The Way You Make Me Feel: Corbeau x Reader
This scene/idea had been floating in my mind for WEEKS. This is also, genuinely, one of my favorite MJ songs.
¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Thibaut’s final Pokémon dropped to one knee. He returned it with a rueful smile, adjusting his police uniform.
“Well,” he sighed, though there was no real frustration behind it, “that makes…what, three?”
“Five,” you corrected sweetly.
He laughed. “Right. Five.”
You winced faintly. “I really am sorry.”
“For what?” he asked, genuinely confused.
“For repeatedly humiliating Lumiose’s police force.”
Thibaut barked a louder laugh at that. “Please. If anything, you’re doing me a favor. You think I get this kind of pressure in regular patrol?” He rolled his shoulders. “Battling you keeps me sharp, especially after that show you put on when you helped us with training that one time.”
Ah, yes, the “heist” scenario.
You held out your phone next to his and he transferred the medals to your account. Your pokemon had been restless all week—itching for proper competition. Now, they were satisfied. And so were you.
“You sticking around?” Thibaut asked. “It’s still early.”
You checked your watch. It wasn’t late. But the edge of battle adrenaline had already begun to fade into fatigue.
“Nah,” you said. “They got what they wanted tonight.” You tapped one of your pokéballs. “So did I.”
Thibaut nodded knowingly. “Well, I always look forward to it when you decide to drop in.”
You smiled. “I’ll try not to make it five in a row next time.”
“No promises,” he teased.
You turned toward the exit corridor—
“Hey.”
You paused.
His tone had shifted. “Just… keep your head up, yeah?” he added. “Rust Syndicate’s been circling the Royale lately. I’ve heard Corbeau himself was sighted tonight.”
You blinked.
“Corbeau?”
“Yeah. Don’t know what he’s playing at.” Thibaut frowned faintly. “Just be cautious.”
You considered that for half a second. Then shrugged lightly. “I’ll be fine. I already beat him during my promotional match, remember? Last I checked, he’s still Rank D.”
Thibaut’s brows rose. “Right. I forgot about that.”
You gave him a small salute.
“Good night, Officer.”
“Good night.”
The main exit was only a short walk down the concrete corridor. Two Rust Syndicate grunts leaning casually near the doorway, speaking low to one another. You almost didn’t notice them at first, but they went quiet when they saw you. One nudged the other.
You slowed. Annoyance flickered. You could take them. It’d be a quick and easy battle. But you did not feel like battling again tonight. Not when you were already cooling down. Not when your Pokémon had finally settled.
You exhaled through your nose.
“…Nope.”
You pivoted and headed toward the secondary exit. The long way around.
As you moved, you passed a cluster of trainers and a few more Syndicate members scattered along the outer ring.
One whistle cut through the air.
“Hey, miss champ.”
Another voice: “You heading out already?”
You didn’t look at them. Didn’t break stride.
A third voice, lower: “Boss was watching, you know.”
That made your jaw tighten, but you kept walking.
At the end of the block, you slowed again. Another grunt was mid-battle with a trainer— Pokémon clashing directly in front of the exit route. Blocking it.
You eye twitched. Seriously?
You turned sharply down the adjacent corridor. Two more grunts stood there. Just standing. Watching you. Both smirking.
Your stomach tightened slightly now. This wasn’t random. You scoffed under your breath and spun on your heel—and nearly collided with black fabric.
You stopped and lifted your gaze.
Corbeau stood directly behind you, blocking the final path, hands loosely clasped behind his back. His expression was composed, glasses catching the overhead lights.
He hadn’t been there a moment ago.
The corridors suddenly felt narrower. Quieter. Like the air itself was waiting.
He tilted his head slightly.
“Good evening.”
You exhaled sharply. “Seriously?” Your fingers were already curling around a pokéball when you straightened, eyes narrowing. “If this is about a rematch, make it quick.”
Corbeau’s brow lifted slightly.
“Put that away.” His voice was calm.
You didn’t. “I’m tired,” you said flatly. “If you’re going to trap me in a corridor, at least have the decency to challenge me properly.”
A faint pause.
Then—
“I have no interest in battling you tonight.”
That made you blink.
You rolled your eyes and sighed, more tiredly this time. “What do you want, Corbeau?”
The grunts who had been smirking earlier were suddenly very still—like they were watching something unfold that they’d been anticipating.
Corbeau stepped forward. Not aggressively, but measured. His gaze drifted, slowly, deliberately, taking you in.
You had dressed for mobility tonight. A cropped, slate-gray battle jacket fitted at the waist but flexible through the shoulders, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal your wrists. Beneath it, a soft ivory top that moved easily when you did. High-waisted black shorts layered over fitted training tights for flexibility. Lightweight combat boots—scuffed from real use. It was functional. Comfortable. And practical. But it hugged you in ways you hadn’t thought about until now.
Corbeau’s eyes traced the line of your shoulders. The subtle curve at your waist. The way your stance still held the residual balance of someone who’d been battling all night. His gaze dipped. Not crude, but appraising. Slow.
Heat crawled up your neck. You took a step back instinctively and crossed your arms over your chest.
His eyes snapped back to yours instantly, and he smirked.
“Oh,” he murmured. “You misunderstand.”
“Do I?” you shot back.
His head tilted slightly. “If I intended to battle you,” he said smoothly, “we would not be standing this close.”
Your pulse betrayed you for half a second.
Behind him, one grunt muttered, “Boss—”
Corbeau didn’t even glance at him. “I dismissed you,” he said mildly.
The grunt shut up immediately.
You glanced toward the corridor behind him.
Still blocked.
“Corbeau.”
“Yes.”
“I would like to go home.”
“And you will.”
He took another step closer and your back hit the wall with a soft thud. Corbeau stood in front of you again, one hand braced casually against the concrete beside your head. Not trapping—but clearly preventing escape.
"You're exhausting, you know that?" you scowled.
For once, his expression didn’t stay smooth. It tightened. Just slightly. A flicker of irritation crossed his features.
“I believe it’s the other way around, doll. You,” he said coolly, “are the exhausting one.”
That caught you off guard. Your brows lifted.
“Excuse me?”
He straightened a fraction, hand still braced beside your head, gaze sharpening behind the lenses. “Do you have any idea,” he continued evenly, though there was an edge beneath the calm, “how long I’ve been attempting to court you?”
Court?
Your eyes flashed. “You call this courting?”
A faint, humorless breath left him. “I have arranged chance encounters. Extended invitations. Sent formal requests. I have endured being ignored in my own territory.”
His jaw ticked slightly.
“You didn’t respond or even acknowledge them. Not a single one.”
Your stomach fluttered—partly in surprise, partly because you hadn’t realized he’d been that deliberate.
“And now,” he finished quietly, “you have the nerve to call me exhausting.”
His pride was pricked.
“You could’ve stopped,” you pointed out.
His eyes held yours steadily.
“I don’t stop pursuing something worth having.”
And suddenly, his persistence didn’t feel annoying. It felt intentional. And that made everything far more dangerous. Because you weren’t interested. Because he was trouble. Because he was the head of the Rust Syndicate.
Because he was—
Your gaze drifted over him again.
Black jacket draped perfectly over narrow shoulders. Purple shirt crisp against pale skin. Hair swept sharply to one side. Glasses glinting beneath the dim arena lighting.
He was handsome.
Infuriatingly so.
And up close? Worse.
You tried to slip under his arm.
He shifted instantly, blocking you again. Close enough now that your shoulder brushed his chest. Your breath hitched—barely, and he noticed.
“You’re slower tonight,” he murmured.
“Maybe because I’m tired.”
“Yes.” His eyes lowered slightly—studying your expression. “You fight differently when you’re tired.”
You pushed against his shoulder lightly. "I also have zero patience when I'm tired. Will you please move?"
He didn't budge.
You tried the other direction.
He mirrored you again.
“Do you enjoy cornering people?” you snapped.
“Only those who refuse to look at me.”
“I look at you.”
“No,” he said quietly. “You look past me.”
That landed harder than it should have.
You inhaled slowly and then moved fast, ducking under his arm and twisting at the waist with the kind of reflexes that made you such a nightmare to battle. His hand brushed your sleeve but didn’t catch you. For half a heartbeat, victory surged. You were clear.
You strode down the corridor—
and nearly walked straight into Philippe. He had stepped neatly into your path, arms folded, expression apologetic.
“Oh, come on, Philippe!” you cried, “Really??”
He offered a small shrug. “My loyalty is rather well documented.”
“But you and I are on good terms,” you shot back.
“We are,” he agreed pleasantly. “But I am on better terms with my employer.”
You glanced over your shoulder.
Corbeau had not rushed. He simply turned and watched. And then, he began walking toward you again—slow, measured, entirely certain you had nowhere left to go.
You scoffed, pivoting to try the adjacent passage—two grunts casually shifted, cutting that off.
“How long do you plan on doing this?” you growled.
Corbeau stopped a few steps away.
“As long as it takes.”
He closed the remaining distance. And once more, you found your back against the wall. His gaze held yours. Cool. Focused. Faintly satisfied.
“You should know better,” he said softly.
You glared up at him. “Know better than what? Walking?”
His eyes sharpened. “Than pretending you don’t enjoy this.”
Your breath caught—barely—but enough.
“That’s—”
He stepped in again. Not playful now. Not theatrical. But intentional.
“You ran from me,” he said quietly.
“I want to go home. You and your goons are preventing that.”
His hand came up, not braced beside your head this time, but sliding deliberately to your waist again. Firmer now. Anchoring you.
You pushed lightly at his chest, but he didn’t budge, and you felt your resolve dissipate. The tiredness softening your edges. The adrenaline gone. The fact that he was right there, close enough that you could see the faint flush along his collarbone, the subtle rise and fall of his breath.
His thumb pressed slightly into your hip.
“You frustrate me,” he admitted quietly.
“Yeah, well the feeling is mutual.”
“You ignore me.”
“Yes, that’s usually code for ‘leave me alone’.”
“And you make me work.”
You shot him an incredulous look. “That sounds like a you problem.”
His lips curved faintly.
“It is.”
You blinked. That wasn’t the answer you expected.
He leaned closer, not yet touching your mouth, but close enough that your lips nearly brushed when you spoke.
“But you’ll notice,” he murmured, “I haven’t stopped.”
You hated how good he looked under these lights. How his voice lowered just for you. How steady his hands were confident without being frantic.
“You’re arrogant,” you whispered.
“Yes.”
“And persistent.”
“Yes.”
“And—”
Your words faltered.
His gaze dipped to your mouth, before coming back up.
“Say it,” he murmured.
You swallowed, tightening your mouth defiantly before gritting out,
“Handsome.”
His hand slid from your waist up along your side, fingers curling at your back as he pulled you firmly against him and his mouth claimed yours in one decisive motion.
The kiss was deep, controlled, hungry in a way that felt long-contained. His mouth moved against yours with purpose, like he had been waiting for this exact moment. And maybe he had.
Your fingers tightened in his jacket instantly, and heat rushed through you like a match struck too close to dry kindling.
He kissed like he battled. Strategic, confident, and intense. His hand in your hair angled you slightly, tilting your head just enough to deepen it further. No tentative testing. No slow build. He already knew what he wanted.
Your body responded before your pride could. A soft sound escaped you, involuntary.
That seemed to undo him just a little. His grip tightened at your waist, pulling you flush against him.
The grunts behind Philippe made low, stunned noises.
Philippe coughed once, delicately.
When he finally pulled back for air, both of you breathing heavier, you did not retreat. Instead, you surged forward, grabbed his lapels, and spun him sharply. In one swift motion, catching him off guard, Corbeau found his own back against the wall.
The grunts behind Philippe made a startled noise.
Corbeau blinked once. Then slowly, his mouth turned upwards into a wicked grin. “I’m surprised,” he murmured.
You leaned in, brushing your lips just beside his.
“About?”
“You seemed so uninterested.”
You smiled—coy, dangerous. “It’s difficult,” you murmured, letting your hips shift subtly against his, “when someone is this persistent.”
The effect was immediate. A low groan slipped from him before he could stop it. His hands shot to your waist again, gripping you firmly.
“You're playing a dangerous game,” he muttered.
“You started it.”
“I did.” His eyes darkened. “I have never pursued someone this long,” he admitted quietly. “Anyone else would have bored me.”
That piqued your curiosity. “Oh?” you breathed. “What makes me so special?”
His hand slid up your back, steadying you.
“You don’t yield,” he said quietly. “You don’t flatter. You don’t chase my influence. You don’t fear my position.”
His thumb pressed slightly into your hip.
“You challenge me.”
Your breath warmed against his jaw. “And you like that?”
His eyes flickered.
“Yes.”
You rolled your hips against his. The reaction was immediate. A low, involuntary groan slipped from him. His hands tightened around you—pulling you flush against his chest.
“You are dangerous,” he muttered against your mouth.
Before you could respond, he kissed you again. Harder. Hungrier. His arms wrapped around you fully now, holding you tight against him like he was done pretending restraint existed.
You melted into it for half a second—then remembered yourself. Barely.
When you finally broke away again, breathless, he rested his forehead briefly against yours. Satisfied.
Behind you, Philippe cleared his throat delicately.
“Shall I give you two privacy or…?”
“Philippe, start the car.”
Philippe blinked. "Pardon?"
Corbeau’s grin deepened. “We’re not finished,” he said.
You raised a brow. “Bold of you to assume I'll go home with you.”
His thumb traced lightly along your waist again.
“Try confident assessment.”
Philippe sighed dramatically.
“Very well.”
As Philippe turned, Corbeau’s eyes remained locked on yours.
“You can still walk away,” he said with a smirk.
You studied him. Handsome. Arrogant. Infuriating. Magnetic.
“Can I?” you challenged him.
“Sure, you can. You’ve done it before. But just remember this—” He leaned in close again, brushing his lips just beneath your ear.
“I don’t pursue what I don’t intend to keep.”
