good—too good, too good—" he whined, his mouth falling open, eyes glassy.

Your stomach tightened at the sound, heat curling between your thighs at the way he was breaking apart. You wanted more, you needed more.

Your tongue traced along the underside of his shaft, your head bobbing steadily, each movement coaxing more whimpers from his lips. His thighs trembled beneath your hands, his entire body shaking with pleasure so foreign to him that he didn't know what to do with it.

"You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain." The words echoed in the back of your mind, a commandment you had already shattered beyond repair.

But you like hearing him, hearing the way he gasped for God, the way his voice cracked when he moaned between whispered prayers.

Your eyes flickered up, meeting his gaze. Jake whimpered, his breath stuttering as you took him further, pushing yourself until the tip of his cock brushed the back of your throat. Your gag reflex tightened, but you didn't pull away. You held him there, letting him feel everything.

"A-Ahhh—!"

A loud, uncontrollable moan ripped from his throat as his head fell back, exposing the column of his neck, veins prominent, his Adam's apple bobbing with every gasping breath.

His body tensed, his fingers gripping you too tightly, as if he was seeing God Himself in the pleasure washing over him.

His moans grew louder, needier—his entire existence reduced to you and the sin you were leading him into.

His grip in your hair tightened, his hips stuttering as he fought to keep himself from thrusting into your mouth, from losing himself entirely.

"S-Something's coming—something's coming."

His voice broke, whimpering and breathless. Still bobbing your head, you reached down with one hand, lifting your skirt, fingers sliding beneath the fabric of your underwear. The moment your fingers brushed against your slick folds; a moan vibrated against his shaft.

Jake gasped, his thighs tensing, his entire body shuddering at the sensation.

Your wetness coated your fingers, and with no hesitation, you pushed one inside, curling it the way you always had when you were alone—except now, you weren't alone.

Now, it felt too good to be true. Because Jake was in front of you.

Because Jake was falling with you.

Your own pleasure built with every movement of your fingers, every muffled moan that sent vibrations through him.

His hand slid down, trembling, until it brushed against your cheek, his thumb wiping away the tears pooling at the corner of your eyes, tears from how deep you had taken him, from how overwhelming it all was.

His touch was tender, contradicting the broken, filthy sounds spilling from his lips.

"You're—" he choked out, his voice wrecked. "You're touching yourself?"

You hummed around him, confirming, not slowing down, your fingers working deeper inside yourself as his body tensed above you.

Jake whimpered, his head falling forward, his lips barely parted as he stared. His stomach coiled tighter and tighter, his body trembling as his hips stuttered, chasing the feeling, unable to hold back.

"You look so beautiful," he sobbed, his voice raw and shaking. "So divine."

His gaze never left you, drinking in the sight of you—on your knees before him, lips wrapped around his length, taking him so deep without breaking eye contact.

A choked moan tore from his throat at the way you looked up at him, at the sheer devotion in your eyes. It was as if you had been sculpted by God Himself, crafted not from dust but from light, from holiness.

Jake had always admired you.

The way you prayed every afternoon in the chapel, hands clasped. How your lips moved so softly in whispered hymns, the way your voice blended into the choir like something celestial.

How you knelt before the altar, head bowed, untouched by the world around you, your beauty standing apart from anything he had ever known.

Now, you were kneeling for him, your mouth worshipped something else entirely.

His hips jerked forward, unrestrained, a sob catching in his throat.

"Oh—oh, my God—"

His entire body shook, the pleasure nearly blinding. A choked sob left his lips as his release spilled into your mouth, hot and thick, coating your tongue. His hips jerked involuntarily, pressing deeper until your nose met his abdomen, forcing you to take every last drop.

You moaned at the sensation, fingers working faster inside yourself, chasing the same pleasure that had just undone him. The taste of him lingered on your tongue, salty, forbidden—yet you swallowed it all, not letting a single drop go to waste.

Above you, Jake shuddered violently, his hands tangling in your hair as if clinging to you for stability.

His head tipped back; his lips parted in a silent cry as he came down from his high. His fingers trembled against your scalp, stroking gently.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," he whispered, his eyes clenched shut, his chest rising. He held you there, cradling your head against his abdomen, his body still twitching from the aftershocks.

You tapped his thigh twice, a silent signal. Jake inhaled sharply, His grip loosened instantly, and with shaky hands, he let go of you, his cock slipping from your mouth.

A thin string of saliva connected you, stretching between your lips and the flushed tip of him before breaking. Your tongue remained out, your breath ragged, your lips swollen and slick with the remnants of his release.

"You... you swallowed my seed," Jake whispered, you stared up at him through lidded eyes, your breath shaky, your body still moving, fingers still working inside yourself.

His gaze flickered downward, following the slow, desperate motion of your hand beneath your lifted skirt. His cock twitched, still sensitive, yet already stirring again at the sight of you.

"It... it should be in your uterus," he muttered, his brows drawing together. "Not your mouth."

A slow smile curled at your lips, heat simmering beneath your skin as you reached for his hand, guiding it to your cheek.

"Then pump me with your seed, Jake," you whispered.

A sharp inhale left his lips, his fingers tightening at your sides before he pulled you to your feet.

His mouth was on yours again, his hands trailing down your back, finding the zipper of your dress. He tugged it down slowly, the fabric loosened, slipping over your shoulders, pooling at your feet.

Jake pulled away, his lips parting as he took you in—your bare form. His throat bobbed, fingers trembling slightly as they traced over your waist.

He bent down, lips finding the curve of your neck, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone.

Your gaze lifted past him, to the walls of the room—where portraits of nuns, saints, and martyrs hung in quiet judgement. Their solemn eyes bore into you, unblinking, unwavering. Your chest tightened, guilt creeping in but you didn't want to stop.

Instead, you let your eyes fall shut, choosing to surrender—to savor the moment.

"Teach me how to please you," Jake murmured against your skin, his hands encircling your waist, holding you close.

You inhaled sharply, your fingers threading through his hair before drifting down to cup his face. Your foreheads pressed together, breath mingling.

Jake's eyes fluttered shut as he sighed against your palm, his lips brushing against the center of it before pressing a tender kiss there. His own hands lifted, fingers tracing the shape of yours.

You pulled away slowly, you reached behind you, unclasping your bralette. The straps slipped from your shoulders, the fabric falling away, leaving your bare skin exposed to the afternoon light. Your underwear followed, sliding down your legs until you stepped out of them, standing before him in nothing but temptation itself.

Jake's breath caught, his entire body rigid as he took in the sight of you—completely bare, completely his to look upon, to touch.

His lips parted, his gaze roamed over you, over the soft curve of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the smooth expanse of your thighs. He had seen statues of angels, paintings of the Virgin Mary draped in flowing white, but no work of art, no scripture, no vision of heaven itself had ever looked as divine as you did now.

You turned, settling yourself onto the wooden table behind you, your legs parting slowly, revealing yourself to him without hesitation.

A shaky exhale left your lips as your fingers trailed down your own skin, tracing along your inner thigh before sliding to your labia. You arched your back slightly, sighing as you spread yourself wider, holding his gaze.

"Come here, J-Jake," you moaned, your breath hitching as you pushed a single finger inside yourself. Jake swallowed hard, his hands shaking as he reached for the buttons of his shirt. One by one, he undid them. He let the fabric slide from his shoulders, pooling onto the floor before taking slow steps toward you.

As he neared, his breath hitched, his gaze lowering to where your fingers disappeared inside your slick folds. His pupils dilated, "It's so wet," he whispered.

Before you could respond, his hand moved. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, still slick from your arousal, and gently pulled your hand away.

Jake's gaze flickered to your glistening fingers, then he brought your hand to his lips.

You gasped, your walls clenching involuntarily as his tongue flicked out, tasting you for the first time. His lashes fluttered shut, a soft groan slipping past his lips as he took more of you onto his tongue, savoring the taste.

When Jake opened his eyes again, they were darker.

"I want more." A sudden moan tore from your throat at his words, your body reacting before your mind could catch up. You reached for his wrist, guiding his hand between your legs, breath hitching the moment his fingers brushed against your slick folds.

Jake sucked in a sharp breath, his fingers trembling as they hesitated at your entrance, slowly he pushed a single finger inside you.

A gasp escaped you as he entered. His jaw clenched at the sensation, his breath uneven as he felt you—felt the way your walls clenched around him, soft and wet and so impossibly tight.

His free hand gripped your thigh for support, his own body shuddering. Then he curled his finger.

"Oh God!" A sharp cry left your lips, your back arching at the sudden jolt of pleasure. Jake choked on a moan, watching you intently, his eyes locked onto every flicker of expression on your face.

He did it again, this time slower, pressing deeper, and your fingers dug into his shoulders. His breathing grew heavier, his forehead nearly pressing against yours as he whispered, "Can I touch your breasts?"

Your head fell back, your lips parting on a silent gasp. You nodded frantically, eyes shut, too overwhelmed to speak properly. But a pleading "please" slipped from your lips.

That was all the permission he needed. Jake's other hand rose cautiously, fingers ghosting over the curve of your breast before cupping it fully, squeezing experimentally. His breath hitched at the feeling—warm, soft, the peak pebbling under his touch.

You moaned at the contact, pressing into his palm, "You like that?" he asked.

You nodded quickly, tilting your chin up to kiss him again, swallowing his breath. Your body was burning in a way that the nuns never depicted, your core aching with want, and you didn't care how shameless you sounded when you pleaded, "Please, touch me more."

Jake swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as his fingers kneaded your breast, his other hand still buried deep inside you, working slow, torturous circles that made you gasp.

"Lean down and suck my breast," you whispered against his lips. "I heard it feels good."

Jake pulled back slightly, blinking down at you, his cheeks flushed. "Like a baby?" he asked, almost innocently, though the way his hips pressed forward, grinding his aching cock against your thigh, told another story entirely.

You let out a breathy laugh, though it was cut short when he twisted his fingers inside you, making your back arch.

"No," you whimpered. "Like a man who wants me."

Jake groaned, before lowering his head, his lips parting as he took your nipple into his mouth. The moment his tongue flicked over the sensitive bud; a cry left you.

He started gently at first, his lips soft and warm against your breast, still testing, still learning how to touch you. But as your back arched, as your fingers tangled into his hair and held him there, he grew bolder.

His lips sealing around your nipple, his tongue swirling. Then his teeth grazed the sensitive flesh, just enough to send a delicious shudder down your spine.

"Jake—" you gasped, thighs clenching around his waist, trapping him against you.

He moaned against your skin, his free hand massaged your other breast, fingers rolling the hardened peak between them, mimicking the movements of his tongue.

"Add another finger inside me—please, please," you begged, voice breaking, hands clutching at his shoulders, urging him deeper.

Jake's forehead pressing against your chest bracing himself as he obeyed. His second finger slipped inside, stretching you further, filling you in a way that made your toes curl. Your walls clenched around him, tight, warm, so wet, and Jake whimpered, his hips bucking against your thigh at the feeling of you around his fingers.

"I want you inside me," you whispered into his ear, tears slipped down your cheeks. Jake let out a shuddering breath, his body stiffening at your words. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment. "They said it will hurt," Jake whispered, his fingers, still buried deep inside you, twitched. His free hand came up to your cheek, wiping away your tears with the pad of his thumb, his touch so tender it made your chest ache.

He swallowed hard. "I don't want to hurt you."

You leaned into his touch, your lips brushing against his wrist as you whispered, "I want to feel all of you, Jake. Even if it hurts, I want you."

Jake's breath hitched, his forehead pressing against yours. With trembling hands, he withdrew his fingers from your heat, watching the way your body shuddered, the way your thighs quivered as he left you empty. He brought his fingers to his lips without thinking, tasting you again, his eyes fluttering shut as he let out a quiet, needy moan.

Jake let out a shaky exhale, gripping himself at the base. His other hand rested on your thigh, rubbing soothing circles into your skin. "Are you sure?" he asked.

You nodded, spreading your legs further, offering yourself to him completely. "Please, Jake."

With a shaky breath, Jake lined himself up with your entrance, his tip pressing against your heat. His hands trembled as he gripped your thighs, steadying himself, his forehead resting against yours as he slowly, carefully, began to push inside.

A gasp tore from your lips the moment he breached you. Your arms wrapped around him, clinging to his shoulders, molding yourself against him as your body adjusted to the slow intrusion of his thick cock.

The stretch was overwhelming. Tears welled in your eyes, slipping down your cheeks as your walls struggled to accommodate him. Looking down, you saw—he had barely entered you. Only the tip, and yet, it already felt so much.

Jake let out a strangled moan, his breath stuttering as he squeezed his eyes shut.

"S-Slow," you whimpered, your body trembling beneath him. Jake nodded rapidly, biting his lip so hard. His entire body was tense, his self-control hanging by a thread as he forced himself to move at an excruciatingly slow pace.

"You’re so—" He choked on his words, a desperate whimper escaping him. "So tight—God—"

His hips twitched involuntarily, and you gasped, your nails raking down his back at the sudden jolt of sensation. Jake's breath hitched at the sharp sting of your nails, his cock throbbing as he pushed in another inch.

A broken sob escaped you.

"I-It’s too much—" you whimpered, your walls fluttering around him, trying to adjust, trying to take all of him.

"Shh, I know, I know—" he whispered, kissing your tear-streaked cheek, peppering soft kisses along your jaw, trying to ease the overwhelming stretch. His hands slid down to your thighs, holding you open, rubbing gentle circles into your skin as he murmured against your lips, "do you want me to pull out?"

You shake your head, Jake exhaled sharply, his breath warm against your skin, his hands steadying you before he pressed forward again, stretching you further. Until you felt his abdomen on your navel. Every movement forcing your walls to open for him, to take him in ways you hadn’t known were possible.

A hiss escaped you, your back arching off the wooden table at the overwhelming sensation of being completely full. "Y-You're inside me," you gasped, as your gaze dropped between your bodies.

Jake groaned softly, his hands gripping your waist, his cock throbbing inside you as he fought to remain still, to give you time to adjust. "Yeah," he murmured, "I'm inside you."

Your breath was ragged, your fingers shaking as they slid up to his face, tracing the curve of his jaw. "I'm not burning," you whispered, half in disbelief. "I'm not burning."

The nuns had lied. The warnings, the fear, the fire they swore would consume you if you ever gave in to desire—it was nowhere to be found. There was only warmth. Only Jake.

Jake swallowed hard, his gaze locking onto yours. He reached for your chin, tilting your face up so you had no choice but to meet his eyes.

"You're not burning," you whispered. Jake brows furrowing, a gasp tore from your lips as he pulled out slightly before thrusting forward again, sinking into you. His mouth fell open, his head tilting back as he felt you, felt the way your walls clung to him, squeezing him.

His lips parted, but the only sounds that came were broken, incoherent prayers.

"Oh, God—" he choked out. His hands shook as they traced over your body, touching you, his fingers skimming your sides, your stomach, your breasts. You cried out as the pain shifted, morphing into pleasure.

"You're so beautiful," Jake sobbed, he thrust back inside you, deeper than before, his arms tightening around you. His chin rested atop your head, his lips brushing against your hair as he inhaled, breathing you in, letting your scent consume him as much as your body did.

"You're—you're everything," he whispered shakily, his hips rolling into you. "Made perfect, sculpted by God’s own hands," he moaned against your skin. "How could something so sinful feel so good?"

You whimpered beneath him, clinging to his shoulders.

"I could do this every day," he moaned. Your breath hitched, eyes fluttering open, finding his face above you. He pulled back slightly, just enough to cup your face in his trembling hands, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks, wiping away the remnants of your tears. His forehead pressed against yours.

"I would do this every day," he corrected himself, groaned as he thrust deeper, his hips stuttering slightly at the way your walls clenched around him. "Worship you like this. Love you like this."

Your moans grew louder, your nails pressing deeper into his skin, leaving marks along his back as if claiming him in return.

Jake groaned, his lips parting, his body trembling from the way you felt. "Would you let me?" His eyes searched yours. "Would you let me taint you? Every day?"

His hands roamed your body, gripping your waist, then sliding lower to cup the back of your thighs, pulling you closer. His movements slowed, dragging out every sensation, every inch of him inside you.

Your back arched, your legs wrapping tighter around his waist, locking him in place, your breath coming in soft, desperate gasps as the pleasure built inside you.

"Yes, yes!" you cried out. "Taint me, fill me with your seed—I don’t care anymore!"

A ragged moan tore from his throat as he thrust harder. "You're all I've ever wanted." His pace turned desperate, frantic. His hands shook as he rocked into you. His lips crashed against yours, swallowing your moans as he drove deeper, his body pressing you down into the wooden table. The room was filled with the sinful sounds of skin meeting skin, of breathless gasps and muffled cries.

"I’ll give you everything," Jake panted, his forehead pressing against yours, sweat dripping from his temple. "I’ll fill you up, I’ll make you mine—"

His thrusts grew erratic, his hips snapping forward, chasing release, chasing you.

Your walls clenched tighter, pulsing around him, and he whimpered, his body tensing, his breath stuttering as the pleasure coiled unbearably tight inside him.

"Jake, Jake," you whimpered, your hands drifted lower, fingers grazing over the stretch where your bodies met. You could feel him inside you, thick, pulsing, dragging against your walls with each deep, sliding thrust.

Your fingers dipped lower, pressing against your clit. A sharp gasp escaped you. The moment your fingers touched the sensitive bundle of nerves, a bolt of another intense pleasure shot through you.

Jake groaned at the movement, his grip tightening, his lips parting as he watched you touch yourself.

"It feels too good—too good," you sobbed, rolling slow, shaky circles against your clit, heightening the pleasure building inside you. Your walls spasmed around him, gripping him tighter, making his hips stutter.

"Oh my Lord," Jake moaned, his head dropping against your shoulder, his body shaking with the effort to keep himself together. "This—this feels too good. I am willing to sin every day to get a taste of you."

"I would trade heaven just to stay inside you forever—"

His teeth grazed your jaw, his fingers locking around your wrists, guiding your movements against your clit, urging you faster, desperate to bring you with him.

"Please—please, come for me," he begged, and with one last deep thrust, as your fingers circled your clit faster, as his cock hit the perfect spot inside you.

The pleasure snapped through you, your entire body seizing as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over you. Your walls clenched around him, pulsing, milking him as your climax washed through every inch of your being.

Jake choked on a moan, his body jerking as he buried himself deep, hips stuttering, his breath breaking into ragged gasps. His hands trembled as they gripped your hips, holding you still as his release spilled inside you, hot and thick, filling you completely.

His lips found yours again as he emptied himself into you, his body still shaking from the intensity of it all.

You gasped into his mouth, still riding the aftershocks, feeling the warmth of him inside you. Neither of you moved for a long moment, too overwhelmed, too wrecked to do anything but exist in the sinful haze of what had just happened.

Jake’s hands slowly slid up your back, his fingers tracing over your spine made your chest tighten. Finally, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze soft but dazed, as if he still couldn’t quite believe what he had done—what you had done together.

"Are you okay?"

Your heart ached at the tenderness in his voice, at the way he searched your face for any sign of regret. But there was none. You reached up, brushing damp strands of hair from his forehead, your fingers lingering against his cheek.

"I'm full of you," you murmured, "I can feel you inside me."

Jake groaned, his hands tightening on your hips, his entire body tensing as he let out a shaky breath. Yet, even as exhaustion threatened to pull him under, his cock twitched inside you—still buried to the hilt, still too sensitive, yet already stirring again at your words

"Don't say that," he whispered, but his hands betrayed him.

They slid upward, over your waist, tracing the curve of your ribs before finding your breasts again, cupping them, thumbs circling your pebbled peaks. His fingers kneaded softly, rolling the sensitive flesh between his palms.

Your back arched, your head tipping back, letting your hair cascade over the edge of the table. Your lips parted in a breathless moan, the aftershocks of pleasure still tingling in your veins, yet now, a new wave of desire was coiling inside you again.

You were undone beneath him, your body glistening with sweat, your lips swollen from his kisses, your eyes still dazed, darkened with lust. And yet, you looked untouched.

His grip on your breasts tightened slightly, his hips pressing forward just enough to remind you that he was still inside you.

"You make me forget who I am," he murmured, his breath shaky against your throat. "What I'm supposed to be."

His lips found the pulse at your neck, trailing down again at every inch of your skin.

Neither of you noticed the way the candlelight flickered. Because you had both awakened the Tree of Knowledge.

And neither of you would ever return to Eden.

Jake had always been a man of God.

From the moment he could speak, he was taught that he was formed from the dust of the earth, molded by divine hands, a creation of purpose. His parents instilled in him the belief that he was meant to walk the righteous path, to live a life devoted to prayer, to obedience, to purity.

He appreciated every intricate work of the Creator—the way the sun spilled golden light over the stained-glass windows of the churches, the way the choir’s voices soared in perfect harmony, the way scripture spoke of faith and the reward of salvation. He saw God in everything, and in return, he gave himself to Him, dedicating his days to scripture, to service, to resisting the sins that so easily ensnared others.

Where others strayed, he remained steadfast. Where others indulged in temptation, he turned away.

He had watched boys his age succumbs to their own desires— lusting over naked bodies, wandering hands beneath heavy blankets. He had seen the way girls blushed at their names being called by the wrong kind of voice, the way they giggled behind cupped hands, oblivious to how close they danced to damnation.

But not him.

Jake had spent his youth guarding his body, his mind, his soul. He never allowed himself to waver, never let his thoughts wander to things he had been told were unholy. And if—if—his body ever betrayed him in the quiet of night, if his skin burned with an unfamiliar ache, if his mind was tempted by images that had no place in his heart, he would fall to his knees in prayer.

He would beg for forgiveness, whispering fervent apologies, asking for the strength to resist, the grace to overcome.

And for years, he believed he was strong enough.

He believed his faith was unshakable, that no force on earth could tempt him away from his devotion. He had spent his life resisting, rejecting, turning away from desire as though it were a serpent poised to strike.

During one of his evening services at the university chapel, he saw you. At first, it was nothing. A passing glance. A new face among many, just another student filling the pews, singing hymns.

But then, he saw you again.

And again.

You stood among the choir, always placed near the back, always just slightly out of reach—like something meant to be admired from afar, never touched. Your voice wove seamlessly into the others, rising with the organ, filling the chapel, but it wasn't just your voice.

It was the way you bowed your head in prayer, hands folded so delicately. It was the way you knelt before the altar, the way your fingers curled around your rosary.

And every time he saw you, every time your lashes fluttered closed, every time your lips parted to whisper scripture. He would whisper to himself, Song of Solomon 4:7.

"You are altogether beautiful, my darling; there is no flaw in you."

Because when he looked at you, he saw something more than human.

He saw a reflection of God’s love, a testament to His creativity—flawless, untouched, pure in ways he never realized he could ache for.

He told himself it was admiration. That his heart only quickened because he saw God in you. That the warmth spreading through his chest whenever you smiled at the nuns, whenever your fingers brushed against the pages of your worn bible, was nothing but spiritual devotion.

But the more he saw you, the harder it became to believe the lie. Because you were forbidden. So untouchable it hurt.

And by the time he had a taste of your poison, by the time your lips had met his, by the time he had felt the warmth of your body pressed against him, wrapped around him. He couldn’t stop craving.

"Jake—" you whined, your voice hushed, breathless, your hands pressed against the cool tiles of the wall for balance. Your body rocked with each deep thrust, your skirt bunched up around your waist, your panties pulled aside in rushed desperation.

Here he was, buried deep inside you in the thin, suffocating space of the girls’ restroom, his hands gripping your hips, guiding you as you bounced against him. He had barely gotten them down before he was inside you.

Jake let out a shaky breath, his forehead falling against the back of your shoulder, his hips snapping forward, a choked moan escaping his lips as your walls squeezed around him.

"D-Do you love my c-cock inside you?" He stammered. His hands slid from your hips, traveling up, slipping beneath your uniform blouse to cup your breasts, kneading them, his thumbs rolling over your sensitive peaks as he thrust deeper.

"Answer me," he pleaded, breath hot against the shell of your ear.

A sharp gasp left your lips, your head tilting back against his shoulder as your walls clenched even tighter. "Y-Yes," you whispered, your fingers curling against the cold tile, your knees going weak.

"Say it."

"I love it, Jake," you sobbed, barely holding yourself up as he drove into you faster. "I love your cock inside me—I love it so much—"

Jake whimpered, his grip on you tightening, his entire body shuddering against yours as he lost himself again.

Nothing in this world felt holier than you. Every secret rendezvous was another prayer whispered in the dark, another moment stolen between fleeting glances and hurried footsteps, another sin sealed between trembling lips.

It was your skin against his, pressed against the cold walls of empty classrooms, hidden beneath the dim glow of flickering candlelight in the chapel, tangled in sheets that smelled of guilt and devotion.

It was your kiss—sweet and sinful, your lips brushing against his top lip before capturing him fully, pulling him under, making him forget the weight of his conscience.

It was the way your fingers found his face, tracing over his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, down to the sharp line of his jaw.

"Jake," you would whisper, your touch like a baptism, washing away the person he once was and leaving behind someone entirely yours.

Your hands never hesitated when they roamed his body, memorizing the contours of his muscles, the dip of his collarbone, the ridges of his spine. Your body molded to his, fitting perfectly, as if you had been crafted just for him.

And God, how could something that felt this right be wrong? How could he look at you and believe this was damnation?

You were not a temptation.

You were his salvation, And if this was sin—if loving you, wanting you, needing you—meant turning away from heaven, then so be it.

Because Jake had already made his choice and he would choose you every time.

"They say if you have sexual preferences, it's called a kink," Jake mused, his arms wrapped loosely around your shoulders as he stared out at the lake, watching the water ripple under the soft afternoon light.

It was a rare that the both of you escape—just the two of you, away from the suffocating walls of the university. Here, it was quiet. Peaceful.

You hummed in amusement, leaning back against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath. "Hmm, I think I have a nose kink."

Jake chuckled, tilting his head slightly. "A nose kink?"

You grinned, turning to look up at him, mischief dancing in your eyes. "I love your nose," you said simply, reaching up to tap the tip of it gently with your finger. "I love how it bumps against my clit."

A giggle slipped from your lips as Jake let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head, his ears tinged slightly pink.

"You're unbelievable," he murmured, pressing his chin lightly against your shoulder, but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed his fondness.

You shifted, wrapping your arms around his, your fingers playing with the fabric of his sleeves. "What about you? Do you have a kink?"

Jake pretended to think, his lips pursing before he finally admitted, "I love your tongue."

You raised an eyebrow, amused. "Oh?"

His smile widened, his fingers trailing lazily along your arms. "I love how soft it is when you kiss me," he said, voice dropping slightly. "I love the way it feels against my skin, how warm it is when you—"

He stopped himself, biting his lip, his cheeks darkening as he let out a flustered chuckle. "You know."

You turned fully in his embrace, resting your chin against his chest as you beamed up at him. "Say it."

Jake groaned, rolling his eyes, but there was nothing but adoration in them as he dipped his head, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. "I love how your tongue feels when you're tasting me."

Your giggles turned into full laughter, your arms tightening around him, and he let out a breathy laugh of his own, shaking his head in defeat.

The wind rustled through the trees, the lake shimmering under the sunlight.

"Do you think God still loves us?" you asked, Jake's fingers threaded through your hair, slow and gentle, playing with your scalp as he stared out at the lake, watching the way the sunlight danced over the rippling water.

"Yes," he said, without hesitation.

You blinked, tilting your head slightly to look up at him. "How can you be so sure?"

Jake exhaled softly, his lips curling into a small, thoughtful smile. "Because love doesn’t disappear just because we fall." His gaze met yours. "God loved David even after his sins. He loved Peter even after he denied Him three times. Love isn’t something that fades because of our mistakes. It’s unconditional."

Your chest tightened at his words, at the quiet conviction in his voice.

"Then why do I still feel guilty?" you whispered, pressing your cheek against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Jake sighed, his chin resting lightly atop your head. "Because we've been taught to fear Him more than we've been taught to trust His love."

Silence stretched, only the soft rustling of trees and the distant laughter from the festival carrying through the breeze. After a moment, Jake spoke again, "but when I’m with you…" he paused, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your arm, "I feel closer to God than I ever have before."

You pulled back slightly, eyes searching his, the weight of his words settling deep in your chest. "How?"

He smiled, leaning in to press a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead again before whispering,

"Because you are the most beautiful thing He’s ever created."

Your breath hitched, your hands tightening around his shirt as warmth bloomed in your chest.

Jake tilted his head, his lips hovering just above yours. "And if loving you is a sin…" he murmured, a teasing smile playing on his lips, "then I guess I’ll just have to keep repenting."

His hands wandered lower, tracing slow, idle patterns along your upper thigh. You shivered slightly at his touch, but it wasn’t just the sensation that made your breath hitch—it was the way his finger moved deliberately, forming letters, one by one, spelling out a single word:

"Mine."

Your lips parted, your heart stuttering in your chest as your gaze flickered up to meet his.

Jake only smiled, the corners of his mouth lifting, "I will leave the university," he said suddenly.

Jake exhaled slowly, "I’ve realized a lot of things, and one of them is…" He hesitated, searching your face, then sighed. "I don’t think I was ever meant to be the man they wanted me to be."

Your throat tightened. "Jake—"

"Everything is okay," he reassured you, his voice firm, calming. "I don’t regret any of it. Not the prayers, not the faith—but I also don’t regret you. And if the only way to keep you is to walk away from what was never truly mine, then I’ll do it."

Your eyes glistened with unshed tears, your fingers curling around his wrists. "You would do that?"

"I would do anything for you," he muttered, "I was never meant to be a saint, and I don’t think I want to be anymore." His fingers tightened around yours, grounding himself in the warmth of your touch, in the certainty of this moment. "I just want to be yours."

A breath caught in your throat, your heart pounding. You swallowed, your lips parting before you whispered, "Ruth 1:16-17."

Jake tilted his head slightly, his brows raising in curiosity. You smiled softly, squeezing his hand. "Where you go, I will go, and where you stay, I will stay."

His gaze softened, warm and full of love, as if in that moment, there was nothing else in the world but you and him. Jake swallowed, his fingers tightening around yours as he whispered back, "Song of Solomon 3:4."

Your breath hitched. A sharp sting burned behind your eyes as you realized what he was saying, as the words sank into your skin, into your soul. Tears welled up, spilling onto your cheeks as he brought a trembling hand to cup your face, his thumb wiping them away.

"I have found the one whom my soul loves."

A quiet sob escaped you as you leaned into his touch, closing your eyes, letting the weight of his words settle into the deepest parts of you.

That was the day you faced the judgment of others.

Whispers followed you down the chapel halls, sharp as knives, spoken behind cupped hands and lowered eyes. You were no longer the devout girl they had known, no longer the image of purity they had placed on a pedestal.

You were cast out, stripped of the life you had once known, condemned for surrendering to the desires they warned you against. For falling, like Eve, for stepping into temptation and taking the bite that could never be undone.

But none of it mattered. Because just as Adam had followed Eve into exile, Jake followed you. It had always been him and you. It would always be him and you.

You would always choose him—religiously, faithfully.

You clutched Jake’s hand, sweat beading on your forehead, your body trembling as pain surged through you. Your body trembling with exhaustion. The midwife kneeled before you, her voice firm yet reassuring, guiding you through labored breaths as she prepared to deliver your third child.

Jake pressed a kiss to your damp temple, whispering words of encouragement, of love, his grip unwavering as he held onto you, just as he always had.

He wiped away the tears spilling from your eyes, just as he had that day by the lake, when he promised you that everything would be okay.

And as you cried out, as life pushed forward, as your body bore the proof of your love.

"You’re so strong," he murmured. "Just a little more, my love. I’m right here."

Another sharp cry left your lips, your back arching as the final push sent waves of relief crashing over you.

A baby’s cry filled the room.

A sharp, piercing sound, followed by the relieved murmurs of the midwife as she carefully wrapped the tiny, wriggling form in soft cloth. Your head fell back against the pillow, your chest rising and falling in ragged breaths, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. Jake’s hand trembled as he reached for you, his lips pressing against your knuckles, his gratitude unspoken but infinite.

Tiny footsteps thundered against the wooden floor.

"Mama!"

The door burst open, and two small figures ran inside, their eager little hands gripping the edges of your bedsheet.

Cain and Abel—your firstborns.

Their wide eyes shimmered with excitement; their faces flushed from running. Cain, the elder, clung to Jake’s arm, while Abel climbed onto the edge of the bed, trying to peer over your shoulder.

"Did it hurt, Mama? Are you okay?" Cain asked, his brows furrowed in concern, his little hands gripping onto Jake’s sleeve.

"It’s okay, my love," you soothed, your voice weak but filled with warmth as you reached for them. "I am okay."

Jake’s breath hitched as the midwife gently placed the newborn into his waiting arms. A soft gasp left his lips as he cradled the tiny child against his chest, his eyes glistening with tears. His fingers traced the delicate curve of the baby’s cheek, his voice breaking as he whispered, "Seth."

At the sound of his father’s voice, the newborn let out a small, sleepy whimper, tiny fists curling against Jake’s chest. Cain and Abel watched in awe; their excitement momentarily silenced as they stared at their new baby brother.

"Seth," Abel repeated softly, as if testing the name on his tongue.

"He’s so small," Cain murmured, his fingers twitching as if resisting the urge to reach out and touch him.

Jake let out a choked laugh, pressing a kiss to Seth’s forehead before carefully settling beside you on the bed. His arm curled around your shoulders, pulling you close, his free hand still cradling your newest son. And as your children gathered around you, their voices filled with wonder.

As Jake’s lips found your forehead once more, you exhaled, a breathless, relieved sigh. You thought of Eden. Of Adam, formed from dust. Of Eve, crafted from his rib, made for him, meant to be his. The two of them had once lived untouched, unburdened, perfect in their innocence.

But love—true love—was never meant to exist without choice.

And so, they had fallen. Not out of defiance. Not out of sin. But out of love—a love so deep, so human, it had rewritten the course of existence itself.

Your body spent, your children nestled close, your husband’s arms wrapped around you as he held his world in his hands. Your tired eyes fluttered shut, as Jake pressed another soft kiss against your skin, your newborn stirred gently in his father’s arms.

Falling had never been a punishment. Because It is a gift.

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