#Its full of meaning if you understands it

[sweemmy]

⋆｡ﾟBeing an idol (by South Korean standards) comes with its perks and challenges, and these girls are fully aware of it. ﾟ｡⋆

— Vi, Caitlyn, Sevika, and Jinx.

VI.

Vi feels a deep sense of pride in everything you've accomplished, but also carries the fear that your relationship could be at risk if it were to be exposed. She works hard to keep everything a secret, even though it sometimes overwhelms and frustrates her. Despite all of this, she does it out of love for you, prioritizing your well-being over her own feelings.

She’s always alert when you go out in public together. Even on the quietest strolls, she picks less crowded routes to avoid paparazzi or fans. For her, protecting you isn’t just important—it’s her top priority.

Though she tries to act “cool,” she secretly keeps your merchandise like any devoted fan. In fact, you���ll probably have to beg her to stop playing your album on repeat when you’re around because she simply can’t resist.

After an exhausting day, Vi welcomes you with open arms and a homemade meal, even if it’s just a simple comfort food like instant noodles. She offers you her shoulder, the perfect place to unload everything on your mind, and with a look full of calm and reassurance, she promises that you’ll always find a safe place by her side.

If anything were ever leaked about you two, Vi would be the first to stand by you without hesitation, ready to face any hate that might come your way. For her, the only thing that matters is that you keep going, never giving up on your dreams.

CAITLYN.

Caitlyn recognized you with surprise, her eyes sparkling for a moment before she approached you with a shy smile. With a hint of nervousness, she asked, "Would it be too much to ask for an autograph?" She never imagined that such a simple question could lead to a conversation that would gradually become more meaningful and intimate.

From the very start, Caitlyn understood how vulnerable your position as an Idol was, and she made it her mission to protect you with complete dedication. She didn't hesitate to keep the relationship a secret if that was what it took to ensure your safety and well-being.

She is your invisible pillar behind the scenes. Not only does she follow you with devotion as your number one fan, but she also becomes your most trusted advisor, offering wise advice on how to navigate the whirlwind of fame. She supports you during speech rehearsals and interviews, always eager to fine-tune every detail. And when finances get tight, she doesn’t hesitate to dip into her wallet to help make your dream music video a reality.

She always finds subtle and sweet ways to show her love for you, without seeking any recognition: from little secret notes she leaves in your bag to mysterious flowers she sends you just before a big event, always thinking of you.

Although she trusts you completely, Caitlyn can’t help but feel uneasy about the possibility of someone discovering what you share. Her mind spins over all the potential consequences, and while she tries to stay calm, she is always prepared to face any unexpected challenges that may arise.

SEVIKA.

Sevika is fully aware of the risks that come with your relationship. Although she dislikes hiding her feelings, she understands that it's best for you to keep a low profile. She accepts the rules without complaining too much.

Though she doesn't speak much, her love is shown in the simplest gestures, yet ones full of meaning. She surprises you with homemade dinners when you have a break or greets you with your favorite drink, easing the exhaustion of a long day.

While she has full trust in your discretion, the fear of a leak never leaves her mind. Her biggest worry is that someone might hurt you emotionally because of the relationship you share.

If at any point you feel overwhelmed by the pressure, Sevika won't hesitate to pull you out of that toxic environment, even if it means organizing an impromptu escape to help you regain your peace.

With Sevika, you don't have to hide who you are. She gives you the space to be yourself, something that is increasingly rare in a world that constantly pressures you to be perfect.

JINX.

Jinx refuses to be bound by rules or societal norms, preferring to live life on her own terms. Still, she knows that your future might hinge on what happens next. Although her carefree attitude hides it, she genuinely makes an effort to protect your privacy.

When you're with her, she pulls you into her world, overflowing with chaos and madness. If stress is weighing you down, she becomes an escape: drawing graffiti that captures the essence of your songs, painting your face in vibrant colors, or taking you to hidden corners where the world seems to vanish, leaving only space for her secret haven.

She’s not shy about mocking the artists you work with, tossing out outrageous remarks like, "Who does that guy think he is? I could sing better than him, just watch me!" All just to make you laugh.

Her way of cheering you up might be a bit unusual — like filling your dressing room with bright neon lights — but she always manages to make you feel special and deeply appreciated.

Though she doesn't say it in words, she's afraid that this relationship might impact your career. If it were ever exposed, she would take full responsibility, even if it meant losing you. As much as it would break her heart, deep down, what she wants most is to see you chase your dreams, even if that means doing it without her by your side.

[bueckets]

The Prophecy | Part 1

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

Description: They call her The Prophecy—basketball’s impossible phenomenon, rewriting what it means to be perfect on the court. With a near-flawless shooting record and a mind just as sharp in aerospace engineering as it is in breaking down defenses, her name sparks awe, envy, and relentless scrutiny. But perfection has its cost.

But even legends have weak spots. When a high-stakes matchup against LSU draws the attention of Paige Bueckers—the golden face of college basketball—The Prophecy’s flawless world starts to crack. On the court, they’re rivals, locked in a battle for supremacy. Off the court, late-night texts and shared moments blur the lines between competition and something much harder to define.

WC: 11.9k

Authors Notes: Slow Burn, Competitors to Lovers, SLOW, I'm heavy into world building so expect a lot of story, SMUT in next chapter. I've like proof read 70% there's already 40k words written and I've changed shit up like 40 times by now lol

They say there are two kinds of impossibilities in basketball: the ones you laugh at, and the ones that make you hold your breath. Your entire career has been about the second kind.

The numbers shouldn't exist: 847 shots attempted in college. Two misses. A percentage that makes statisticians check their math and then check it again. The first miss was a seventy-footer your freshman year that hit the rim so perfectly the sound echoed through the arena like a bell. The second? Sophomore year, caught an elbow to the face that had blood streaming down your jersey—the shot still almost went in.

Two misses in three years. They call you The Prophecy because watching you miss is like seeing a meteor strike, so rare that people mark their calendars by it.

Every sports network has tried to explain you. ESPN did a special called "The Prophecy: Breaking Down Basketball's Perfect Player." Sports Illustrated put you on the cover: "The Future Came Early." The New York Times ran a feature: "Harvard's Double Threat: Engineering the Perfect Game." They all tried to capture what makes you different. None quite managed it.

Because how do you explain someone who turned down every basketball powerhouse in the country—UConn, Stanford, South Carolina—to study Aerospace Engineering at Harvard? How do you rationalize someone who spends mornings in advanced fluid dynamics classes and afternoons making impossible shots look like a simple routine?

Your teammates get it, though. They've nicknamed you "Rocket”— partly for your major, partly for how you launch yourself through defenses. You're the heart of a Harvard team that's won three straight championships, turning the Ivy League school into a basketball dynasty that no one saw coming.

But that legacy isn't built on game days alone. It’s forged in moments like these: the hum of anticipation, the camaraderie, the banter that cuts through the tension as the team gets ready to take the court.

They say the silence before a storm is the loudest. But whoever said that never sat in Harvard's women's basketball locker room before a big game.

"I swear to god, if you try to explain zone defense using thermodynamics one more time—" Sierra launches a rolled-up sock across the room that you catch without looking up from your pre-game ritual: left shoe, right shoe, double-knot both, check laces twice.

"That was ONE time," you protest, but Maria's already cackling.

"One time? Girl, last week you tried to break down UNC's press using some dynamic—“

"And it WORKED, didn't it?"

The locker room erupts in laughter, the kind of easy joy that only comes from three years of championships, late-night practices, and inside jokes that no one else would understand. Taylor's already started your pregame handshake sequence; each title has added new moves until it's practically a full choreographed dance. 

"Speaking of Carolina," Jasmine pipes up while adjusting her headband, "did y'all see their point guard tried to claim she's almost as accurate as you?”

"How'd that work out for her?" Sierra grins.

"Shot 3-for-15 against Duke." Taylor shakes her head. "Meanwhile, our girl over here—"

"845 for 847," the team chants in unison, then breaks into laughter again.

You roll your eyes but can't hide your smile. 

"Yo, check this out though," Sierra's scrolling through her phone. "LSU's talking mad shit on Twitter. Their center says she's gonna 'expose the myth’ tonight."

Tonight's game against LSU has been circled on calendars since the schedule dropped. Defending national champions versus the team that's rewriting what's possible in college basketball. 

The banter continues as everyone goes through their pregame routines. Maria's got her headphones in, mouthing the same Drake lyrics she's been using since freshman year. Taylor's meticulously re-taping her ankles for the third time. Jasmine's practicing her crossover in front of her locker, adding a little extra flair each time.

That's when Coach Matthews steps in, game face already set. The room doesn't exactly go quiet- this team's never been good at that, but the energy shifts— focuses.

"Ladies," she begins, but Sierra can't help herself.

"We know, we know, sold out crowd, national TV, time to show them why they call us the best team in the country."

The locker room buzzes with the easy confidence of a team that knows what they're capable of. You've all been together three years, grown from underdogs to unstoppable. 

Coach tries to look stern but fails. "I see three rings have made you cocky."

"Nah, Coach," Jasmine grins. "We were cocky before the rings. Now we’ve just proven that we were right all along.” 

The team cracks up again, but you catch something in Coach's expression, a mix of pride and concern. Her eyes find yours across the room. You know what she's thinking: LSU's not here just to play basketball. They're here to make a statement. To prove that Harvard's dynasty, your perfect record, all of it, is just smoke and mirrors.

You peek out at the arena as you head to warm-ups. Every seat filled, signs everywhere:

"The Prophecy Has Spoken: Harvard by 20"

"845/847 ≈ Perfection"

"Future WNBA GOAT"

"Rocket Science + Basketball = 🐐"

The student section erupts with enough thunder that you’d think there was an earthquake outside as you step onto the court. Three years, and the roar still hits different every time. Your teammates spread out for warm-ups, but you can feel every eye in the arena tracking your movement.

"Remember freshman year?" Sierra bumps your shoulder as you start stretching. "When you were still trying to convince everyone you were just 'pretty good' at basketball?"

You laugh, remembering that first practice. You'd shown up in glasses and a Harvard Engineering t-shirt, trying to downplay the high school highlights that had ESPN calling you the next Sue Bird. Then you went 50-for-50 in shooting drills.

"Pretty good," Taylor mimics, feeding you the ball. "Meanwhile Sports Center had a ticker counting your made shots."

The ball feels alive in your hands as you start your warm-up routine. Crossover, behind the back, step-back three. Swish. The Harvard crowd counts each made shot, a tradition that started your freshman year. They're at "thirty-seven" when a murmur ripples through the stands like a shift in the air pressure.

That's when you see them.

The entire UConn women's team, filing into their seats behind your bench. Their presence is magnetic, commanding, like the world has suddenly shifted to center on them. Your breath catches for just a moment, but you keep moving. Eyes forward, muscles loose. Don’t look. Don’t look.

Your gaze flickers up, and that’s when it happens. Paige Bueckers—UConn’s golden child, the face of their dynasty—locks eyes with you. The briefest of seconds, but it feels like a spotlight on your skin. She's not just watching; she's studying. Calculating.

Without breaking stride, you add a little extra spin to your next move. A crossover that’s sharp enough to slice, a step-back three so effortless it’s almost insulting. Swish.

"Showing off for UConn?" Maria teases, but her voice feels distant, barely cutting through the thrum in your chest. You don’t answer. The crowd is at "forty-two" now, and so is Paige. You can feel her counting.

"Please," you roll your eyes, draining another three. "They're the ones who showed up to our house."

The arena's practically vibrating now. LSU's warming up on the other end, trying to look unbothered. Their coach keeps glancing your way, everyone knows their game plan will revolve around stopping you. Good luck with that.

"Rocket!" Jasmine calls out. "Give them the space shot!"

It's another team tradition. End of warm-ups, you launch one from near half-court, high enough to clear the International Space Station. The crowd holds its breath as the ball arcs through the air—

Bucket.

The place goes absolutely nuclear. Even some LSU players stop to watch the replay on the jumbotron. You don't celebrate, just turn and jog back to the bench, but you catch Paige Bueckers leaning forward in her seat. Yeah, she felt that one, too.

In the huddle, Coach Matthews keeps it simple. "They're going to try to get physical. They're going to try to get in your heads. But what do we do?"

"Let the scoreboard talk!" the team responds in unison.

You look around the circle—these girls who've become family. Sierra, who's never met a defensive assignment she couldn't lock down. Maria, whose no-look passes seem telepathic. Taylor, who crashes boards like gravity's just a suggestion. Jasmine, whose trash talk is almost as legendary as her three-point shooting.

The starting lineups are announced. LSU's players get scattered applause, but when they call your name, the sound is deafening. "At guard, a junior from Boston, Massachusetts, averaging 32.5 points per game, shooting 99.8% from the field—The Prophecy!"

You high-five down the bench, each teammate adding their own flourish to the routine. The crowd's chanting now:

"M-V-P! M-V-P!"

But you're already in game mode, that familiar calm settling over you. You can feel Uconn’s members watching from the stands, feel the weight of every expectation, every camera, every scout with an NBA team's future in their hands.

The referee holds the ball at center court. LSU's center—all six-foot-five of her—tries to stare you down.

You just smile. They have no idea what's coming.

The game opens exactly how LSU planned: double-team before you even touch the ball. Their guard and forward shadow your every move, leaving gaps all over the court. Rookie mistake.

You catch Maria's eye, give her the smallest nod. She drives right, drawing attention, while you slip backdoor. The defender realizes too late—you're already airborne, catching the lob one-handed. The rim's still shaking as you get back on defense.

"That's my point guard!" you shout, giving Maria her props. The crowd's already going wild, and you're only thirty seconds in.

LSU tries to establish their post game, but Sierra's having none of it. She strips their center clean, and suddenly you're off to the races. The ball finds you at the three-point line. One defender recovers, rushing at you with a hand up.

Time slows. You see every option: the drive, the pass, the shot. But there's something poetic about making the hardest choice look easy. You rise up, release. The defender's hand grazes your wrist—doesn't matter. Swish.

"And The Prophecy strikes first! Two possessions, two baskets!" The announcer can barely contain himself. "She's making this look like a shoot-around!"

Your teammates are feeding off the energy. Taylor's owning the glass, Jasmine's picking pockets, and Maria's threading passes through impossible angles. By the six-minute mark, you're up 18-7, and LSU calls their first timeout.

"They can't guard you for shit!" Sierra laughs as you huddle up. She's right—they've tried three different defensive schemes already.

Coach Matthews keeps it tactical. "They're getting frustrated. Gonna start trying to bump you off your spots. Stay composed."

You nod, taking a quick swig of water. Your eyes drift to the UConn section. KK Arnold shoots you a smile which you return. Sierra’s shown you enough of her Tik Tok’s for you to recognize the Freshman.

Back on court, LSU switches to a box-and-one. Four players in a zone, one dedicated to face-guarding you. Cupcake stuff compared to what you see in practice.

You set up on the wing, let them think they've got you contained. The defender's playing so tight you can smell her shampoo. Maria starts her drive, draws the zone's attention. You wait... wait...

Then it happens. Quick as thought, you plant your back foot, cut hard to the corner. The defender's still turning when you catch and release in one motion. The ball hasn't even hit the net before you're heading back on defense.

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?" The announcer's losing it. "The Prophecy with another! She's 5-for-5 to start the game!"

The Harvard student section's going ballistic. Even your teammates are shaking their heads—three years, and you still find ways to surprise them.

LSU's getting chippy now. Their forwards are throwing elbows on screens, talking under their breath. You've seen it before: when skill isn't enough, they try to get physical.

"Yo Rocket," Taylor mutters after a particularly hard screen. "They're hunting."

You just nod. Let them hunt. You didn't get here by backing down.

With two minutes left in the first quarter, they try to trap you at half-court. Two defenders, both bigger, trying to muscle you into a mistake. You hit them with a crossover so nasty the crowd gasps. Split the double-team, euro-step around the help defense, and finish with a finger roll that looks like it defies gravity.

The LSU coach is screaming now, face turning purple. Nothing's working. Every scheme, every adjustment, every physical play, you've got an answer for all of it.

Ten seconds left. You let the clock drain, waving off the screen from Taylor. Your defender's in perfect position, textbook stance. Doesn't matter.

You rise up from NBA range, the defender's hand right in your face. The ball arcs high, the crowd holding its breath—

Swish. At the buzzer.

Harvard's bench explodes. Your teammates mob you as you head to the sideline, perfect quarter in the books. 15 points, 6-for-6 shooting, 3 assists. Just another day at the office.

"Show off," Sierra teases as you sit down.

"Actually," you grin, slipping into your best professor voice, "according to my calculations, that was just the warm-up."

The team cracks up. This is what the cameras miss, what the stats can't show. The joy of playing the game you love, with people you love, at a level few have ever reached.

But LSU's huddle looks different now. There's an edge to their expressions, a darkness in their eyes. They're not just losing—they're being embarrassed on national TV.

You've seen that look before. It usually means someone's about to do something stupid.

Second quarter opens with LSU trying something new: they're running a full-court press, getting extra physical on every possession. Their coach has clearly given them the green light to push boundaries.

"They big mad now," Jasmine laughs as she inbounds the ball to you.

You weave through the press like it's a morning jog, finding Maria with a no-look pass that has the crowd buzzing. She drains the three, and you make sure to flex for the LSU bench on the way back. Their coach calls for a substitution, sending in Williams—their enforcer, known for walking the line between aggressive and dirty.

"Heads up," Taylor mutters as she runs past you. "Number 32's got that look."

You've seen players like Williams before. They show up in every big game, thinking they'll be the one to throw you off your rhythm. They usually learn.

The next possession, Williams tries to bump you off your cut. You absorb the contact, spin away like water, and catch the ball in perfect position. She's still recovering when you rise up for three. Nothing but net.

"That's 20 for The Prophecy!" The announcer's voice carries over the roar. "Still perfect from the field!"

The Harvard student section starts a new chant: "YOU CAN'T GUARD HER!" 

You spot some NBA scouts courtside, furiously taking notes. There's already talk about you leaving early, being a top pick. But that's future stuff. Right now, there's just this game, this moment, this next possession.

Williams is getting frustrated. Each bump gets a little harder, each screen a little later. The refs are letting them play physical, and LSU's taking full advantage.

"Yo Rocket," Sierra says during a free throw. "Want me to accidentally trip her?"

You shake your head, smiling. "Nah. I got something better planned."

Next play down, you call for a clear-out. Everyone knows what's coming, your teammates, the crowd, even the UConn section leans forward. Williams squares up, trying to look tough.

The move is pure poetry: crossover so quick it looks like the ball's on a string, between the legs, behind the back. Williams lunges, trying to stay in front. That's when you hit her with the step-back, creating just enough space to rise up.

The shot is perfect before it leaves your hands. Williams can only watch as it drops through, pure silk. The crowd absolutely loses it.

"SOMEBODY CALL AN AMBULANCE!" Jasmine screams, running past Williams, tongue out in mockery. "But not for her!"

Even some of the LSU players are trying not to smile. What else can you do when you're watching someone operate on a different level?

That's when you notice Paige Bueckers isn't just watching anymore—she's studying. Taking in every move, every counter, like she's downloading your game for future reference. You catch her eye for a split second and there's something there: not just respect, but recognition. Game recognizing game.

The half continues like a highlight reel. You're seeing everything in slow motion: every cut, every screen, every defensive rotation. It's like playing basketball in IMAX, everything crystal clear, every possibility visible.

With three minutes left in the half, Harvard's up 45-28. The game's starting to feel less like competition and more like an exhibition. That's usually when things get dangerous.

You see it coming in slow motion: Sierra bringing the ball up court, Williams setting up for what looks like a normal defensive position. But there's something in her stance, something in her eyes.

Williams launches herself at Sierra, sending her crashing into the scorer's table with a sickening crack. The crowd gasps as Sierra crumples, blood already streaming from her nose.

The arena goes dead silent.

Then everything happens at once. Your teammates rush to Sierra. Jasmine gets in Williams' face. The refs are blowing whistles. But you, you're standing perfectly still, a different kind of calculation running through your mind.

Three years of friendship. Three championships. Countless late-night study sessions where Sierra helped you with orbital mechanics homework while you ice your knees. All those moments flash through your mind in an instant.

You start walking toward Williams, and something in your expression makes everyone—teammates, refs, even the crowd—go quiet.

The silence in Lavietes Pavilion is deafening. Blood drips from Sierra's nose onto the hardwood—each drop echoing like thunder in your ears. Your teammates are surrounding her, but your focus is laser-locked on Williams, who's still trying to act tough, shoving Jasmine.

"Get the fuck out my face," Williams snarls, pushing your teammate back.

You cross the court in long, measured strides. Your teammates part like the Red Sea, something in your expression making them step aside. Williams turns just as you reach her, and for the first time tonight, you see fear flicker across her face.

The crowd holds its breath. Every phone is up, every camera pointed at this moment. Even the refs seem frozen, waiting to see what happens next.

You step right into her space, close enough that only she can hear you. Your voice comes out low, deadly calm. "Touch my teammate again," you say, each word precise as a scalpel, "and I promise you'll regret ever stepping foot in this fucking gym."

Williams tries to maintain her tough act, stepping forward. "Oh yeah? What you gonna—"

"Try me one more time," you cut her off, voice even quieter now, "and when I catch you outside this gym I’ll make sure you don’t get back up.” 

The refs finally restore order, whistles blaring. Technical fouls all around. As you check on Sierra—her nose definitely broken but she's insisting she can play—you hear the murmur rippling through the crowd. Nobody's ever seen you like this. The Prophecy's always been about grace under pressure, about making the impossible look easy.

This is something else entirely.

Coach sends you to the bench to cool off. You end up near the Harvard section, your teammates who aren't on the court surrounding you like a protective wall. Behind them, the UConn section hasn't made a sound, but you can feel their attention like a physical weight.

"I've never seen you like that," Taylor whispers, a mix of awe and concern in her voice.

"Nobody touches our people," you say simply, eyes locked on the court where LSU is shooting their free throws.

Sierra's getting patched up beside you, tissues stuffed up her nose. "You know I've taken worse hits in practice," she tries to joke.

“That’s beside the point." Your voice is still deadly quiet. "They came into our house thinking they could punk us. Thinking what—because we're Harvard we're soft? They can suck my dick.” 

The energy in the arena has shifted. Your teammates are fired up, talking amongst themselves. The crowd's still buzzing, cameras alternating between you and Williams. But you're not playing for them anymore. This isn't about highlights or SportsCenter or draft stock.

When the buzzer sounds for you to return, your teammates stand as one. "Light them the fuck up," Sierra says through her swollen nose, and the team erupts in agreement.

You step back onto the court, and the ball finds its way to your hands like it's meant to be there. Williams tries to meet your eyes, but she flinches when she does. She knows what's coming.

They all do.

The ball leaves your hands before their defense can set. Swish. 34 points.

Maria screens Williams hard—legally, but with extra emphasis. You curl around it, catch, release. Swish. 37.

"The Prophecy is taking no prisoners now," the announcer's voice carries over the chaos. "This isn't just basketball anymore, folks. This is personal."

Each possession is a message. No more fancy moves, no more style. Just pure, devastating efficiency. Catch and shoot. Drive and score. Again and again until the numbers blur together and the only sound in the arena is the whisper of the net.

Williams tries to guard you on a switch. You look her dead in the eye as you rise up. She knows it's good before you even release. 45 points.

The fourth quarter becomes a massacre. Not just because of your scoring, but the way your whole team moves now—like sharks that have tasted blood. Every screen is a statement. Every cut is a challenge. Harvard basketball isn't just winning anymore; they're sending a message.

With thirty seconds left, Harvard up by 35, Coach tries to sub you out. You wave her off. There's one more thing to do.

You catch the ball at the opposite baseline—ninety-four feet from your basket. The crowd realizes what you're about to attempt and rises as one. Williams is still trying to guard you, bless her heart.

You don't even look at the basket as you launch it, eyes locked on hers the whole way. The ball soars through the air, high enough to scrape the rafters. Time seems to stop as 4,000 people hold their breath.

Swish. As pure as a layup.

The arena explodes. Your teammates storm the court as you take off on a victory lap, tongue out, arms spread wide. The Harvard band is playing, the student section is losing their minds, and somewhere in the chaos, you catch Paige Bueckers standing up, shaking her head in amazement.

December hits Boston like a cold slap to the face. Three months since the LSU game, and Harvard's still undefeated, 12-0, ranked #2 in the country. Tonight's the game everyone's been circling: #1 UConn at Harvard. The Game of the Year, ESPN's calling it. Every headline is the same story in different words: you versus Paige, like the rest of the teams are just here to watch.

You haven't spoken to any of the UConn players since that night in your locker room. Sure, you see the occasional Instagram story when Jasmine reshares KK's posts (they're dating now, apparently, something that started with DMs and turned into weekend visits), but, that's about it. You don't even follow Paige Bueckers on social media. Why would you? 

"Earth to ____,” Sierra waves a hand in front of your face during warmups. "You good?"

"Yeah," you snap back to reality, draining another three. "Just locked in."

The arena's packed to the rafters, twice as loud as the LSU game. During layup lines, you catch glimpses of the UConn players, especially Paige, who moves with that same fluid confidence you remember. She's got that look in her eyes, the one you recognize in your own reflection: the quiet certainty of someone who's never doubted their greatness.

Your pregame outfit, fitted black turtleneck under your warmups, gold chain catching the light, has already made its rounds on social media. “She looks SO good!!” is trending on Twitter, complete with fire emojis. Not that you care about that stuff. (But okay, maybe you spent an extra minute on your appearance today. Professional reasons only.)

The game starts like a prize fight, both teams trading blows, neither willing to blink first. Paige opens with a three; you answer with a step-back jumper. She hits a floater; you counter with a drive that leaves her defender spinning. It's not personal, you tell yourself. Just basketball.

By the first TV timeout, you've both got 8 points and the crowd's already losing it. The energy's different from the LSU game, no cheap shots or trash talk, just pure, elite basketball. Almost like you're speaking the same language, even if you're on different teams.

"Yo," Maria whispers during a free throw, "is it just me or is Bueckers playing extra hard when she's guarding you?"

"Everyone plays hard against me," you shrug, but you've noticed it too. The way she locks in, the extra intensity in her defense. Like she's got something to prove.

The second quarter is where you start to take over. UConn tries everything, double teams, box-and-one, even a triangle-and-two. Nothing works. You're seeing the game in slow motion again, every passing lane, every defensive rotation crystal clear. By halftime, you've got 24 points on perfect shooting, and Harvard's up 48-39.

In the tunnel heading back out, you pass Paige. There's a moment— brief but loaded— where your eyes meet. She gives you this little nod, competitor to competitor. Nothing more. (But why does it feel like something more?)

The second half is a masterclass. You're not just scoring anymore; you're conducting an orchestra. No-look passes to Sierra for corner threes. Behind-the-back feeds to Taylor for breakaway layups. And when UConn makes their inevitable run in the fourth, you shut the door with a sequence of moves so filthy they'll probably end up on SportsCenter's top 10.

Final score: Harvard 89, UConn 78. Your stat line: 38 points, 9 assists, still haven't missed a shot this season. The handshake line is respectful, none of that LSU energy, and when you reach Paige, her grip is firm, professional.

"Good game," she says simply.

"You too," you respond, and mean it.

After the media obligations, your phone buzzes. It's Jasmine: 'Bar. Tonight. Both teams. No excuses.'

You consider begging off, you do have that Thermodynamics problem set due Monday, but something makes you change your mind. Professional courtesy, you tell yourself. Networking.

The bar is one of those trendy spots where the grad students pretend they're not drowning in student debt. You show up fashionably late in black jeans, a cream-colored silk shirt, and boots that add an extra inch you definitely don't need. The teams are separate at first, Harvard at one end, UConn at the other. Only Jasmine and KK bridge the gap, wrapped up in their own world.

You stick with your teammates initially, nursing a Moscow Mule and trying not to notice how Paige looks in a baggy jeans and a button up when she arrives with some of her teammates. The groups slowly start to mix as the night goes on, pulled together by Jasmine and KK's gravitational field.

"So," UConn's shooting guard, Emma, ends up next to you at the bar. "You always play like that, or were you just showing off?”

You arch an eyebrow, a light smile tugs at the corner of your lip. "Just playing my game." 

"Right," she smirks, ordering another drink. 

You change the subject, asking about their upcoming schedule. Basketball is safe. Basketball makes sense.

The night continues, groups shifting and reforming. You end up in a conversation with some UConn players about the WNBA draft, carefully maintaining your distance when Paige joins the discussion. But you can't help noticing things: how she commands attention without trying, the way her laugh carries over the bar noise, how she seems to know exactly where you are in the room at all times.

Or maybe that's just in your head. Maybe, you’re just down bad.

"Paige is single, you know," KK says later, appearing at your elbow with the subtlety of a brick through a window.

"Good for her," you say neutrally, even as something flutters in your chest.

"Good for you, you mean," KK mutters, dodging the half-hearted shove you send her way before melting back into the crowd.

The night winds down, groups splitting off for Ubers, some players already making plans for late-night food. You're standing near the door, tugging your coat tighter around you against the Boston chill seeping in, when you hear your name.

You turn, and there she is, bathed in the hazy glow of the bar's neon sign, her hands shoved into her coat pockets. For the first time all night, it's just the two of you, the noise of the bar fading into a distant hum.

"Good game tonight," she says, and it’s almost funny how understated it sounds after the week of media buildup and ESPN countdowns.

"Thanks." You pause, letting the silence stretch. "You too."

Her smile tilts, like she knows exactly what you’re doing. "You don’t have to play it cool all the time, you know."

"Who says I’m playing?" you counter, but the corner of your mouth betrays you, quirking up just enough to give her the edge.

Paige steps closer, the space between you shrinking but still electric. "You’re good, Rocket. Even better than the headlines give you credit for."

"Don’t tell me you came out here just to boost my already inflated ego," you say, leaning back just enough to keep the balance of power from tipping entirely her way.

"Maybe," she says lightly, though the way she holds your gaze feels heavier than that. "Or maybe I just wanted to see for myself what all the hype’s about."

"And?"

Her smile deepens, slow and deliberate. "I wasn’t disappointed."

The air between you crackles, her words lingering in a way that feels deliberate, intentional. But before you can decide what to say—or if you should say anything at all—one of her teammates calls her name from the curb.

She glances back, then at you again. 

"Don’t overthink your game plan," you say.

"And you don’t underestimate mine," she calls over her shoulder, her voice light but the glance she throws you anything but.

You stay there a moment longer, the cold biting at your skin but your chest feeling oddly warm. As you finally step outside, something about the night feels unfinished—like a play halfway through its best scene.

As you slide into the car, you realize your heart's racing—and it has nothing to do with the cold.

Maybe KK was right. Maybe this is good for you.

Later that night, lying in bed, you find yourself replaying moments from the game. Just the game, you tell yourself. The way she moves on court, like water finding its path. Her defensive intensity. Her competitiveness that mirrors your own.

Your phone buzzes: a follow request on Instagram from Paige Bueckers on your private Instagram.

You stare at it for a long moment, thumb hovering over the screen. Finally, you press accept. No big deal. Just professional courtesy.

But you can't help smiling as you set your phone down.

March suddenly feels very far away.

That night, sleep feels impossible. The win keeps looping in your mind—every play, every shot, every moment after the final buzzer. You’re still riding the high, but it's the interactions off the court that keep replaying, too. The way Paige’s eyes locked on yours during the game, that quiet intensity between you two. It was almost like there was something unspoken, an invisible thread pulling you together.

You try to shake it off as you lay in bed, scrolling aimlessly through your phone. Eventually, you post a late-night story: just you in your Harvard champion sweatshirt, hair a little messy, looking tired but satisfied. Caption: “some nights hit different 🏀✨"

You're not thinking about anyone in particular when you post it. Really. No, seriously.

But a couple of minutes later, your phone lights up with a notification: "paigebueckers viewed your story."

You freeze. Your heart does that annoying skip, the one you wish you could ignore. You try to play it cool, but the small smile on your face gives it away.

Before you can stop overthinking it, another story pops up from Paige. It’s her on the team bus, the weariness on her face somehow just makes her look even more perfect. Caption: “good games make you better. great games change you. 📈"

You stare at the story longer than you should. Three times, maybe four. Then you catch yourself. No, you're not doing this. You’re being professional. Totally. You swipe past it, but not before watching it once more—just for, you know, "research purposes."

Wednesday practice, you’re on the floor with Sierra, trying to explain orbital mechanics while stretching out your legs. The routine’s familiar, your voice calm and focused, like you’re explaining a simple layup. "So basically, if you account for gravitational force and initial velocity—"

"Rocket," Sierra interrupts, "you've been checking your phone every thirty seconds."

You look at her, feigning confusion. "Have not," you protest, but your fingers are already reaching for your phone, like they’re on autopilot. You can’t help it. Paige posted a drill video this morning, just pure basketball content—nothing that special, just her hitting a perfect jumper, maybe some footwork drills, nothing groundbreaking. You dropped an eyes emoji in response. Professional admiration only. That's it. Nothing to see here.

"Right," Sierra raises an eyebrow, not buying it for a second. "And I'm sure you've watched every other point guard's practice clips fifteen times too."

You give her a deadpan look. "I have no idea what you're talking about," you say, reaching for your foam roller and throwing it at her.

Thursday afternoon finds you in Advanced Fluid Dynamics, usually your favorite class. The equations and concepts feel like second nature to you, but today, your thoughts keep drifting elsewhere. You keep finding yourself thinking about basketball — about how certain players move like water, finding the path of least resistance, flowing through defenses with a grace you can’t help but admire.

You’re not sure if it’s the subject of the class or the strange pull you’re feeling, but your mind is elsewhere.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket, pulling you out of your thoughts. You glance down discreetly. It's a notification from Instagram: Paige has liked your last three posts.

Including one from six months ago.

You blink. The screen feels like it’s glowing too brightly in your hand. You immediately glance around, making sure no one saw you checking, before quickly hiding your smile behind your textbook.

Because yeah, you definitely didn’t mean to feel this giddy. But here you are.

Friday night, you're in bed scrolling through film when you get the notification. Paige posted a new story: her at the gym, late night shooting session. Caption: “late-night grind. gotta stay sharp for what’s ahead. 😤"

Before you can overthink it, you reply: "living rent free in that head huh? 😌"

Three dots appear immediately. Your heart rate picks up.

just practicing for march 😘

You stare at that emoji for a solid minute. Professional rivals don't use kiss emojis. Right?

Saturday morning practice rolls around before you can even process what happened last night. Your mind’s still buzzing, trying to dissect the interaction with Paige, but you push it aside. Focus. You can think about that later.

As you’re stretching before drills, you feel your phone buzz in your pocket. When Coach catches you grinning at it, she narrows her eyes.

"Whatever’s got you distracted better help us win games."

You quickly stuff your phone back in your bag, fighting to keep a neutral expression. "It’s just a text. No big deal."

"Sure, sure." Coach raises an eyebrow, unconvinced.

You try to shake off the grin still tugging at your lips. Definitely not in the middle of a debate with Paige about whether Kobe or Jordan had the better footwork. No. Definitely not.

Sunday night in the library, you're supposedly working on your Thermodynamics problem set. But your eyes keep flicking back to UConn's schedule page, calculating when they’ll be back in the northeast. You try to focus, but you find your thoughts drifting back to Paige.

A message pops up: "Shouldn't you be solving rocket equations or something?"

You bite back a smile, tapping out your reply: “shouldn't you be working on your left hand? Saw that weak drive yesterday 😴"

A few seconds pass. The dots appear, then disappear. You try not to let your heart race.

Finally, the response comes: “wow. and here i was about to say your last IG fit was 🔥"

You stare at your screen, biting your lip. The banter is easy, but there's something else there—something electric. Your pulse thuds louder than usual as you hesitate, fingers hovering over the keys. It feels like there's more hanging between you than just jokes. Did she feel it too? You quickly swipe back to your notes, trying to shake the feeling

Something that makes your skin buzz.

Tuesday, 2AM. You can’t sleep. Again. But this time, it’s different. The nervous energy swirling in your stomach isn’t from the game. It’s... something else.

Your phone lights up with a message:

you up?

Your breath catches in your throat. Two words. That’s all it takes.

You hesitate for just a second, fingers poised over the screen, and finally reply: “depends who’s asking 👀”

A beat. Three dots.

just your future march matchup.

You feel a grin tug at your lips, even as you try to keep your response cool. 

bold of you to assume you’ll make it that far.

guess you’ll have to wait and see.

You can’t help the quiet laugh that slips out. There’s something about these late-night exchanges that feels different.

You roll over, pulling your blanket tighter, trying to convince yourself it’s just another game, just another rival. But when your phone buzzes again, you’re already looking forward to her next message.

A month after the game, your phone buzzes again as you’re reviewing game film late at night. You glance at the time—1:47 AM. Too late to be analyzing, but you can't help it. The game keeps replaying in your head. Then another message appears:

you always study film this late?

You glance at the reflection of your laptop in the dark screen of your phone. It’s like she knows. You smirk, replying.

how'd you know i was watching film?

saw your laptop reflection in your glasses in that last story

Something warm settles in your chest. You didn't think anyone had noticed those details.

stalker much? 🤨

just scouting the competition 😌

You're about to reply when three dots appear again.

want company? i'm looking at our clemson tape

Your heart skips a beat. You weren't expecting this. You pause before responding, a nervous twinge running through you.  "facetime?"

Seconds later, the call comes through. You almost hesitate, but there’s something about it that pulls you in. You accept, suddenly hyper-aware that you're in your oversized Harvard hoodie, glasses perched on your nose, hair tossed into a messy bun.

When her face appears on the screen, you’re momentarily struck. She’s wearing a UConn sweatshirt, hair tied back, no makeup. She’s raw, real—like you’ve caught her in an unguarded moment, and for some reason, that makes your breath catch in your throat.

"So," she starts, then seems to lose her train of thought. "Um. Basketball?"

You laugh, some of the tension breaking. “Uh-huh.”

"Listen," she grins, "I'm better at talking with a ball in my hands."

The conversation shifts easily into basketball, the two of you sharing screens and breaking down film together. She catches things you miss, and you point out nuances she hasn’t noticed. The back-and-forth flows—something about it feels natural. Like you’ve been doing this for years.

Hours pass without you even realizing it, and suddenly you’re talking about other things: favorite movies, worst recruiting stories, childhood dreams.

"Wait," she's saying through laughter, "you really wanted to be an astronaut AND a basketball player?"

"Still do," You shrug, trying to play it cool, even as something inside you aches with the lightness of the moment. "Who says I can't be the first WNBA player in space?"

Her expression goes soft for a moment. "You know what? If anyone could do it..."

There's something in her voice that makes your skin tingle. You clear your throat. "Anyway, uh, it's late."

"Yeah," she says quietly. "This was... this was nice."

"Yeah," you agree, not quite meeting her eyes through the screen. "Maybe we could do it again sometime y’know?”

"I'd like that."

Neither of you moves to hang up. The silence stretches, full of things unsaid.

Finally, she breaks it: “Well, goodnight, Rocket."

The nickname hits different in her voice at 4AM.

"Night, Paige."

You end the call, staring at your screen for a moment before you finally fall back onto your bed. The silence is deafening, but your mind is racing. You force yourself to calm down, to let your heart slow to a normal pace.

Then your phone buzzes again:

sweet dreams 🌙

You definitely don’t replay the entire call in your head. Definitely not.

And you certainly don’t dream about the way she looked when she laughed at your space joke.

Definitely not.

You’re sprawled on the couch in the apartment you share with Jasmine and Sierra, supposedly reading your Aerospace Engineering textbook. Actually, you're doing everything you can to avoid looking like you're grinning at your phone. The cursor keeps blinking in the reply box, like it’s daring you to type something stupid.

"earth surface temps are literally insane rn"

"why are you even awake?"

"says the girl who's also awake 🤨"

"homework doesn't count"

"nerd 🤓"

"bet you won't say that to my face"

"bet i will. next time i see you"

"when's that gonna be? 👀"

A part of you knows you should be focused on the problem set in front of you. But instead, your thoughts keep drifting back to the screen, to her messages. You bite your lip, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. There's something different about this—about her—that you can't quite put into words. Something that makes your heart beat a little too fast for it to just be casual.

"Oh my GOD," Jasmine’s voice startles you, making you jolt and nearly drop your phone. She's leaning over the back of the couch, eyes twinkling with that grin that’s a little too knowing for comfort. "You're texting Paige!"

"What? No, I'm—" you fumble your phone, nearly dropping it. "I'm doing homework."

"Mmhmm." Jasmine vaults over the couch to land beside you. "That's why you're making the same face I make when KK texts."

"I do not make a face."

"You literally look like this—" Jasmine demonstrates an exaggerated dreamy expression that makes you throw a pillow at her.

"I'm going to KK's this weekend," she says after dodging the pillow. Her voice is deliberately casual. "UConn has a home game Friday. You should come."

Your heart does a little flip. "I have that Physics midterm Monday..."

"Right, because you definitely weren't just texting about wanting to see her."

"I wasn't—" you start, but your phone buzzes again, Paige’s name lighting up the screen in a way that makes it impossible to ignore.

"Girl," Jasmine says, softer now. "It's okay, you know? To want something besides basketball."

You stare at your phone, fingers hovering again over the keys as those three dots show up. Paige is typing, and your chest tightens. Your heart’s racing now, too fast for this to just be some rivalry. You’ve never felt this way about an opponent before.

"It's complicated," you finally manage, your voice coming out quieter than you intended.

"When is it not?" Jasmine squeezes your shoulder as she gets up. "Think about it, okay? KK says the whole team's been asking about you anyway."

Later that night, Sierra finds you on the roof of your building. It’s your thinking spot—the place where you go to clear your head when the world feels too loud or when the equations refuse to make sense. Tonight, though, the equations have nothing to do with physics.

"Spill," Sierra says, sliding down to sit beside you.

"What?"

"You've been different lately. Good different, but different." She bumps your shoulder. "And I saw you smile at your phone six times during practice today."

You let out a long breath. The city lights blur below you, and somehow it feels easier to talk without making eye contact.

"I think... I think I like her," you say finally. The words feel huge in the quiet night air. "Paige, I mean."

"No shit," Sierra laughs softly. "I figured that out when you watched her coffee story four times."

You blink, feeling caught. "You saw that?"

"Girl, everyone saw that." She pauses. "The question is, what are you gonna do about it?"

You lean back against the roof, your gaze on the stars that are barely visible through the light pollution of the city. "I don’t know. It’s complicated," you say, the words slipping out before you can stop them. "We’re rivals, and we’ll probably face each other in March. If the media got wind of us, it’d be a circus. Not to mention—" You cut yourself off, because it sounds even worse when you say it out loud.

"Okay, forget all that for a second." Sierra interrupts, her voice quieter now. She turns to face you, her eyes soft. "How does she make you feel?"

Your breath catches in your chest. How does Paige make you feel? You think about those late-night video calls that always start with film study but end with laughing over something stupid. About how she remembers little details about your life—like your favorite late-night snack, your favorite places on campus, or how you sometimes still get nervous before big games.

"Like I can be both," you say finally, the words tumbling out before you even realize their weight. "Like I can be The Prophecy, but also just... me."

Sierra's quiet for a long moment. Then: "You know what I think?"

"What?"

"I think you've spent three years being perfect. Maybe it's time to be happy instead."

You stare at the stars, trying to find your footing in this new reality that feels both foreign and exciting. "I don’t know if I’m ready for that."

Sierra nudges you, her tone playful again. "Then at least try. You deserve it."

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and for a moment, you forget about everything else. You pull it out, heart skipping when you see the name on the screen: Paige. The message.

 miss watching film with you

Sierra leans over to peek at the text, a grin spreading across her face. "Smooth," she says, barely suppressing a laugh.

"Shut up," you laugh.

"Is that why Jasmine invited you to Connecticut this weekend?" Sierra asks, an eyebrow raised.

You groan, burying your face in your hands. "She told you?"

"Girl, I’m not blind," Sierra says, standing up. "Please. She’s been planning this whole setup for days. And you know what? You should go."

You look up, your gaze meeting hers. "I don’t know. The physics exam is coming up, and—"

"Physics will still be there when you get back," she interrupts, her voice light but serious. "But this? This might not be here forever."

You chew on that for a moment, the weight of it settling in.

"She’s waiting for you to say something," Sierra says quietly, her gaze flicking between you and the screen.

You hesitate, then smile softly to yourself. This is your chance.

You type back: "guess you'll have to come study in person sometime."

Sierra gives you a teasing look. "Oh, it’s on now."

Your phone buzzes again, and this time, Paige’s response comes quickly: "is that an invitation?"

Your fingers hover over the keys for a moment, and then, with a deep breath, you reply: "maybe. you gonna show me around campus?"

The message comes back almost immediately: "only the important spots. like where i practice my weak left hand drives 😏"

You can’t help it. You burst into laughter, your heart light and carefree for the first time in what feels like forever. Sierra shakes her head, smiling fondly at you.

"You’re totally down bad, huh?"

"Shut up," you laugh, feeling the warmth of it rush through you. But even as you tease her, you feel it too—this rush of excitement, the anticipation of something new, something that could change everything.

Sierra heads for the roof door, pausing just before she goes inside. "Hey Rocket?"

"Yeah?"

"Just... be careful, okay? Not because of basketball or rankings or any of that stuff. Just... because your heart's on the line too."

You nod, your chest tight as the weight of her words settles in. "I will."

She gives you one last look before disappearing inside, leaving you alone with your thoughts, your phone, and the lighthearted texts you’ve been sending all night.

Another buzz from Paige lights up your phone: "but seriously. come this weekend? i want to see you."

Her response makes your whole body warm: "can't wait 💫"

You stay on the roof a while longer, letting the night air cool your flushed cheeks. March feels both too far away and too close, but right now, in this moment, you let yourself focus on a different kind of countdown:

Three days until Connecticut.

The minute you step onto UConn's campus, you remember why being The Prophecy is complicated.

"Oh my god," you hear someone whisper. "Is that—"

"Holy shit, that's really her—"

"The Prophecy is here—"

You pull your hoodie up, hoping for some anonymity, but it’s futile. Jasmine’s already ditched you to find KK, leaving you standing in the middle of the chaos, awkwardly clutching your duffel bag. You check your phone, hoping for a distraction, when you see a text from Paige.

how’s campus so far? are you surviving the hype? 😂

You type back quickly, trying to act casual.

surviving. But UConn is like a zoo. 🙄

Before you can put the phone down, a text buzzes again.

i’m in the quad, come meet me? i’ve got your escape route ready 🏃‍♀️

You smile at her message, your nerves a little lighter now, but that doesn't make the reality of the situation any less surreal.

"Should I just text her when I get there?" you mutter to yourself, typing out a quick reply:

on my way. see you soon.

The crowd's whispers grow louder, and as you move through the sea of students, your phone buzzes again, this time with a message that makes your heart skip a beat.

turn around

You turn, and there's Paige, looking unfairly good in joggers and a UConn hoodie. For a second, you both just stare at each other, all those late-night texts and video calls suddenly feeling very different in person.

"Hi," you manage, hyper-aware of the growing crowd pretending not to watch. "Um. Nice campus."

"Thanks, I—" she starts, just as you say, "Should we—"

You both stop. Laugh nervously. God, where did all your game go?

"Yo, Paige!" some guy calls out. "Is that The Prophecy? Can we get a picture?"

Before either of you can respond, the crowd swarms in like a tidal wave. Students materialize from every direction, phones out, voices overlapping, and it’s all happening too fast. You’re caught in the whirlwind of questions and flashes.

"Can you sign my jersey?"

"Is it true you haven't missed a shot since high school?"

"Are you really majoring in rocket science?"

"Can you do the space shot right now?"

It’s nothing new. You've done this a thousand times, but today, it feels different. You're hyper-aware of Paige standing there, watching, her gaze unreadable. Her eyes flick from the crowd to you, amusement playing at the corners of her lips, but there’s something else there too.

You keep your composure—signing autographs, taking selfies, answering questions—but it’s harder when she’s so close. You try not to look over at her too much, but you catch her looking at you once. And her smile? It makes the whole world feel lighter, even in the chaos.

Then someone from the crowd asks, “Yo, did you come to see Paige?”

You freeze. All eyes are suddenly on you, the crowd waiting for your response.

“Just checking out the competition,” you say smoothly, though your heart skips a beat. But then you catch the subtle curve of Paige’s lips as she tries to hide her smile.

“She's already kicked our ass once,” Paige adds, her voice playful. “Maybe I’m trying to learn her secrets.”

The crowd laughs, and the tension in the air eases. You finally manage to break free from the swarm, and Paige leads you out of the madness, pulling you toward a quieter part of campus. She glances over at you as if to gauge how you’re holding up, and then says, “Sorry about that. I probably should’ve warned you… You’re kind of a big deal here.”

“Here?” You raise an eyebrow. “Not just at Harvard?”

She rolls her eyes with that charming little smirk of hers. “Please, you know what I mean.”

She bumps your shoulder lightly, and for a second, you’re both frozen in that little moment, and then—quickly—she steps away, as though surprised by the contact. She rubs the back of her neck awkwardly before continuing, “The perfect record? The space shot? Your major? You’re like basketball mythology at this point.”

The words settle over you, like a weight that makes you stand a little straighter. It's odd, but you can't deny the truth in what she’s saying. You pass a group of girls, and they absolutely squeal when they spot you. One of them is wearing a t-shirt with your number and "The Prophecy" written on the back, and it's like you’ve stepped into some weird alternate reality.

"That's..." you start.

"Weird?" Paige offers.

"I was gonna say flattering, but yeah, weird works too."

She chuckles, a little breathless, as you continue walking. You can’t help but notice how she looks at you—like she’s caught between admiration and something else.

By the time you reach the athletics center, the crowd starts to thin, but there's still a palpable buzz in the air. Students part for you like you're some kind of celebrity, whispering as they pass.

"—never misses, like ever—"

"—turned down every WNBA scout—"

"—heard she's already got a NASA job lined up—"

"—next GOAT for sure—"

You can’t hear it all, but enough of it sticks to your skin. You make eye contact with a few of the UConn players as you pass, and they do double-takes. The whispers don’t stop. The world still hasn't figured out how to react to you, and you’re still trying to wrap your head around it yourself.

When you get inside the locker room, you spot KK, draped over Jasmine on a bench. She sits up as soon as she sees you, and a wide grin spreads across her face.

“The Prophecy graces us with her presence!” KK announces, her voice carrying through the room.

You and Paige both turn to each other, saying “Shut up” at the same time. You exchange a glance, and immediately, you both look away, your cheeks heating up.

“Oh my god,” KK stage-whispers to Jasmine, her voice dripping with mischief. “They’re actually awkward. This is adorable.”

“I will literally murder you,” Paige threatens, but her face is flushed, the playful tone in her voice not matching her serious words.

You drop your bag, trying to act casual despite your racing heart. "So, this is where the magic happens?"

"Something like that," Paige responds, her voice quieter now. Then, her tone shifts, just a little, as she adds, “Want to see where I practice those trash left-hand drives?”

Her smile is nervous but hopeful, and something in your chest flutters in response. You swallow the lump in your throat, your eyes meeting hers.

"Lead the way, Bueckers."

The gym is quiet, empty this late—just the two of you and the space stretching out around you like a vast, hollow echo. The squeak of your sneakers against the court floor seems louder than usual, and the rhythm of the ball bouncing between you is a steady heartbeat in the silence.

You grab a ball, the motion automatic, instinctual. Some habits don’t break just because your heart’s doing backflips.

"So..." you start, dribbling slow, almost hesitant. Your palms feel too hot on the ball, like everything about this moment is too much, too close, but you can’t pull away.

"So..." she echoes, her voice low, mirroring your movements with a fluid ease that makes your pulse pick up a little faster.

"This is..." you trail off, looking for the right word. Something that fits the electric tension hanging in the air. 

"Weird?"

She raises an eyebrow, a teasing glint in her eye. "I was gonna say nice," you add, voice a little softer, but still trying to brush it off, to keep control. "But yeah, weird too."

She laughs—just a soft sound, but it breaks something between you. You feel your shoulders loosen, and the tightness in your chest starts to ease. "Want to play? Or are you scared I'll ruin your perfect record?" Her words are light, playful, but there’s an edge of something else there. Something beneath the surface.

"Please," you scoff, but the words come out softer than you expected, a little breathless. "You couldn’t guard me with a restraining order."

Her smile widens, but her eyes stay locked on yours, sharp, like she can see right through you. "Big talk from someone who's been stalking my coffee stories."

You nearly drop the ball at that. "I— that’s not—" You choke on your words, heat rushing to your cheeks, the sudden shift in conversation throwing you off-balance.

"Four views," she grins. "I counted."

"Professional research," you manage, trying to ignore how your face is burning.

"Right." She steps closer, her body moving fluidly, effortlessly, still dribbling the ball with that same steady rhythm. "And all those late-night texts?"

"Scouting reports," you shoot back, but your voice cracks, betraying the lie.

"The two-hour video calls?"

"Film study," you mutter, voice barely a whisper.

"And coming to Connecticut?" Her tone shifts—lighter, but with a question in it now. A challenge in her eyes, daring you to say something.

You swallow hard, your heart pounding against your chest. "Would you believe advanced aerospace research?"

She's too close now. You can smell the faint scent of her perfume, feel the heat radiating off her as she steps forward just enough to close the space between you. The ball’s still bouncing, the rhythm matching your heartbeats, and you can hear the beat of her pulse too—steady.

"Try again." Her voice is soft, but the challenge in it is unmistakable.

You take a breath, the air thick with something unspoken. "Maybe... I just wanted to see you."

The ball stops bouncing. It’s almost like everything around you freezes for a second. The echo of the gym fades out, and all you can hear is the steady thrum of your heartbeat, racing now, too fast, too loud.

Her eyes search yours, the gold flecks in them catching the light, and for a split second, everything feels suspended. She doesn’t move. You don’t either. There’s a moment between you, raw and exposed, like you’re both just standing there, waiting for something to happen.

Then, her phone buzzes, breaking the stillness—KK, asking where you both disappeared to. The moment shatters, and you both step back, like you’ve both just been jolted awake.

"We should..." she starts.

"Yeah," you agree quickly, maybe a little too quickly. "Team dinner, right?"

"Right." The word comes out like a sigh, a soft release, but neither of you move for a beat.

You both head back toward the locker room, but it feels like the distance between you has doubled, despite being only a few feet apart. You’re careful to maintain some space, but the air around you still crackles with the memory of the moment.

Just before you reach the door, you feel the lightest touch on your wrist. It’s a shock to the system, warm and soft, and you freeze.

"Hey."

You turn to face her, heart still thundering in your chest, your breath caught in your throat.

"I'm glad you came," she says softly, her voice barely above a whisper. The words hang in the air between you, heavier than anything she’s said so far.

You open your mouth, but no words come out, your mind a blur, trying to make sense of the shift in the air between you. Before you can speak, though, she’s through the door, vanishing into the locker room, leaving you standing there, breathless.

You stand there for a moment, your heart still racing, trying to collect yourself. The touch of her fingers on your wrist is still warm on your skin, like an electric spark that lingers long after the contact ends. You can still feel the weight of her gaze on you, the way she looked at you just before she left—open, vulnerable, and for a second, everything in you just... paused.

You’re so fucking screwed.

Inside, KK takes one look at your face and starts laughing immediately. "Oh yeah," she says to Jasmine, her voice full of knowing. "March is gonna be interesting."

You throw a towel at her, but you can't help smiling. Because yeah, March is going to be complicated. But right now, watching Paige try not to look at you while she gets ready for dinner, you can't bring yourself to care.

Some things are worth the complication.

The team’s already piled into the upscale Italian place, the kind of restaurant where the hostess gives your group a double-take, eyes wide as she tries to figure out if you’re all really who she thinks you are. Emma starts giggling beside you, and you can’t help but let a laugh slip too. The entire UConn starting five, plus you, Jasmine, and a couple of bench players, fill up the space like a small parade. The table’s enormous, but somehow, fate—or possibly KK—decides that you should sit next to Paige. You know it's not her doing, but the thought of it makes your stomach do flips. Definitely not subtle.

Your knees brush under the table, and you both jerk away so fast it feels like a live wire just zapped both of you. It’s... a weird moment, but it’s over quickly.

"So," Caroline leans in, practically smirking with that devious look of hers. "We finally get to hear how The Prophecy got her name."

"Oh god," you groan, sinking back in your seat, hoping to disappear into the padded booth. But Paige perks up next to you, eyes lighting with interest.

"Wait," she says, "I don’t know this story."

You shoot Emma a glare, but she’s already opening her mouth, ready to spill the beans.

"Nobody tells it," you warn, but Emma's already launching in.

"Freshman year," Emma begins, her voice a little too loud in the suddenly quiet room, "first practice. Coach put her through this insane shooting drill—"

"It wasn't insane," you protest.

"Hundred shots from five spots," Emma continues, undeterred. "Most freshmen hit, like, sixty percent if they’re lucky. She goes perfect. Coach thinks it’s a fluke, makes her do it again. Perfect again."

You can feel Paige’s eyes on you, her attention sharp and focused. You don’t know how to feel about it, but you try not to squirm under her gaze.

"Third time," Emma's building to it now, "Coach says 'What are you, some kind of prophecy?' And right as she says it, this girl—" she points at you, "—sinks a half-court shot backward without looking."

"I was stretching!" you defend, but the table's already losing it.

"The name stuck," Caroline finishes. "Even before the no-miss streak."

"Speaking of," Tessa jumps in, her voice suddenly a lot more serious, "how do you actually do that? The never-missing thing?"

The entire table quiets down, all eyes suddenly fixed on you. Even the waitress, hovering nearby, pretends not to listen, but you catch her glancing over every few seconds.

You swallow hard, feeling the weight of everyone’s attention on you, but the pressure isn’t all bad. You glance over at Paige—she’s still watching you, her expression unreadable, but there’s something in her eyes that makes it hard to focus. She shifts slightly closer, and it makes your heart race.

"I just..." You pause, unsure of how to explain the weird, inexplicable thing that happens when you’re on the court. "I guess I see it differently. Like, you know how some people have perfect pitch in music? They hear things that other people can’t even pick up on?"

Nods around the table.

"I see angles that way," you continue, trying to sound more confident, but you’re still not used to talking about it. "Trajectories, force vectors... like physics and the feel of it—they just... merge in my head, I guess?"

Jasmine, who’s been watching you this whole time, cuts in with a smirk. "She’s being modest. Yesterday, I watched her solve a quantum mechanics problem while sinking thirty straight threes."

You roll your eyes. "Multitasking," you mumble, but Paige’s knee brushes against yours again. This time, neither of you pulls away, and your concentration goes from laser focus to absolute mush. You feel heat rising in your chest, but you try to keep your voice steady.

The conversation shifts, but you’re barely listening anymore. Every little movement from Paige, every time her hand brushes your arm as she reaches for her water, every time she leans in a little closer to hear you speak—your mind is barely keeping up. Her perfume is subtle but intoxicating, making it impossible to think straight.

"Y'all should see her in class," Jasmine's saying. "Professors literally use her as an example in physics."

"One time!"

"Three times," Jasmine corrects. "Remember when Dr. Peterson used your jump shot to explain projectile motion?"

KK, who’s been silently watching you both like this is her personal reality TV show, grins. "No wonder half the team has a crush on you."

You nearly choke on your water. Paige freezes next to you, and you can feel the shift in the air.

"I mean," Caroline chimes in, clearly trying to smooth over the tension, but only making it worse, "who wouldn’t? Best player in the country, genius-level IQ, and look at her—"

"Okay!" Paige cuts her off, a bit too loudly. "Who wants dessert?"

The change in pace is enough to shake everyone out of the sudden tension. But as dessert menus are passed around and people start laughing again, your mind is still racing.

Later, as the group walks back toward campus, you notice how easily the team starts to scatter. KK and Jasmine vanish into the distance almost immediately, making some excuse about practice. The rest of the team drifts off to their own plans—study groups, dorms, whatever—but you and Paige end up walking together, side by side in the cool night air, the sound of your footsteps the only thing breaking the silence.

"So," Paige says, her voice soft but a little uncertain, "the hotel’s that way."

You glance at her. "Yeah."

Neither of you turns toward it.

"I have, um," she starts, then stops. Takes a breath. "I have a single. In my dorm. If you wanted to watch a movie or something."

Your heart goes into overdrive, doing flips and twists like it might just leap out of your chest. The words feel stuck in your throat, but your mind is running wild.

"Or something?"

Even in the dim streetlight, you can see her blush. "I didn't mean— I just thought—"

"I'd like that," you cut off her rambling, and the smile she gives you makes your knees weak.

Her room is exactly what you'd expect - basketball posters, team photos, neat desk with game notes spread out. What you don't expect is how intimate it feels, being in this space that's so completely hers.

"Make yourself comfortable," she gestures to her bed, then immediately looks panicked. "I mean, you can sit— I'll take the chair—"

"Paige?"

"Yeah?"

"Breathe."

She laughs, some tension breaking. You sit on her bed, back against the wall, and after a moment she joins you, careful to leave space between you.

"So," you say.

"So," she echoes.

"Half the team has a crush on me, huh?"

She groans, covering her face. "KK has the biggest mouth—"

"Just half though?" You're pushing it, you know you are, but something about the way she's blushing makes you brave.

She lowers her hands, looks at you directly for the first time since dinner. "You know exactly how many people have a crush on you."

"Do I?"

Her eyes drop to your lips for a fraction of a second. "You must."

The air feels thick, charged. Your hand is on the comforter between you, and slowly, so slowly, her pinky finger hooks over yours.

Just that small point of contact sets your whole body on fire.

"Paige?"

"Hmm?"

"I didn't come to Connecticut for film study."

She turns her hand, letting her fingers intertwine with yours properly. Your breath hitches.

"I know," she says softly.

You sit there for what feels like hours, neither moving except for her thumb brushing slowly across your knuckles. The touch is so light, so careful, but it feels like the most intense thing you've ever experienced.

"I should..." you start reluctantly.

"Stay," she says quickly, then blushes harder. "I mean, it's late, and the hotel's far, and—"

"Okay."

She blinks. "Okay?"

You squeeze her hand gently. "Okay."

Later, lying in her bed (she insisted, taking the floor despite your protests), you stare at the ceiling in the dark. Your hand still tingles where she touched it.

"Rocket?" her voice comes softly from below.

"Yeah?"

A pause. Then: "I'm really glad you're here."

You close your eyes, smiling into the darkness. "Me too."

Neither of you mentions March. Neither of you talks about rankings or rivalries or what any of this means. For now, there's just this: her steady breathing in the quiet room, the lingering warmth of her touch, and the feeling that something huge is beginning.

Just before you drift off, you hear her whisper something that might be "perfect." But you're already falling asleep, wrapped in her blankets that smell like her, dreaming of basketball and physics and the way her hand felt in yours.

Some equations, you think hazily, don't need solving.

[shadowmonsterrealms]

Was about to leave comment, but instead decided to make it a reboot.

Dude. I love the symbolism. I don’t know if im looking too deep into it, or you an amazing an idea. But I love the difference you made have the two.

The top image.

It filled with warm and cozy color, showing the warmth and love between Batman and Superman.the background being a very oblivious thing, sunflowers(or are they just golden flowers, I cant tell) to Clark’s background as well as the flower (correct me if I’m wrong) represents love and promise, as well as trust.

You have both characters looking at eachother, showing the trust AND respect they have for one another. They understand one another, not caring how the other reacts.

And the gadgets! Like Batman having his batarang along with Clark’s ring. Showing that Bruce “hostility” (protectiveness maybe??), and Clark’s care devotion towards Bruce.

The eye and star, could represents, like I said before their love and respect in their relationship. And I SAW THAT THE EYE HAS A SHADOW FIGURE, MEANING CLARK IS LOOKING AT BRUCE OMFG!! Along with their stuff that make themselves at the bottom of the pic, Clark’s mug, glasses, and pen, along with Bat’s mug could represent the two’s lives colliding and being together.

The bottom one:

This one has a much more darker and cool colored theme. Showing the distance and depth between their relation. How it’s toxic along with the green (Superman’s weakness) and dark blue (the aspect of Batman).

The kryptonite shattering (which is a very strong theme on the pic) showing Bruce’s possible hatred and wanting him to be gone and away from. Like his weapons all have a green kinda of look, possibly filled with Kryptonite. As well as possibly a reference to the introduction to eachother (like in some comics Bruce full on waves Kryptonite in Supe’s face out of uneasiness).

And god the difference between the character’s expression! Like, Clark is looking at Batman like a devoted love sick puppy on the top image, but the bottom one is almost filled with possession and greed. Like he doesn’t care what happenes to Bruce, he just wants him. Along with Bat’s expression, like he’s dazed, snd looks like he wants to be everywhere that itsn’t there with Clark.

The star being crushed single handly, by Lex(mainly basing off of his armor, maybe Clark???) showing that the hope and care just itsn’t there and its shattered (just like the kryptonite!!!). As well as the eye being shut, showing that there is no respect or compassion in the relationship.

And bat’s gear and weapons being taken/broken away, showing the power dynamic between the relationship. Another example would be the scenery and background. Like the top one, they’re both on the ground, being grounded by eachother. While the bottom one, it’s in the air/sky. Showing that moment, Clark is the only one in control, and he could do whatever he wants with Bruce.

And one last detail, would be the fact that it looks like bat’s chest is being broken or stabbed in the heart by white kryptonite. I had to really zoom in and see if Clark had stabbed it, but he wasn’t REALLY causing the stab. But due to Clark’s almost satisfaction, and glee, it looked like he planted it??? I don’t know, but found it pretty cool detail.

I just wanted to rant about this beautiful art that this creator has made.

One last dance.

[awhhayden]

CONTAINS : age gap 20+, dilf!hayden, fluff, anxiety/panic attack, short story

SUMMARY : Hayden wakes up from a nightmare, his anxieties weighing down on your relationship.

Hayden stirs beside you, the peaceful rhythm of sleep abruptly shattered as he shoots upright, fear flickering across his features. A cold sweat glistens on his chest and neck, his breath coming in frantic gasps as another nightmare haunts his consciousness.

For the past week, the same chilling dream has plagued him, each one a manifestation of the simmering anxieties about your relationship. With you just stepping into your 23rd year and him carrying the weight of 43, the whispers of the world loom large, as if the media’s scrutiny could unravel the delicate threads of what you both share.

Each day, he finds himself on high alert, bracing for the latest wave of cruel commentary about your love—the love that defies conventional norms but thrives in its authenticity. Hayden positions himself as a shield between you and the relentless barrage of judgment, yet deep down, he knows the sting of those words reaches you, drawing a painful line back to him.

Guilt tugs at his heart, knowing that these dark reflections are a consequence of his existence in your life, and he longs for a way to silence the storm that rages endlessly in his mind.

He turns and gazes at you, a soft contrast to the panic in his chest. Your hair spills like silk across the pillow, catching the soft glow of the moonlight that dances through the window. Each rise and fall of your chest is a tender symphony, a rhythm that lulls him into a deeper calm.

With a gentle smile, he lays back on his side and wraps his strong arm around your waist, pulling you closer into his warmth. The sweet scent of your strawberry shampoo envelops him, a fragrant reminder that you are all he needs.

You stir slightly, your voice a soft murmur in the quiet of the room. "Mmm, you okay?" Your eyes flutter open just enough to glimpse the worry etched on his face, and he smiles, leaning into the fragrant softness of your hair. "Now I am," he whispers, his words a soft caress that fills the space between you with a warm intimacy, as if the world outside has faded away, leaving only the two of you as his anxieties melt away into oblivion.

He feels the heat radiating from your body and leans in closer, letting the moment deepen. The room is filled with a comfortable silence, punctuated only by the soft sound of your breathing. With each breath, he finds himself more anchored in the present, savoring this shared moment of peace that feels both timeless and sacred.

"Do you remember the first time we slept like this?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. He recalls that night, when the stars overhead seemed to twinkle just for you two, a new chapter just unfolding.

You chuckle softly, eyes still heavy with sleep. "I think you were the one who ended up stealing all the blankets," you tease, a playful smile dancing on your lips.

He smirks, nudging you playfully. "Guilty as charged." A moment of laughter passes between you, a thread of shared memories that wraps around you in warmth. Beneath that playful exchange, a deeper truth lingers in the air—an unspoken understanding of each other, grounded in genuine affection.

You shift slightly, nestling into his embrace, and he tightens his hold instinctively, as if afraid to let go. The soft rhythm of your breaths intertwining sets a peaceful cadence. “What are you thinking about?” you ask, curiosity sparking your gaze as you finally meet his eyes.

He hesitates for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly. “Yeah, it’s just…” He takes a deep breath, struggling to find the right words. “Sometimes I worry about the age gap between us. I mean, I know it’s not the worst difference, but still…” You frown slightly, propping yourself up on one elbow, giving him your full attention. “What do you mean?”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, his gaze drifting toward the moonlight spilling through the window. “With me being in the public eye, everyone seems to have an opinion about everything. I can imagine the headlines, the gossip… it worries me. I don’t want to be that guy who’s dating someone significantly younger. I don’t want it to look like I’m… I don’t know, taking advantage of that.”

Your heart sinks a little at his unease, seeing the vulnerability etched in his features. “You’re not taking advantage of anything. We’re not like that. We have something real here.”

“I know that,” he replies, looking back into your eyes with sincerity. “But the media spins things. I've seen it happen to friends, people in the industry facing scrutiny just for their choices in relationships. I don’t want to subject you to that kind of negativity. You don’t deserve it.”

“You can’t control how others see us,” you say gently, brushing your fingers across his cheek. “What matters is how we see each other. You mean the world to me, and I don’t care about the age gap or what people think.”

He listens, but the concern doesn’t entirely vanish from his eyes. “You say that now, but what if it becomes a burden in the future? What if the attention—both good and bad—pulls us apart instead of bringing us closer?”

“If it’s meant to be, we’ll find a way to make it work,” you reply, your voice steady and unwavering. “And if we do hit bumps along the way, we’ll face them together. Love isn’t about age or public perception; it’s about trust, respect, and the connection we’ve built.”

He smiles softly at your words, grateful yet still clouded by his worries. “You make it sound so simple. I just don’t want to risk losing what we have because of outside noise.”

You take a moment, gathering your thoughts, before responding. “I’m not naive. I know the world can be harsh. But I also believe that if we’re strong in our bond, we can withstand anything. Our relationship doesn’t have to be defined by the age gap—or by the spotlight you’re in.”

He studies you intently, his brows slightly relaxed as he absorbs your words. “You really believe that?” He probes, searching your face for reassurance.

“I do,” you affirm, leaning closer, grounding him with your presence. “Each day with you just feels right. It’s not about the years; it’s about how well we fit together and how we support each other”

A soft chuckle escapes him, his tension easing slightly. “In all my life, I’ve never met someone quite like you,” he admits. “You’re a breath of fresh air, you keep me young” he jokes.

You smile at that, feeling a wave of warmth wash over you. “I’m glad I can be someone who brings you comfort. Just remember, I want this, I want you” you say softly. He reaches for your hand, intertwining your fingers as he gives a light squeeze. “Thank you for being you. For standing by me. I just want to protect what we have.”

“Then let’s protect it together,” you say, resolute. “I love you” you whisper, he smiles

As you settle back into his embrace, the weight of his worries lingers in the air but feels lighter now, softened by the understanding between you. Together, you drift into a shared silence, sleep finally weighing down on Hayden’s eyes, you fall back asleep together, a newfound understanding and the sound of the wind in the air.

a little story while I work on a chapter two of my james kelly fic! also still adding to my taglist so lmk if you want to be added! <3

taglist : @bimbo-baggins17 @malinadbbdh @speaknow-sw @haydensheartt @inlovewithdob @fredswrite

[sideysvault]

𓍼ོ Ad Astra Per Aspera 𓍼ོ (PT. 2)

Southeastern misfortune

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader

wc: 2,114k

Tags: [sfw] Arranged marriage, slow burn, angst, mentions of dead, mature themes, enemies to lovers, hurt, comfort

full series masterlist. read part one.

────────

Without much thought of ruining her night gown, she began to try to take a hold of herself, sitting down on the unmarked path of the garden, slightly rocking herself back and forward, as slyly as she could, as to not start rumors. She tried to keep her mind focused on the soothing sound the crickets made, and let her thoughts waver with the cold wind. 

“Are you alright?” There it was. That sweet voice. 

Even if she startled the Princess, and her cheeks flushed with embarrassment at the thought of being seen in such a precarious condition by her, she was still glad to have company. Quickly standing up, in a makeshift bow she muttered “My queen! My apologies”.

“It is fine. You must call me Helaena” As soon as the princess opened her mouth to protest the lack of formality, she continued “I have to admit, my title hasn’t brought me much joy, and, i much prefer being treated fairly, by my birth name”.

She hummed in response. Being married to a man like Aegon, a man that she knew as a boy, who she must have felt purely fraternal love towards, having to deal with the court and the angst of the upcoming war; No wonder she had no desire to be Queen anymore. 

Heleana signals to a grasshopper that was strolling through the miniature world that is the soil in the garden. She smiles at it, and grabs it tenderly, to place it at the palm of her hand. The little animal, seemingly unaffected by the intrusion, continued his parade around the Queen’s arms. 

“Is my brother not treating you kindly? Aegon can be difficult too, especially when he is drunk”. 

A smile appears on both the woman’s faces. The amount of honesty was not expected, but it was comforting to laugh about one’s tragedies. 

“No, no. The Prince is-” She fidgeted with the sleeves on her gown “Well, I-“ she sighed in exasperation with her inability to open up to the kind Queen“ I do not really know how to explain his offense” Accepting her emotional deceit, the Princess tried to change the subject “Are you having a tough night, as well?”

That question seemed to take the Queen far away from the garden. After the silence had settled in between the two woman, the sweet voice illuminated the echoes of the garden yet again “Mm” Heleana got closer to ther “You see, dreams are the whispers that guide my steps” 

The Queen always spoke in a trance-like state, her mind seemed to live inside the oneiric, pulling her further and further away from the world surrounding her. But she was kind. Her eyes shined with a sincere caring that was hard to fake. Maybe they could become friends. After all, she had come to rescue her from her own mind, speaking earnestly, without hesitation or defensiveness. 

Seeing Heleana’s kind eyes turn watery with desperation and a sense of shared complicity, a wave of guilt swallows her body whole. She did not understand what she was trying to say, and she wasn’t sure what to make of it or if she was to believe its veracity. 

She decided not to hide her confusion, only her instinctive disbelief. Magic and prophets were just tales to keep everyone compliant.

“Pardon me, Heleana, but, what does it mean?” The Queen seemed to feel anxious all of a sudden, and she firmly grabbed the Princess’s hands, got closer to her, and whispered a terrible sentence to her confused ears. 

“I am afraid. Not the dragons, the rats”.

It sounded unlikely, and it took you by surprise. She clearly seemed to think she was making an urgent confession, so you tried to be kind, despite your skepticism. There it was again, Targaryen’s queer costumes and the southeastern legends.

She took her hands off yours; The warmth of her touch disappeared as soon as it came. The Princess’s face must have given it away. Heleana quickly composed herself and softly uttered “You don’t believe me either” she had said matter-of-factly, disappointed and frustrated, yes. But mostly just with sadness coloring her voice. 

————

After the dreadful encounter, It only took about two weeks for the heir to be murdered. It had been done, after all, by the rat men. The culprit was rumored to be not the Usurper, but her loose cannon of a husband. Either way, it did not really make any difference; A child had been butchered like cattle. The only male heir, yes. But also Heleana’s baby boy. The King had turned mad with rage and grief, and Heleana’s psyche and heart seemed to never be able to recover. 

Upon the news of the tragic death, Prince Aemond was taken aback, but kept a serious temple and measured concern. She felt horrified to see his initial cold reaction, and she felt afraid of his familial detachment, and his growing ambition. Upon receiving the details of the horrific news, the Princess had to kneel and puke her sorrows out of her body. It had been a primal reaction, with a sudden feeling of nausea. She thought of the white-haired boy, as pale as snow, as happy as one can be. He was robbed of his future, of the love he could’ve received from his father, his sister and his kind mother, who may just have been able to raise him to be different from the King. But, egotistically, she primarily thought of Heleana’s desperate eyes, pleading for someone to listen to her premonitions, begging for help. The Princess had ignored her Queen’s distress, with a crime worse than treason, but that of treating a fellow woman as hysterical and mentally challenged. Guilt overshadowed any other thought on her mind. 

The first night after the news was known, she thanked the Gods for showing proof of the Prince’s humanity. At the marital bed, when the sheets were already warmed by their bodies, and the echoes of the mumbling night could be heard, another noise could be made out from the chambers. Her husband, the chaste man, the disinterested man, found the warmth in his heart to shed tears for his sibling’s son. She felt such a great relief, that she quietly got closer to him, and wrapped his arms against his waist. The prince, who was not facing her, could feel the warmth of his wife’s tears staining his back with a shared sorrow. He slowly grabbed the hands that were firmly grounding him, and, in a weak moment, he caved in to his human desires and caressed her hands with his thumb. 

The Princess did not sleep that night. When the tears stopped their flow, and her husband had finally fallen asleep, the spell was broken. Uncomfortable with this position of vulnerability and touch, she immediately tried to escape his tender grip. Now, alone with her thoughts again, she could accept that her inability to comprehend that there were things beyond her understanding of the world, her pride and brute vanity had contributed to the beheading of a little boy. 

Feeling like a young child again; Turning and moving around the bed at night, she tried to understand what could be an empiric, logical reason that had made Heleana predict with chilling accuracy the events that would take place. The woman’s entire cosmovision and knowledge of life was shaken, and in the depths of night, she found herself suddenly scared of the ghostly profile that the chandelier projected onto the walls, she felt anxiety about the noises that echoed from the main hall, and mainly, she understood with horror that she could not come up for any reason that did not involve the ancient beliefs. 

In the upcoming weeks, besides the political unrest, came the personal tragedies. The Prince, back to his normal self, had told his wife that the daughter of Heleana, not only haunted by her brother’s brutal attack, had been suffering recurring night terrors, worrying that she would be the next to be taken away. 

The Princess’s heart broke for the little girl, and for her mother, who must’ve felt like another nail was being hit onto her skin with her daughter’s complicated grief. 

So she took it upon herself to make their nights as easy as possible. Each day, she would invent a story to write down for Heleana to read to her daughter before bed, she would conjure tales of love and divine peace, tales of struggle that always ended with a nice resolution. The Queen, knowing that Princess’s kindness was motivated by her own guilt, decided to finally have a talk with her, in private. 

As soon as Heleana called for her, the Princess promptly left her room, eager to get the difficult conversation started as soon as possible. With the rush she had felt she did not have much time to cover or hide her writings, which were not yet ready for the Queen to receive. Prince Aemond could not help himself, and as soon as she left, he walked towards the desk and found with a small smile in his lips that his wife had been writing children’s tales for his sister and niece. With fear of ruining the wet ink, he traced the mess his wife had for calligraphy. Without touching, his fingertips lingered over the comforting words, imagining what it would feel like to touch the magical world she had created to comfort his family.  

————

When she entered the room, despite all the consuming guilt and shame she felt, all that her eyes could really focus on was Heleana. She was standing near the edge of the window, exposing her back towards the door of the chamber, not admiring the landscape, but feeling the cold breeze hit her face with tenderness. She looked like a divine apparition, with her pristine white hair that attracted light from the room and multiplied it with its color, with her usual trance state and the beautiful embroidery on her dress. The Princess did not know how to announce her arrival, so she awkwardly waited for the Queen to notice her. After some time, Heleana murmured something without turning to face her guest. 

“They are helping.” She took a small breath before continuing, “The stories, I mean.”

The Princess’s heart broke once more for the girl who remained kind above all else, the girl who war could not completely taint, even after forcing her to experience the torturous pain of loss. 

“Heleana, I’m deeply sorry, I-“ without being able to find the proper words, or knowing how to continue, she kneels before her, bowing to her not as the Queen, but as a wise friend who should have been listened to. The Princess looks up to her from the depths of the floor and says “I truly am sorry, I should have listened”. 

Upon hearing those words, the white on Heleana’s eyes seemed to pulsate and expand on their own, clearly being attacked with flashes of the tragic night. When she finally closed them, she dropped to her knees as well, crying, and thanking the floor which provided a wonderfully solid base. It was comforting to know that she had fallen and could fall no further. The Queen said nothing, but took the Princess’s hands. Now, laying together on their knees, with their fingers intertwined and their heads against each other, that was the moment they truly became friends. The pair remained in that position for a while, before the Princess broke the sacred silence with an earnest desire to express what had been on her mind “You have a gift, Heleana. A gift that defies my common mind and my prejudge against the realm of the unknown. I truly am sorry. No one should doubt the words that your prophecies tell. Jaehaerys was a wonderful child, nothing could mend what has been done to him”. 

“I do feel sad about Jaehaerys. But I ought not to, I think. Babes die all the time. The people at that horrid procession, they way they looked at me-”

Helaena dropped her hands, and started to avoid eye contact with the Princess. She focused instead on the pattern the dents in the walls of the chamber.

“You are allowed to grieve. Not as a high-born lady, but as a mother”. 

The Queen never really met the other woman's eyes again, but a soft, almost imperceptible smile flashed through her face. They sat on the cold, solid floor for what felt like hours, not speaking again, but accompanying one another until dawn, when the time came for the Princess to finish the story and for the Queen to read it to her daughter.

────────

Notes: I finally got time to write part two! This series has given me my motivation back, and has helped me through tough times. Little people have read it, but to all of those who are re-blogging the work, I sincerely appreciate you and your kindness! It makes me smile -Sidey xxo

pd. My timeline is all messed up so ignore that too x

[ladyinthebluebox]

One of my favorite things about Taash is specifically how emotionally immature and raw they are, how their general approach to life is the direct clobbering of issues, and how anything more complex than that is internalized and projected in a very overt, almost teenage way. Even the way they immediately zero in on Solas "not making things right" with Mythal and that being something that twists you up. Same with Emmrich's practice, same with Neve's femininity,

And then, crucially, despite that rigidity in processing trauma and emotions, the game goes out of its way to say that they STILL get to receive grace in their struggle of arriving at the complicated truths about themselves, that they still deserve and are worth of a full, happy, self-actualized existence. That interrogating and finding identity isn't some vapid, high-brow crusade of intellectualism, but something that is essential and critical to every single living soul.

This, in a nutshell, is why I love Taash and what they did with them.

thank you for sending me this message. it means a lot to hear a postive take and actual words of affirmation on Taash.

it's been a horribly frustraiting, disheartening time trying to filter out and avoid all the outright hate & misconceptions the vast majority of this fandom seems to be harbouring for them. & for the stupidest of reasons too.

to me they are an incredibly touching character. they clearly have a lot of heart, though they aren't always able to express it properly. and i feel like majority of the people don't even try to understand them. which is just. sad. they are missing out on trully experiencing such a wonderful story of growing into "your" true self, reconciling with a troubled relationship with a parent (which touched me personally so, so deeply) and what a supportive, open-minded circle of people can do for a person...

trully Taash deserves all the love. & dragons to fight. & shiny things ofc.

[phillycheesesteakcore]

You want to talk nuance? Fine. I can think of four enforcers off the top of my head that provide nuance:

Grayson: In her time the Sheriff of the enforcers. A character clearly being positioned to the audience as more morally upright. By cooperating with Vander she works to reduce the skirmishes as much as possible. And yet, we see that she cannot publicly work with him in any capacity that matters, because Zaun and its citizens are dehumanized to the point where their appointed leader has feasibly little power and certainly no legislation. This is not a flaw in the system, it is it's design, and it is a system that Grayson upholds with her position as Sheriff. She's trying, yes, she wants to do good, yes, but people are still being harmed.

Marcus: The man who Silco has in his pocket. By allowing Silco to control him, the corruption within the enforcers grows and the damage Silco does worsens. In his tenure as Sheriff "whole underground areas [are] FILLED with addicts wallowing around in their own filth". Oh sure, it's Silco's command, but Marcus allows it to happen in exchange for keeping his secrets to avoid the consequences of his own actions. But he's a loving father, who cares for his daughter deeply and wants more than anything in the world to protect her. He even fantasizes about taking out Silco for good, even if that means dying with him. But in the end he lacks the spine to do anything of the like. Marcus is a well-meaning if weak willed man, but his position within the enforcers mean other people suffer for his gutlessness.

Steb: Our fishy looking friend from season 2. Steb is a deeply fascinating character to me. There aren't very many non-human looking people in Piltover. The only non-human on its governing Council is Heimerdinger, but he's a Yordle, an old and wise member of a race everyone in Runeterra knows better than to mess with. I'd say the only other non-human looking character I can think of working in the enforcers is the warden at Stillwater. So I find it fascinating that Steb, as a non-human who seems to be something of a minority in Piltover, shows an open disdain for Zaunites stronger than most other characters we encounter. It's clear right from his and Maddie's first meeting with Vi, his distinct unfriendliness and distrust of her is in sharp contrast to Maddie's attitude. I'd think as someone so clearly underrepresented in his community he'd understand what it's like to be misjudged, but that doesn't seem to be the case. But even he can put aside his own prejudices when it comes to defending his home side by side with Zaunites by the end of the season.

Loris: Again, a character we don't know very much about. From the beginning he seems a bit more apprehensive about certain things than other enforcers, choosing to pretend not to hear Maddie's conversation with Vi. He also seems a lot more reluctant than the others during Caitlyn's manhunt for Jinx in the Undercity. But he follows orders nonetheless. But he has a breaking point. With the call to martial law, he sees things going in a direction he just can't follow, and he leaves. Dragging your feet while committing atrocities makes you no less culpable than anyone else, but at least he realized that some things are just too far.

There's nuance, I can see that. I'm not saying every enforcer joined with their head full fantasies about stabbing Zaunite infants in their cribs. There's certain amounts of good done, or at the very least, being attempted at. But it always comes back to the damage being done and the system of oppression being upheld.

Arcane Season 1 fans: Oh my god, I love how nuanced this show is! There are so many parallels and micro expressions and the animation is so good!

Arcane Season 2 “fans”: Don’t make me use brain, just tell me every plot point. I don’t want to pay attention to the characters expressions to figure out what they’re thinking. Fuck nuance, cop = bad!

[yermes]

The end 📖 

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Pick a meme

123

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Disclaimer: please take what I say with a grain of salt and not as the gospel. I just want to share some ideas of practicing and giving advice using the medium as often as I can with school, work, and my own personal studies and practice. But I am working on sharing my notes soon so that will be exciting! Liking and sharing does a lot 🥰

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For other socials checked pinned!

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The cards

Argon 18 Ar

For the end to occur means you reached an absolute wholeness in an aspect. To be done, to end, is to come to a conclusion and to be concluded is for something to add a wholeness to your life. No longer eager to rip at the edges of other aspect of your life and spiraling down that you don’t have much muchness and what you can add falters. But you reached wholeness. You reached a oneness. You may end, and start a new path where you are no longer complete. Such is life, get to wholeness, add to your wholeness. Repeat.

Cobalt 27 Co

Something beautiful in an end. A well structured a well ordered win. A romance in an end, the end, a small end, a small death. Life is full of small deaths and small moments where we are confronted in the crumbling and displacement of structure and constructs where we must take the remains and rebuild. The after after party. The life after death, what changes in the end?

Scandium 21 Sc

The end of a spiritual and educational era, you need to find what actually makes you, you. What do you want to study? What do you believe in? Is it actually you or is it just small pieces of others which you were told is the end all be all. Its time to end what others could be and born what you could be. Its not about the people around you its about you finally showing up for yourself in those hard to understand aspects of yourself.

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Extras:

Story/vent:

Love ya pookie

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[atoriv-art]

What are your thoughts on Sasuke x Gaara

beautiful showstopping saved my life we love you sasugaa <333

ok to actually answer: i think they have a very compelling dynamic! i really really like their chunin exams era with gaara being weirdly obsessed with sasuke because they're both "damaged" to put it in some way!

i wish we got to see sasuke's opinion about it a little more, especially since it comes at a time where he's starting to come around to the idea of using his power to protect and not just kill itachi, but this "i relate to your pain and i need to make sure my pain (and to gaara, therefore my power) is still bigger and more powerful" dynamic is soooo fun to me as an introduction point between them! i find it a lot more compelling than what it got interrupted by 😅

i understand the value of having gaara see someone who is Literally just like him (ie also a jinchuriki), but imo having him deal with someone who he perceives as Emotionally just like him (ie traumatized, angry and lonely) was already excellent...

also!!!!!!!!!! i'm not a fan of how sasuke is characterized in the five kage summit in general (or rather how he's demonized by the framing of it all. i love a good public meltdown. his evil laugh lives in my brain) BUT i looooooooove the scene with gaara confronting him i was NOT expecting it when i was watching it the first time and it was like an angel smiled down upon me.

and and and (guy who gets to bring up the naruto games again) they do a fun reversal of their original dynamic there it in the ninja storm games, with sasuke being the one to flaunt his pain and power against gaara

LIKE SORRY I JUST THINK IT'S FUNNN!!!! they have a lot in common and deal with it similarly but when gaara's at his lowest sasuke's starting to get better, and that gets flipped later on: when gaara's figured himself out it's sasuke who's completely spiraling... hehehehe!

ok ill put the rest in a read-more. jesus

i get why the pairing isn't very popular (sasuke has like, two of the biggest pairings soaking up all of the fandom attention span alkdsmak) but i cannot standddd the weird consensus that they don't like each other 😭 gaara showed in that scene that he does still hold some amount of respect and empathy for sasuke, enough to offer him a helping hand when he was at his lowest, and sasuke himself was engaging in the conversation much as he disagreed with gaara... it's gaara who starts the fighting back up, not sasuke!

imo gaara's words to naruto later on that get twisted into a "girl dump him" speech (😒.) are obviously meant to serve as a warning to manage expectations, because he Knows his friend is still not going to give up on sasuke and might not even particularly want him to, but he's speaking from the kage angle as opposed to what he personally would want

gaara CRIED for sasuke and stopped the fighting specifically to talk to him for fuck's sake he doesn't HATE him, his siblings have to convince him to give up on trying to talk to him and there's a distinction made of what should be done as a kage. and while i have a thousand things to say about how i don't love how the manga handles its kage characters wrt framing them as Generally Good, i do think it's notable that it's this that makes him give it up

"personal feelings" meaning, his siblings can recognize that gaara doesn't fucking want to fight him and would really prefer to talk this out. I think about this a lot sorry KSMDKSMDK so much of the consensus is that gaara, specifically, can't stand sasuke and for WHAT.

and as a sidebar i think their insistence on calling e/o by their full names/titles ("Uchiha Sasuke" / "Gaara Of The Sand") is so fucking funny.

i know what you are. also:

sasuke engaging in battle banter. OPEN YOUR EYES

ANYWAY!

i actually think that of my "quirky" pairings (the sasugaaneji triad that is.) it's the one with the most canon basis and it's not even close. however it's also the one that i notice people engaging the least with ASKJDNSAKD which is obviously fine it's just a little funny to me

[taylorklosscomeout138]

Hey! I’m usually not very vocal online but i’ve been following this mass coming out theory for a while and it’s starting to make more and more sense. I might sound like a deranged weirdo for asking u this question but since u seem to believe in it too i decided to just go for it. Do you know how it works with crediting backup vocals on songs? Like i’ve been listening to olivia rodrigo and gracie abrams, and it’s all so kaylor coded. also i saw someone mention miley cyrus maybe being part of it?! even her sister noah (🙌 voice) is a sucpest loll.

What i mean is that i can’t shake off the feeling that they might be doing backup vocals for each other on some of the songs.. I’t not keeping me up at night but it’s in the voice i bring to bed * Not sure if this how u say it english. Cause i’m not a native English speaker, sorry if i made any mistakes. I also hope you understand what i mean with this question. Could send you a few songs to see (hear) iffor yourself .

Annyways something’s cooking in the kitchen - feels sus.

Let’s hope she really is going te be “free”

I have not heard anything in Olivia's discography that ever read as Kaylor to me BUT contrary to belief, she is absolutely involved. Her and her "best best friend" roommate Iris Apatow are both publicly Kaylors which I could get into the in depth lore of that in its own post ESPECIALLY the fact that Iris Apatow dated Joe Alwyn's brother and knew insider tea but

In addition to this, following Karlie being at Eras Tour, there was a blind item that released saying Karlie and Olivia had a chat over lunch. This was relatively being talked about in Kaylor spaces, and then 2 days later Karlie posted to Olivia's new song "bad idea right" seemingly confirming this!

As far as Gracie Abrams you are absolutely correct there are so many Gracie songs that are clearly written about Kaylor. I have not been able to figure out the *why* of this but "Us" made it very obvious that Gracie was playing Karlie in that song

I think the idea was to make the Gracie connections obvious with the Taylor collab. Because after that, I revisited Gracie's discography and undeniably it's full of lyrical references to Taylor's albums, especially her EP it has so many Folklore/Evermore lyrics.

The Secret of Us very much felt like a play on The Story of Us and that album had exactly 13 tracks initially. I mean the whole thing was Taylor/Kaylor coded beyond just the feature-

To answer your main question, I have not personally noticed much of any suspicious backing vocals so maybe that is something I missed but I absoutely agree there are many songs by a lot of various artists that really seem to be written about Kaylor

This is most likely due to ghost writing, which yes you can ghost write songs and not be credited if you don't wish to. And this can apply to doing backing vocals too to my knowledge. Also ghost writing doesn't have to mean writing the full song, it can be collaborative as well!

In addition, if anyone is interested in a deep dive on either Olivia/Iris Apatow Kaylor lore or Gracie's Kaylor coded lyrics I am open to both so just ask!

Thanks for your question there was nothing wrong with it at all and feel free to ask anything else anytime !!!

[ghostgirl-22]

Somehow the conversation coming up that art doesnt know what he likes or knowing his own body because he always did what he was supposed to and no girl has felt the need or want to touch him because "hes the man and shouldnt need all that" "guys take care of the girl not the other way around" iykwim so patrick decides to help him figure it all out

How much pressure he likes, how wet he likes it, if he like gentle or nipping, gripping or biting.. where his erogenous zones are... kissing the sensitive parts of his inner thighs, what roles he likes to take, how he likes to be spoken to...?

U can ignore this part but Maybe pat asks "You never even tried doing it yourself? Like taken your time and see where your hands go?"

art says how would i be able to figure it out when i dont know where to start or what to do. Pat understands there probably a repression aspect to it aswell aand so they discover art together with pat guiding him through this new world/exploration

Omg! Your ask is literally ten times better than what I wrote but I love you for letting me try it dear nonnie <3

CW: 18+ !NSFW! Explicit

Basically this is just yearning and longing and porn with the thinnest of plots. So Artrick core.

——

It all comes out over holiday break. Art is staying with Patrick, it’s a few days after Christmas and Art’s parents are already busy with fundraisers and meetings. To them it doesn’t matter how Art gets back to Stanford, as long as he gets back so they could care less that Patrick keeps him for a few days.

They’re up too late. Patrick is lying on the floor with his laptop, looking up the scheduled matches for this season and who he’ll likely be playing. Art has taken over his bed, flipping channels on the television, going back and forth between American Pie on TBS and ESPN. Patrick is certain the sex conversation starts because they’re watching American Pie but what starts out as Art trying to get more information about Patrick’s sex life with Tashi leads to Art admitting he’s never really explored what he likes in bed.

“What do you even mean, explore?” Art asks, suddenly self conscious. He’s such a little perfectionist, checked off all the boxes, straight As, Ivy League college, division one tennis player, first girlfriend at the “right” age, lost it (many times) before high school finished. Patrick can tell it’s frustrating him to feel like he missed something. “Do you mean… touching myself?”

That’s really all it takes to divert Patrick’s attention. He shuts his laptop and sits up, gazing at Art. “Yeah jerking off is one part,” Patrick says, “But I meant what do you like?”

“I like having sex,” Art shrugs, “it’s simple. What else is there to explore?”

“Oh come on,” Patrick smirks. “It’s anything but simple. Do you even know your favorite position?”

Art rubs his arm, its so obvious he’s never even thought about it. “I don’t really… I mean um… I like… you know… the usual way.”

“Yeah that checks out,” Patrick says teasingly and Art’s gaze darkens.

”Why? How do you fuck Tashi?”

Patrick grins because he knew it was coming. “Nice try.”

Art huffs an irritated sigh. “Whatever man. Just because I’m not trying every position or whatever. I mean what difference does it make? She still…everybody still leaves happy.” Art picks up the remote and switches channels again like he’s done with the conversation but his skin is starting to flush.

He’s so easy. Patrick decides to push a little more. He shoves Art’s legs over and settles next to him on the full sized bed. Art just sits up, crossing his legs, he rests back on his palms.

Maybe it’s because Patrick helped him with his first sexual experience or maybe it’s because he has some kind of corruption kink but he loves whenever their relationship shifts back around to this show-me-how dynamic.

Art is so good at walking this line of self delusion that he’s this perfectly good straight boy… but when he needs something from Patrick. Usually experience. That’s when the lines start to blur. It’s a fucking mess but that’s exactly where Patrick lives.

“Look dude it’s not even about that.” Patrick continues. “It’s about… you remember when we were kids. You were so scared you’d suck at kissing so I—”

“Yeah I was a dumb kid,” Art interrupts quickly.

“Sure but you practiced…” Patrick points out. “And you’re a really good kisser now,” he says, smirking. Art looks away.

Patrick sighs. “I’m just saying if you play around… and learn what you really like. Sex can be really, really fucking good. Besides that’s half the fun of it anyway, right?”

Art chews his bottom lip and then he sighs. “It’s just… I mean I’m a guy… I thought I was supposed to look things up. I didn’t want to look like I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“What did you look up?”

“I don’t know, how to put on a condom? Only the first time. And like there was this article about unhooking different types of bra straps. Shut up,” he adds, shoving Patrick gently because he can’t help laughing at that.

“Okay how about this?” Patrick says, the ghost of a smile still on his lips. He leans back against the headboard, “Do you like it slow? Or do you prefer going fast?”

”Both,” Art says. “I like whatever she likes to do.”

“You don’t have a preference? What about when you’re touching yourself?”

Art plays with his tongue, rolls it back and forth in his mouth as he’s thinking. “Slower.” He says after a while. “Like… when I get the chance I like it…” He glances at Patrick and then looks determinedly back at the tv. “Slower.”

Patrick takes a breath and tries to slow himself down too but he can already feel his cock starting to fill up. “Okay what about touch? What makes you feel good? What gets you up?”

Art frowns. “I um… I don’t—- what about you? Where do you—” he sighs and then shakes his head. “Patrick, this is ridiculous.”

“No it isn’t, what’s ridiculous is you really don’t know what you like.”

Art is gripping the remote too tightly. “I know what I like,” he says.

“What?” Patrick gazes at him.

“Lots of stuff,” Art says.

“Like?”

Art rubs his thighs, Patrick looks down, following the anxious movement.

“I know something you like,” Patrick says after Art doesn’t say anything for a minute. “You want me to show you?”

Art starts playing with his tongue again, he takes a deep breath and nods and Patrick sits up so he’s close.

“You like it when someone kisses you here,” he brushes his knuckles along the junction between Art’s neck and collar bone and he shivers, pulling his shoulder up towards his ear. Patrick considers going in for the kiss but getting Art in a headspace is a delicate thing. It can lead everywhere and nowhere depending on how Patrick handles him.

And he knows Art… fuck… apparently he knows things about Art’s body that he’s not even aware of. This messy little “friendship” is gonna drive him crazy.

“Can I—“ Patrick lets his fingertips settle along the nape of Art’s neck where his curly hair is fine and baby soft. Art closes his eyes momentarily and takes a little breath.

”You like that too,” Patrick says.

“Yeah,” Art says softly.

Patrick licks his bottom lip to keep himself from licking at the flush on Art’s throat. “Do you like being on top? Or on the bottom?” Patrick asks, carefully.

Art opens his eyes and bites his lip again before taking a deep breath. “I think I prefer it when she… when she’s on top.”

“What do you like about it?”

“I don’t know… it’s hot. I mean…” he looks at Patrick. “I like looking at her tits when she….” He looks down shyly. Such a stupidly, pretty boy.

Patrick smirks. “So you're a boob guy.”

“So are you,” Art says, like he’s been caught doing something bad and doesn’t want to be the only one to get in trouble.

Patrick shrugs. “I love everything. I’m more of an ass man. But if you want to kill me show me a great pair of legs… I mean… fuck.”

Art rubs his thighs again. “I really like Tashi’s legs.”

“I bet you do,” Patrick smirks, leaning in. “What about you? You ever let her touch your chest?” He teases his fingers over Art’s t-shirt where his pecs are. Art gasps lightly as Patrick pinches just the right spot and the nipple starts to harden immediately. Patrick circles it lightly and Art shifts on the bed, pressing one hand into his lap and pushing Patrick away with the other. “Fuck no. That’s weird right?” Art asks, his voice a little pitchy.

God he fucking loves it. Patrick wants to push him down on the bed. But he sits on his hands to make himself behave. “What’s weird about it?” Patrick asks.

“I mean… I’m a guy. Why would she want to touch my… my nipples.” Art huffs a nervous little laugh.

“To make you feel good,” Patrick says softly.

Art licks his lips idly and lets out another breath.

“What about grip… do you like it soft?” Patrick asks.

Art nods. “Yeah.”

“This?” Patrick grips his wrist gently. “Or this?” He asks gripping a little tighter. “Or?” He grips tighter still, until Art squeezes his eyes shut.

“The… the middle… the second one.”

“Just right,” Patrick lets up on his grip. “What about here?” Patrick trails his fingertips…slowly… down Arts tummy.

“Stop,” Art breathes as Patrick’s fingers reach the elastic of his boxers.

Patrick shrugs, letting go of the elastic and smirking. He could do this all night. Touch and poke and prod and feel. He knows it’s turning Art on. He’s flushed so fucking beautifully, worrying his lips all red, squirming on the mattress.

“What about…” Patrick sits up on his knees and plays his fingers into Art's hair. Art looks up at him eagerly. Eyes fully dilated, lips parted, breathing shallow.

God.

Such a fucking pretty, pretty boy.

All Patrick wants now is whatever the fuck he can get away with. “Can I kiss you soft?” He asks as he presses his lips to Art’s mouth. Art nods and opens up, sliding his tongue into Patrick’s mouth right away, wanting it. Even though they’d only ever kissed a handful of times, ever since the first time their lips touched Patrick could tell that for Art kissing would be a Thing with a capital T. Patrick caresses the side of Art’s throat and feels it as he shivers. He listens to the way Art’s breathing. So aware of how Art’s body is moving. He’s opening up, he’s uncrossed his legs, knees pulled up, he’s grabbing at Patrick’s t-shirt trying to pull him closer as Patrick starts to deepen the kiss. Pressing his tongue more firmly into Art’s mouth. Art really likes that. He starts gasping, nibbling on Patrick’s lip before pushing his own tongue back in. When he starts moaning Patrick pulls back. His heart is railing against his ribcage and he’s losing himself. His hips are pressed in between Art’s legs feeling everything. Certain Art is feeling everything.

”Fuuckk,” Patrick breathes. He flops onto the bed resting his head on his pillow. If he were with Tashi right now he’d probably be halfway inside her already. Everything with her is impatient, horny and desperate. Everything with Art is pleading, anxious and pretending he doesn’t want it as badly as he fucking does.

Art is breathless, lips kiss swollen, he scoots back to get distance. “This is… so…”

“You like dirty talk?” Patrick interrupts.

Art smiles a bit and shrugs. “Kinda.”

“What’s kinda?” Patrick asks.

Art kicks his legs, lightly. “I like… I like when she tells me how she can’t wait for me to fuck her…”

Patrick sits up on his elbows. “Like I’m so wet for you baby, can’t wait to feel that big dick inside me?” Patrick says softly.

”Jesus Patrick,” Art says, covering his face.

“What?” Patrick says, smiling slightly at the reaction.

“You don’t have to say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you're wet,” Art whispers.

“So what do you want me to say?” Patrick says, he gets up again, abruptly crawling back into Art’s personal space. Art reacts at the sudden movement by opening his mouth… Patrick can see his little pink tongue, desperate for another kiss.

Art is gazing at him, pupils so large the rings of blue are barely visible. They’re so close, their lips are almost touching when Art licks his mouth. A horny little mess, if Patrick tried it now he thinks Art might let him fuck.

Patrick smiles and then leans against Art’s ear. “Can’t wait till you fill me up and fuck me good baby…” he murmurs softly.

“Yeah,” Art says quietly. “I can fuck you good.”

Patrick thinks he’s gonna go insane.

Art’s breathing starts to pick up again.

“Can you fill me up and stretch me… fuck me so hard I can feel you for days…” Patrick whispers.

“Mmhm,” Art hums eagerly, he starts lapping and sucking along Patrick’s throat, it’s so fucking yummy.

Patrick rubs his hand lightly along the inside of Arts thigh, trying to graze his knuckles along Arts cock. Art hitches another breath.

“That feel good?” Patrick asks gently.

“Yeah,” Art says breathlessly.

“You like it when she goes down on you before you fuck her?” Patrick asks.

“Yes, mm, yes,” Art says eagerly, shifting on the bed so Patrick can get between his legs. It’s so slutty the way he opens up so quickly, knowing what Patrick wants to do. Patrick presses a kiss along the inside of his upper thigh.

“Mm,” Art whines, and Patrick’s sure he’s just found another sensitive spot. He kisses it again, this time sucking at the skin there and Art moans properly. Patrick grins and starts palming him through his shorts. His own cock feels so fucking heavy. He’s thought about fucking Art since the first time he watched him nut all over himself but right now he feels like he’ll die if he doesn’t get this.

“You gotta tell me how you want it to feel,” Patrick says looking up at him. “Can you talk me through it?”

“What if your… what if we get caught?” Art whispers.

“Everyone is asleep by now I promise,” Patrick says.

”Are you sure?”

“Fucking yes.” Patrick says impatiently, though if he’s honest he wouldn’t give a fuck at this point if they were all right outside his bedroom door. He can’t help himself, he tugs Art’s shorts down to see it.

He’s still barely got any hair there and he’s definitely still blonde everywhere. He’s so hard, his cock is so pretty and pink and full to the tip, pearls of cum dripping. Patrick laps it up and Art hisses.

“Talk to me,” Patrick whispers. “You like it wet?”

“Fuck,” Art breathes. “I mean yes. Yeah I want it wet. Oh god.”

Patrick fills his mouth.

“Oh— oh— fuck—-“ Art groans, he’s so loud. His hips stutter but Patrick holds him down, swirls his tongue around, doesn’t swallow anything, just drools all over it. Arts toeing the bed, trying to push up. “Mm fuck your tongue can you… can you do it faster…” Art moans. So Patrick moves his tongue faster.

He doesn’t ask, maybe because he’s too far gone but he teases his fingertips up along Art’s entrance and the sounds that Art makes in response, make Patrick shiver.

“Patrick,” Art gasps, his body is practically vibrating. Patrick presses his fingers in a little deeper and he moans like the boys do when Patrick’s on those websites in the middle of the night with the volume down low. But Art can’t be quiet… and Patrick doesn’t want him to stop.

“Patrick! Patrick I can’t—- I think I’m gonna—I’m gonna fucking cum— holy shit—“ Art wasn’t even done saying Patrick’s name when Patrick’s mouth started filling up. And boy does it fucking fill up. Patrick’s swallowing, and swallowing and swallowing. He’s so greedy he doesn’t want to waste a single drop of it. Art is whining breathlessly when Patrick finally lets it drop from his mouth, still so shiny and red and wet, twitching helplessly. Patrick just stares at it, dizzy for a minute before he drops onto the bed next to Art and reaches between his legs and starts touching himself.

Art sighs and pulls his shorts up properly before rolling over. He puts his hand where Patrick’s is and starts helping. “What about you? Art asks softly. “What do you like?”

A/N: Sorry this took hundreds of years my love. I wanted to do better but unfortunately got lots to catch up on so it shall be good enough <3

[dotthings]

Relevant — the dialogue in the episode.

Dean: “I don't know what to do here, Lis. I mean, if I knew for sure what the safest thing was, then I'd do it. Stay here and look after you guys or get as far away as I possibly can, but I don't know. And I get what I've been doing lately, you know, what with the yelling and the acting like a prison guard. It's just, that's not me. You tell yourself you're not gonna be something, you know? But my dad was exactly like this. All the time. It's scaring the hell out of me.” (bolding mine)

It’s John as the shadow. The potentiality of not being able to break the cycle, but it’s not who Dean is, it’s not that he is becoming John.

Throughout the series we see Dean pushing back against John, against the ideas Dean grew up in where he idolized his father, but in the run of the series—which covers Dean’s adulthood—he is pushing back and again and again, and right up through the final seasons, the story keeps showing how he’s not like John.

Lisa accuses Dean of not wanting to be there, with them, and Dean says “Yes I do” — because Dean does want to be, and he also misses hunting. It can be both.

Lisa: “Okay. Okay, but you also want to be there. I get it. You're white-knuckling it living like this. Like what you are is some bad, awful thing. But you're not. But I'm not going to have this discussion every time you leave. And this is just going to keep happening, so I need you to go.”

If only Dean could see himself how those who love him see him.

And this next bit gets overlooked a whole lot:

DEAN: I can't just lose you and Ben.

LISA: That's not what I'm saying.

DEAN: You're saying hit the road.

LISA: Dean, if there's some rule that says this all has to be either/or, how about we break it? Me and Ben will be here, and you come when you can. Just come in one piece, okay?

Hunting isn’t why things fell apart. Why did Lisa actually kick him out? When Dean was a VAMPIRE, not himself, he shoved Ben, to protect Ben from vampire Dean. Lisa didn’t know, so it’s understandable she tells Dean to leave and not come back. But Dean, as himself, is not the problem.

And he lets them go in the end not because it would be impossible to make it work, but Dean, full of heartbreaking good intentions, believes he is poison and it’s all his fault and they are better off away from him.

Fandom often takes Dean’s self perceptions and fears as an objective Truth, for its own various agendas I’m not going to get into.

Even though the Braedens wound up out of the picture due to the plot, that doesn’t change that it’s fanon, not canon, to paint Deanas so toxic and angry and so terrible at parenting and doesn’t belong there and he’s such an ~abuser. Fanon says that. Not canon.

6x02 - Two and a Half Men

it's been in my drafts for a while i still don't know how to explain my thoughts. MY POINT. this scene says it's unusual for dean to yell at ben. like ben is shaken by it, and dean is very aware he crossed a line. which implies that for the whole year, even tho dean was depressed and drunk and all, he still wasn't acting like john. later in the ep when he goes "acting like a prison guard" and "lately" bc!!! he wasn't like that!!! FOR A WHOLE YEAR. AT A LOW POINT. s6 dean was capable of being a good father actually and then he gets convinced/convinced himself that he wasn't and could never be because in his blood he's a killer. i'm going to walk in the ocean.

[rose24207]

Mafia lando being into reader but she's very distant and dosnt let him over to her house and he finds out its because she has a child from her previous relationship where the ex was not a good guy. But the reader didn't tell lando because most guys dump her.

Little secret

Summary: Lando Norris, a mafia boss, falls for a woman hiding her past with an abusive ex and a child she’s trying to protect.

Genre: Mafia!Lando, fluff

TW: Mafia, stalking, abusive ex

A/N: wow y’all are so creative! English is not my first language. I hope you enjoy it though! Requests are open and welcome!

Masterlist

Lando Norris was not a man used to rejection. In the world of high-stakes dealings and mafia intrigue, he was accustomed to getting what he wanted, whether that was a deal sealed with a handshake or someone’s loyalty secured by more sinister means. He ruled his empire with precision and control, a man whose charisma could bend even the hardest people to his will. But when it came to you, he found himself at a loss.

You were beautiful, composed, and distant, and from the moment Lando met you, he was intrigued. But no matter how many times he tried to get closer, you kept him at arm’s length.

It wasn’t that you weren’t attracted to him—far from it. The first time you met, you couldn’t help but notice the magnetic pull he had, a mixture of confidence and charm that could disarm anyone. His eyes always seemed to linger on you a little too long, his smirk a little too playful. But you kept your distance, cautious of the world he came from and the life he led.

Every time he invited you to dinner, or made an effort to get to know you, you found some excuse not to meet him. You’d tell him you were busy, that you weren’t the type for relationships, but inside, you couldn’t help but feel the spark between you both. There was something different about Lando, a softness behind the hard exterior that you couldn't quite figure out. But you knew better than to let yourself fall for someone like him. Men like Lando—dangerous, powerful—never stuck around.

It was just easier to keep him at arm’s length.

"Maybe some other time," you would say, but the truth was, you were terrified. Terrified that if he got too close, he'd find out about the walls you’d built around yourself, the walls that kept everyone out—especially men like him.

Lando didn’t take rejection well, not even from someone as enigmatic as you. Each time he extended an invitation, each time you brushed him off, he found his interest in you growing. He was used to having control, but with you, he felt as though he was always playing catch-up. He was drawn to your mystery, the way you seemed so composed, and yet, he could see the cracks in the armor you tried so hard to maintain.

It became a game for him. He wasn’t used to losing. And this wasn’t something he was willing to walk away from.

Finally, after several failed attempts to meet you, he decided to take matters into his own hands. He didn’t just want to know *why* you kept pushing him away—he needed to know *what* you were hiding. Lando wasn’t the type to let things go, not when it came to something he wanted. And he wanted you.

He sent his men to follow you—subtle at first, just enough to get a sense of your life. The more he learned, the more intrigued he became. You weren’t just a quiet woman with a successful career. You had a life outside of your work, one that you kept guarded. You didn’t go out often, and when you did, you kept to yourself. But the real shock came when he discovered you had a daughter—a little girl who seemed to be the center of your world.

Lando couldn’t quite understand why you kept it all hidden, but he didn’t care. What mattered to him now was uncovering the full story.

He waited for the right moment, and when it came, it was a simple encounter. You didn’t know he was watching, but he saw you in the park one day, walking hand-in-hand with your daughter. The sight of you with her was enough to break down any barriers Lando might have had. He watched you interact with your daughter, saw the love and devotion in your eyes, and something inside him shifted. He wasn’t just dealing with a woman who had a past—he was dealing with someone who had everything to protect.

But that wasn’t the only thing that caught his attention. The way you looked at your daughter—affectionate yet wary—spoke volumes. And there was something else in your demeanor: an underlying fear, one you were trying to keep hidden.

Later, when he caught up with you at his apartment, his curiosity got the better of him. He had to ask.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Lando’s voice was low, almost cautious, as he leaned against the doorframe. His arms crossed as he studied you, his expression unreadable, though his eyes held that dangerous glint he reserved for things that piqued his interest.

You stiffened, your eyes flicking toward the door, wondering for a moment if you could avoid the conversation entirely. But Lando was persistent. He wasn’t leaving until he got answers.

“It’s complicated, Lando,” you said, your voice tight, but not out of fear—out of something deeper. You felt the walls closing in around you.

“I don’t care about your past,” Lando replied, his voice softening, though there was an edge to it. “I care about you—and I care about *why* you’re keeping me at arm’s length.” He took a step closer, his gaze intense.

You hesitated. Then, with a resigned sigh, you let the walls come down, just for a moment. “I have a daughter, Lando. Her father…” You trailed off, not wanting to go into the details, but knowing he needed to understand.

His face softened slightly, but his concern was clear. “Is he a threat to you?” he asked, his tone growing darker.

You shook your head. “Not anymore. But the scars from that relationship… they’re still there. I don’t trust easily, especially not with her. I can’t risk bringing someone into our lives only to have them leave, or worse, hurt us.” Your voice cracked at the last part, and you quickly wiped your eyes, not wanting to show weakness.

Lando stood there, taking in your words. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze never left you. When he finally spoke, it was with the quiet intensity that made you realize he was serious.

“I’m not like him,” Lando said softly, stepping closer. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You looked at him, unsure whether you should believe him. He could have any woman he wanted, and you were just the girl with the past and the kid. You weren’t sure why you were even entertaining this thought of him sticking around.

But something in his eyes told you that this was different. Maybe it was the way he was looking at you, as if he could see past the walls you’d spent years building. Maybe it was the sincerity in his voice.

“I’m not asking you to trust me right away,” Lando continued, his voice low but unwavering. “But I am asking you to let me in. Let me help. I don’t care about your past—I care about your future. And if that includes you and your daughter, then I’m here for both of you.”

You swallowed hard, emotion rising in your chest. You hadn’t expected this—didn’t know what to do with this kind of tenderness coming from someone like him. But his words felt like a promise, and for the first time in a long while, you let yourself believe it.

For a moment, you just stood there, facing each other, the tension between you thick and palpable. You weren’t sure what the future held, but as you looked at Lando, something inside you began to shift.

“Okay,” you whispered, and it was the start of something new—something terrifying, but real.

Thank you for reading!

[justaticklishdeer]

Radio's Not Dead

hi. this is a bitttt more heavy than the stuff I usually post (its still a tickle fic!) but I felt like traumatizing alastor.

ler Rosie, lee alastor

TWS (there's a lot to unpack): Implied non con, panic attack, mental breakdown, arguing, light sh, that vibe. its a lot and I'm so sorry.

again, I am so terribly sorry for traumatizing him and being a bit heavy with it <3

Word count: 2k

It had been seven years. Seven years since Alastor had been heard from or seen anywhere in Pentagram City. It seemed so empty without the looming threat of a wendigo-like Overlord haunting the residents. Rosie was in her emporium, working with her clients as usual. She herself had wondered where Alastor had gone all those years. He had up and left without any words, any trace, and hint as to where he was. She sighs softly, pacing the emporium. Of course, Hell had settled down quite a bit after Alastor left.

But Rosie? She was left wondering where he had gone. All these years and not a single thing had been said to her about his whereabouts. It left her worried. She had been used to Alastor just randomly disappearing for a week or two (he supposedly had been self isolating,) but for him to go seven years without telling her? Concerning.

She snaps out of her trance-like state as a client walks up to her, asking about some of the essentials in her shop and how to use them. She walks them through the steps and watches as they wander off. After around an hour, she closes down the emporium for the night. All was quiet. She sighs, walking to prepare herself a cup of late night tea. 

Rosie sits down with her tea, quietly reading her book she had with her. A knock came to the door and she tilted her head. Nobody should’ve been here this late at night, especially after she had closed down for the night. “I’ll be there in a moment!” she calls out, setting down her things and going to the door. A disheveled, messy deer stood there. Alastor. 

‘Rosie-’ he starts. She shakes her head, walking a few steps back. ‘You–’ she cut herself off. ‘Seven years. Seven years, Alastor. And you didn’t think to come tell me? You never thought to warn me before you left for that long?” Rosie paces, her nails digging into her palm from the effort of trying not to cry. 

“Rosie, I-I couldn’t, it was sudden, I-’ Alastor tried, tears already pricking at the corners of his eyes. They burnt his eyes, making him actually start to cry. ‘Rosie! I-I didn’t mean to-to leave you, I-’ He takes a step forward, stumbling on his hooves. “Please…’ 

Rosie looks at him, somewhat angry, but also confused. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? You better have a damn good reason for leaving that long,’ she snaps at him. Through her anger and confusion, she didn’t fully notice how much Alastor was trembling. Alastor takes a step toward her, trying to grab for her hands. She steps back, not ready to accept whatever he had to say. He breaks down crying.

Rosie continues to talk. ‘Seven years! You couldn’t have left a note, or had someone tell me?” 

‘It was a deal, Rosie! I-I–my soul isn’t mine entirely anymore! I couldn’t–it was to save myself, it-’ he couldn’t get a full sentence out through frantic, panicked sobs. His body trembled and he pulled at his hair, pulling some out from how stressed he was. Alastor clings to himself, to try to cling to what sense of himself he had left. It all felt so empty, and did Rosie hate him now too?

Rosie stares at him in disbelief. ‘You sold your soul? Are you insane? You couldn’t have come to visit me first, you had to go to the hotel first?” She paces the room, her heels clicking on the floor. Alastor could be heard making another choked sob noise. ‘I couldn’t–my command–my-my order, her–she wanted–I couldn’t come first, Rosie, I–’ His cries got more frantic. ‘Please-’ 

Rosie continues. ‘You couldn’t have told your soul owner–soul owner!--to let you visit here first? I understand that you needed to go to the hotel, but you could’ve come to explain your situation to me!” she paces off into the kitchen to do something. 

As soon as she goes into the kitchen, Alastor absolutely breaks down sobbing. He clutches at his coat, his clothes, anything. He digs his claws into his palms only to feel pain from it. And somehow, it felt good. To finally have an outlet rather than just sobbing his eyes out when his soul owner abused him. No wonder he felt like shit.

“Rosie–?!’ he cries out. Trying to get her to come back, trying to get her to not leave him like everyone else did. Vox–he didn’t remember all too well. He just remembered Vox had tried to force himself onto Alastor, force himself onto him just to use him as some toy and leave. Alastor had been left broken, bruised, mentally shattered from the sheer absurdity of it all. He missed Vox in some twisted way. It was mainly the manipulation he had been put through of trying to please Vox so he would stay. 

He had done everything he could think of to please Vox. Ridiculous shows, being on television (once), writing the show scripts, laughing with him, being his lee to toy with. But then, Vox had gotten more touchy in ways he hadn’t liked. And when he spoke up, it all happened. 

He sobs harder, all his trauma seemingly coming back to him in waves. 

“Please, please, don’t leave me, you–only one I have left, please–I can't–don’t leave, please-’ Alastor sobs, frantically trying to cling to reality. He didn’t want to slip back into the hell he had already been through, he couldn’t do that again. He didn’t know he was going to go through all that. What Roo had put him through to even get his soul… He was trembling, and felt freezing. He pulled at his deer ears, clinging and digging his claws into them until he felt warm blood drip down his fingers. 

Nothing felt entirely there. He had almost forgotten Rosie was even there. ‘Please, please, don’t leave me, please–please–’ he begs, sobbing as he rocks himself. He could feel the blood still dripping down his fingers as he dug harder into his ears. ‘Please, I can’t lose you too, please, Rosie, please, please-’ Alastor clutched at his ears still. Then moved to pull at his hair again, pulling some out from the sheer panic and stress of thinking he was about to lose his closest friend, his mother figure, his platonic partner. 

‘Please…’ he whispers. 

Rosie was about to say something else, when she noticed the blood on her floor and the trembling, sobbing, broken soul on the ground. She sighs softly, pinching the bridge of her nose. ‘Alastor…’ She grabs his wrists, moving his hands off his ears. ‘Don’t, please. You’re bleeding. I’m sorry for yelling.’ She kneels down to take him into her arms. Alastor hiccups, his tears slowly stopping at the familiar warmth of her holding him. ‘I-I made a deal, th-that’s why I was gone,’ he whispers through trembles and hiccups.

Rosie gently strokes his hair. She reaches over to clean the wounds on his ears gently, taking warm water and a mild soap to clean the cuts. Alastor lets it happen, using his own magic to help assist with the healing. ‘You couldn’t tell me before you left? Shh, I’m not leaving. Don’t cry,’ she reminded gently when his breath hitched at the question. 

“I-I couldn’t say anything. R–’ the name caught in his throat as he tried to say it. Right. He couldn’t mention anything about the details of the deal he had made with Roo. He switches his words. ‘M-My soul isn’t…mine, Rosie.’ Rosie nods slightly, taking in what he had been through. From the looks of his earlier breakdown, he had been through a lot for the deal to be made. ‘Honey, are you able to tell me what happened?’ a shake of the head was her answer.

Rosie makes a soft noise, acknowledging his response. ‘Okay. Is there…is there anything you want me to do to try to help you recover from it? I just want to try to help you, sweetie. Nothing harmful.’ Alastor nods meekly. She gently sets him down on a nearby armchair. ‘Tea?” she asks softly. He nods, knowing she knew how to make it to his preference. 

She grabs the tea and brings it back to him. It had calming properties, which helped him be much more relaxed. Alastor smiles up at her, genuine. She returns the smile. ‘How are you feeling, sweetheart?” 

‘Happy. Relaxed. Good.’ Alastor swings his hooves, staring at them. They needed care, considering he hadn’t been able to care for them himself due to certain events. She chuckles softly. Alastor snuggles up to her, his tail wagging slow. This was the Alastor she knew. Not the one from earlier, not the intimidating radio host persona. Her Alastor. The soft, vulnerable little fawn she had found all those years ago when he dropped down to Hell. 

The one she had gently taught the rules of Hell to, the one she had taught how to grow and become one of Hell’s overlords. And clearly, she had done a good job of it. Alastor was half asleep on her. She felt a pang of guilt at seeing the blood still on the fur of his ears. She would admit she was a bit over reactive, but when someone you loved just vanished like that without a trace and came back with no explanation? It was hard to react ‘properly.’ 

Alastor snuggled up to her more. He clung to her like a lifeline, as if terrified she’d leave at any second. ‘Please don’t leave. Or hurt me,’ he pleads quietly. Her heart nearly broke at that. ‘I’m not going to hurt you, my fawn. You know I wouldn’t ever hurt you.’ Rosie strokes his ears gently to help lull him to sleep. She could feel herself getting tired as well. Alastor nods, slowly falling asleep. Every so often, his body would jerk him back awake. As Rosie kept stroking his ears, he fell asleep. Rosie did as well.

She woke up to him wanting her attention. Something she had always adored. He nuzzles up to her with a deer-like purr. Rosie laughs softly. ‘Always wanting pets, aren’t you?’ she comments, scritching behind his ears. He giggles softly, tilting his head. ‘Still ticklish, hun?’ She scribbles gently up and down his ears. He makes a little fawn squeak noise, nodding as he trembles from giggles and tries to get away. But the other part of him told him to push into it, to finally enjoy something. It was an amazing feeling compared to the abuse Roo had put him through.

Rosie seemed to notice and sighed gently. ‘You know, you can enjoy things again. It’s alright.’ 

She scribbles up and down the sides of his neck, which had purely childish giggles coming from him. It felt so nice to have gentle touches. “Mmm! Mhmhm!’ his tail begins to wag happily. He squirms a little, but not nearly enough to get away. He bleats like a fawn as Rosie’s long nails scritch under the fur to get to the sensitive skin behind his ears. It felt so hellishly ticklish. He arched his back as his ears flicked and tried to flatten from how much it was. He giggles all too happily.

‘Rohose–Rohohosie!’ he squeaks. Alastor’s giggles were light and airy as she scribbled up and down his neck again. Rosie smiles softly, murmuring, “You just needed a way to relax, honeybuck. And this is my way of helping.’ She gives him gentle tickles, up and down his neck, fluttering fingers around his ears, running her claws up and down his arms–a place he didn’t know could bring so much comfort, but it did. 

Alastor grinned up at her, all happy as his hooves kicked lightly. He wanted her to stay around his neck and arms, so that’s what she did. As his soft, happy giggles filled the room, Rosie could only think of one thing.

She was going to help him regain his strength, to help him try to heal from all the trauma that had happened to him during those seven years. She was sure, with enough work and care and effort, it was possible.

[hanashiz]

'Every cloud has a SILVER LINING'

Wishing the warmest birthday ever to the most special person in my heart <3

SILVER LINING by RUNA_HADES on Wattpad/Instagram

Song: 'Sakura Hirari' by Kis-My-Ft2

[sharkylad]

Thinking about the fact that Mabel and Dipper didn't know they had two great uncles.

Yeah they are 12 and at 12 I had a shotty understanding of my family tree- But really? Nobody brought up their great uncle? Stanley? Especially since they'll be staying with his twin brother, Stanford?

Shermie never went to Stan's fake funeral, which to me means the twos relationship was strained on some level. If Shermie is older that means his view of Stan was poisoned in some way, that even as kids they weren't close. If the Shermie is younger then he never even got to meet Stan and all he knew about him was how he failed his family. Hell, people probably barely mentioned Stanley TO Shermie.

The fact that Stan had become a black stain upon the Pines family name makes me so vividly upset. Stanley faked his death and the family just- seemingly decided to strike him from the record. To pretend he didn't existed to spare themselves the sadness and shame.

Stanford and Shermie Pines. The only children worth mentioning of Filbrick and Caryn Pines.

It was never Stanford that was lost to the world. It was Stanley, ever since he had to leave New Jersy- it was always him that had to be struck from the record. Change his name, change his state, change his affiliations, destroy the remains of ghost that was Stanley Pines. Kill him so the family doesn't bring him up, doesn't ask questions, stops asking "Stanford" about his twin.

I just keep thinking about the fact that since the day he made one single mistake all the way up until Ford walks out of that machine- Stanley Pines was killed and did not exist. And Stan himself had no one to blame, he had to play the part in his own demise- He is the only one who ever knew Stanley was alive and has been for decades.

He lives in the multitudes of every personality he's ever taken, all in the hope that he himself can stop being Stanley Pines.