#Pre-Competition Routine

[gemsmith112]

From Fencing Champion to Surgeon: Dr Kamali Thompson's Inspiring Journey to Never Settling

Experience the inspiring journey of Dr. Kamali Thompson as she shares how the motto "NEVER Settle" has guided her to success in both her career in orthopaedic surgery and competitive fencing. Join us as she opens up about her challenges, triumphs, and the importance of perseverance in pursuing your passions. Dr. Kamali's story is sure to motivate and empower you to aim high, work hard, and never give up on your dreams.

Hit like, subscribe, and let's learn how to embody the spirit of "NEVER Settle" together!

[ghstzzn]

helping hand

pairing: bsf!lee heeseung x fem!reader

synopsis: heeseung had an unusual ritual before every competition as a professional league of legends player. one that his ex-girlfriend could no longer fulfill for him, leaving him desperate enough to ask for your help as his best friend.

tags/warnings: SMUT! MDNI! barely proofread lol, heeseungs a professional gamer… idk shit about that tho, you’re his best friend, league of legend mention, oral (m. rec), face fucking, deepthroating obv, praise? heeseung whimpers and whines here and there, name calling bc he calls her a perv hehe, reader touches herself and orgasms bc of his whimpering, cum swallowing, first time writing JUST a blowjob & ball fondling hehe and more probably! [3.3k words]

🖤: im so scared this was only supposed to be like 1k words but i cant shut the fuck up ever.

MINORS & AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT!

it’s been awhile since you’ve had heeseung linger around your apartment for hours or even days like this. between his time spent with his now ex girlfriend and his professional gaming career, you had rarely seen him. only relying on occasional short lunch meetings or quick coffee runs.

it’s not that his ex disliked you, but more so disliked that you and heeseung happened to be an extremely attractive pair of friends and hated that people would confuse you both as a couple rather than heeseung and her.

you missed your best friend, and it comforted you that he returned those feelings. 

before heeseung had stepped foot into a relationship with his ex, he would spend half of his time at your apartment. especially when he had a competition that was near. 

“are you nervous?” you ask him, watching as he packs little things he left at your apartment into a small suitcase for the gaming league. it was only one city away but these sorts of things take an entire weekend. 

heeseung hums, “i’m confident.” you know he’s not lying either. there’s not much you know about gaming, or specifically, league of legends—but according to your mutual friends, heeseung seems to be a god at the game. yet, he seemed so antsy about something.

“so what are you gonna do about your little pre-competition ritual,” you hope to lighten his mood, easing him of whatever that was on his mind.

“what ritual?”

you clear your throat, “oh, um. your blowjob ritual..?”

the question was asked in a light hearted way, but heeseung didn’t react in such a way at all. the ritual, as you called it, was something heeseung accidentally created a few years ago when he had first gone pro. his situationship at the time gave him head right before he left as a sexy goodluck and a reminder of what he had waiting for him when he got back, but that day he had carried and won the competition for his entire team. 

the next year after that he had gotten with his girlfriend and had shyly asked her to suck him off, to which she agreed and it had officially become a routine for every competition, including smaller, less meaningful ones.

“you okay, hee?” 

“can i ask you something?” he suddenly speaks up, voice way louder than he intended, causing the both of you to cringe at the volume. “s-sorry.. i just need to ask you something.”

you nod slowly, “yeah, anything. is everything okay?”

heeseung thinks for a few moments before speaking again, “it’s a little personal and it’s okay if you are uncomfortable with this and you absolutely do not have to say yes but i need to at least ask you.”

“heeseung just say it.”

“can you give me a blowjob before my competition this weekend?”

your reaction comes in three stages. the both of you stare at each other in silence for about three minutes before you burst out in laughter, which also lasts about three more minutes. but when you see heeseungs panicked expression, you go silent again.

“wait… seriously?” 

heeseung swallows before shaking his head timidly. he debated laughing along with you and passing it off as a complete joke but he felt the need to follow through. the room is silent again. your fingers subconsciously play with the zipper on his suitcase as you think about the question he just proposed to you. 

your best friend, whom you’ve experienced half your life with, just asked you if you could give him head before one of his league of legends competitions.

what was the right answer here?

“you.. you don't have to,” heeseungs heart feels like it’s about to fall out of his chest. why on earth would he ask such a thing to his only female friend? no less, his best friend.

it was a joke. yeah, a joke! oh my god, why would i ask that, you pervert! you should’ve seen your face! you guys joke like this all the time, this is no different. he could totally play this off coolly. 

“it’s fucking stupid, i know. but it seriously helps me and you know she would do it for me everytime.” he begins rambling without even realizing it. the air is so thick you would have to take a chainsaw to it. “y-you aren’t her, yeah, but i don’t know—it genuinely gets me through the competitions.”

heeseung lets out a shaky breath, “just forget it. ignore what i said.”

“well, no heeseung,” you cut him off, “i can’t just forget that you seriously asked me something like that.”

“please don’t make this awkward. you can say no and we can forget this happened.”

you could tell heeseung wanted to rip his tongue out, and to see your best friend this distressed over something so silly made you want to drop everything and get rid of those feelings for him. 

“i mean, i never said no, did i..?” 

heeseung looks up, meeting your gaze with a shocked expression, “what?”

“yeah,” you nod, “it doesn’t hurt to think about it, right? it’s not like you’re asking me to completely fuck you—a blowjob wouldn’t hurt us right? especially if it’s going to help you.”

he blinks. heeseung might think you’re going insane, and he’s the one that asked you for the blowjob. no way you were actually considering this for him.

what did he do in his past life to gain such a supportive, pretty best friend.

“so… you’ll think about it?” your best friend's voice is quiet when he asks, like he’s scared to speak up any louder. “like, seriously?”

“yeah,” nodding your head, you flash him a reassuring smile. agreeing to suck off your friend before his professional video game competition, a totally normal request.

when heeseung leaves your apartment, you immediately cuss yourself out. why the fuck would you practically agree to that? 

but when you think about telling the boy no, your heart cracks. why? you don’t know. but what you do know is that you would rather die than look at his big sad brown eyes when you tell him you can't give him a special blowjob for his special day.

you were no pro at sucking dick, but you were dedicated to this friendship.

heeseung bounced his leg with nervousness and anticipation. you texted him that you were on the way to his hotel, which would’ve been normal and completely fine considering you attend all of his comps, but today was different.

you never answered his question.

he wonders if maybe you forgot about it. he also hopes you didn’t forget. ever since he asked you the big question, heeseung couldn’t get you out of his mind.

every night leading up to today, he’d lie awake staring at his ceiling trying to push every image of you sitting pretty between his legs out of his mind. the feeling of his cock hardening to the thought of you made him want to dive out of the nearest window.

it’s not like he didn’t think you were hot or that the idea of being intimate with you disgusted him, but it’s the fact that he promised to never be like every other guy.

the two of you were very close. from cuddling while watching movies to holding hands in a crowded area to heeseung beating up creepy men at dive bars for you—you both had a tight knit friendship. and he always promised that he would never cross that line. he might be a total loser but he liked to consider himself a gentleman at the same time.

that day, he did. yet you were still attending something that meant the world to him when you could’ve told him to fuck off and die.

four knocks at the door rips heeseung away from his thoughts.

with sweaty hands and knees that felt like jelly, heeseung grips the door knob and opens it, plastering the fakest smile he could muster up. “hey.” did his voice crack? fuck my life. 

“hi!” you hold up two bags filled with a variety of snacks with a large smile on your face, “i brought some stuff for this weekend.”

he clears his throat and steps to the side, letting you enter his hotel room. heeseung averts his gaze to the ceiling as you walk by him, afraid of letting his eyes stay on you–what if he accidentally looks at your ass?

“what time does it start today?” you ask, completely unaware of the emotional distress your male best friend was going through. so nonchalant and unmoving. maybe you did forget afterall. 

heeseung takes a seat at the desk in his hotel room, where he had a temporary p.c. set up in case he needed a practice game. “uhh, it’s at six this time.”

“jeez… you guys won't be leaving until late then.” you glance at the clock and back to him. he has to leave very soon. how do you casually start giving your best friend a blowjob within the next fifteen minutes.

“yeah, you know of all people that these things can go for hours. you’re gonna be there for the last few rounds right?”

you nod, wondering if heeseung could notice the way you’re practically gawking at him. was he always this hot? it’s stupid question when you’re fully aware of how attractive heeseung was and currently is. maybe it was the way he was dressed up for his competition tonight, or the way he leaned back on his hands and spread his legs comfortably. 

the baggy black hoodie that you knew he was wearing by itself with nothing underneath paired with his baggy jeans that sat so perfectly on his hips. you were fully aware that you were checking out your best friend. he’s fucking hot, why else would you agree to do any of this?

you wonder if he’s thought about this as much as you have. is he nervous? is he vocal? how long does it take for him to get hard and how big is he?

“hey,” you don’t know where the confidence is coming from, but you find yourself kneeling in front of him with your hands on his knees, “you’re gonna do great and win this. like you always do. i’ll make sure of it.”

heeseung almost chokes on his own spit when you suddenly slip between his legs, “wha- what are you doing..?”

“did you not want my help? or did you forget?” you ask him, genuine confusion. “i-if you already-”

“no!” heeseung cuts you off, grabbing your hand with his. “i mean, i still do. i just didn’t think you were down.”

you rub your other hand up his thigh, fingers mere centimeters away from his crotch area. so close to where he needs you, yet so far. “of course i am. what good are best friends if they can’t help each other out?”

heeseungs breath hitches when your hand grazes the zipper of his jeans. he lets go of your other hand and you take it as a cue to keep going.

“just let me take care of you, hee.”

and for the first time ever, that nickname made his cock twitch.

just the view he had of you sitting pretty between his thighs, hesitant but still full of confidence as you softly palmed him through his jeans was enough for him to be leaking.

“can i…” you ask quietly, fingers on the button of his jeans. he nods once and gulps as you immediately pop the button open and move to the zipper. it feels like hours before you’re finally pulling his jeans down below his hips. 

you can’t lie and say the bulge of his hardening cock, covered by his calvin kleins, wasn’t making your mouth water. you push his hoodie up slightly, the way your cold fingertips hit his lower stomach as you grab the waistband of his boxers has his stomach tensing under your touch. you let out a small gasp when his cock almost springs out of his boxers.

your best friend is packing. 

heeseung almost chuckles when he catches your reaction. 

“don’t laugh.”

“i’m not.”

“i can see it!” you argue back.

heeseung rolls his eyes, “please just continue.” 

“i won't if you keep up that attitude. you know we have less than fifteen minutes.” you retort after hearing him scoff. 

“i can miss rehearsals.”

“heeseu-”

“god, please let me just fuck your mouth.”

oh my god? were you supposed to be turned on? you bite your lip and look down in his lap, taking his cock in your hand with a soft but firm grip. you lean forward and let spit slowly drip from your mouth as you start pumping him. 

heeseung lets out a quiet groan and you look up at him—wide eyes that are practically asking, is this good? you continue to gently fist his cock, getting him nice and hard before you start using your mouth on his. 

“i hope you win.” is all you say before you kiss his tip and sink your mouth onto him.

the boy is practically seeing stars. you just started and he’s already moaning like a bitch. it felt so good, he can’t rip his gaze from you, watching the way your lips wrap around him tightly and your cheeks hollow out as you literally suck him in. 

“fuck, like that…” his hand finds sanctuary wrapped around your hair, not yet pushing you down on his cock completely, but more so as guidance. 

you let go out his cock with a pop and continue pumping him with your fist, licking the underside of his base as you make direct eye contact. he lets out a groan and lets his head fall back.

“you don’t have to hold back heeseung,” you mumble, but the lust was evident in your tone. “don’t be gentle, this is for you.”

“holy fuck, don’t say that.” you giggle at his response and smile against his tip before taking him back into your mouth. heeseung grips your hair tighter and pushes you further down his cock per your request. he can hear you inhale deeply through your nose as you attempt to take all of him. but of course you can’t. 

you stroke what you can’t fit and let heeseungs hand guide you up and down his cock. he uses all self control to not thrust into your mouth. heeseung hisses through his teeth every time your lips tighten around the tip of his dick, feeling somewhat more sensitive than he usually is. 

a guttural moan rips from his throat when your hand comes up to squeeze his balls, offering a helping hand in making him cum soon. time was ticking. but heeseung did not care whatsoever, especially after that move.

he almost wishes he knew how fucking good you were at giving head before all of this. your mouth was so warm, wet and tight around his cock–he was in heaven. heeseung genuinely thinks this is one of the best blowjobs he’s ever gotten. his hips buck, suddenly pushing his cock deep inside of your mouth and hitting the back of your throat. you cough around his cock in surprise but it only spurs your best friend on.

maybe it was the fact that you’re his best friend. sure, it’s not taboo by any means, but there are lines that are never to be crossed in these sorts of relationships–holy shit, heeseung was on cloud 9. 

“oh my god,” he whines, “you’re so good at this. fuck–god, don’t stop.”

his words, his moans, his whines–they all send tingles down your spine and straight to your core. you can’t deny the throb in your cunt though. 

you continue to squeeze and fondle his balls as you let heeseung completely guide your head deeper onto his cock, thrusting his hips upwards and meeting your mouth halfway. your other hand grips his thigh, keeping you stable and relaxed as he abuses your throat with the head of his cock. 

the groan that leaves your mouth when he tugs your hair tighter is accidental, you look up at heeseung. he looks beautiful like this. a pink blush across his cheeks, damp forehead, and hazy eyes. you were surely dripping through your panties now. 

“yeah? you like t-this too, huh?” heeseung spits out. now you’re almost jealous of every woman he’s managed to pull, because fuck did that just turn you on even more. “want me to use your mouth however i want?”

you moan in response, nodding your head. heeseung lets out a long exhale as he shoves your head down his cock again. tears line your eyes and threaten to spill over, trying to relax your throat to take him completely. 

“y-you’re taking me so good, y’know that? so good, baby.”

immediately, your hand that was once on heeseungs thigh is making its way down and into your shorts. you were soaked. 

heeseung lets out another choked moan when he notices your hand in your shorts, circling your clit as you let him fuck your throat. how badly he also wishes you would just take those stupid shorts off and let him see exactly what you’re doing, he yearns to see you play with yourself one day. 

“playing with yourself while you let me use this pretty mouth…” heeseung groans, lifting your head for a mere second before pushing you down his cock again. your hand tightens around his balls and he almost whimpers at the sensation. “you like this just as much, fucking pervert.”

you let out a whine, tears falling down your cheeks, you were already so close.

heeseung gets rougher, guiding your head much faster than before. your lips were burning and there was spit completely covering your other hand. but still, you continue to suck and lick at his cock as if it were your last meal, letting him force his way down your throat. 

“‘m so close. so fucking close.” now you're both whimpering. “fuckfuckfuck, gonna cum soon, baby. keep going, please, hah–you feel so fucking good.”

his words were enough for you to hit your peak, an orgasm washing through your body immediately. you’re squirming and whining, sending vibrations down heeseungs cock. 

“ah, fuck,” he continues to let words fall out of his mouth in the form of broken moans, “y-yeah, ‘ts so good. feels so good.” heeseung suddenly pushes your head all the way down, your nose making contact with the soft hair as the base of his cock, and he cums. 

thick, hot ropes of cum covering the back of your throat. you’re gagging and choking at the full feeling, wanting to pull back so badly, but he doesn’t stop–not until he’s milked dry. 

after what feels like an eternity, he lets go and you pull back, gasping and coughing but swallowing most of his cum in the process. your hands fly to your neck as you massage it and catch your breath.

heeseung on the other hand was breathing heavily. that was the best orgasm he’s ever had.

“holy fuck.”

you look up at the male, who seemed like he was about to pass out, “hee, you have to go.” your voice is raspy and weak. 

“i can’t.” he responds, out of breath. “that was amazing. i can’t move.”

you stand up and pull him up with you, balancing him when he stumbles forward. “seriously, you have to go now.” now you’re putting his cock away for him, he hisses loudly at the feeling but you ignore it and zip up his jeans. “now.”

heeseung sighs and looks down at you, “did you.. get off like that?”

you tighten your lips and nod hesitantly.

“god. god, you’re amazing.” he breathes out, wanting nothing more than to throw you down on the bed and fuck you until he physically cannot. “please, please be here when i get back, i’m literally begging you.”

you nod at him, reassuring him that you’ll be here when he’s done as you usher him out of the hotel room. “i will, hee. just go.” you suppose this is what best friends are for after all.

“and do not show up to the comp tonight or i will be hard the entire fucking time.”

[bueckets]

The Prophecy | Part 1

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

Parts: Part One (you're here) | Two

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.

Continue to part two.

[mercvry-glow]

Friendly competition

parings. frank langdon x wife!reader

summary. the langdons believe believe in basic professionalism. but either way a kiss or two behind a set of closed curtains wouldn't hurt anyone, right?

warnings. princess pea brain and dr. dickwad strike again, frank has only been married to reader, they are similar in age though not mentioned, no mentions of drug use (in terms of frank), dog parents, let me know if there's anything else!

notes. local boy dad truther didn't hop on this certified boy dad just yet, but here's a silly/flirty one between frank and his wife who is another doctor! as always please enjoy and any feedback is appropriated!

wc. 1400+

Frank Langdon was a simple man. 

Wake up at 5 a.m., shower and brush his teeth, feed Nico your chocolate lab, text you since you were always out the door before sunrise, drink a cup of pre-made coldbrew for breakfast in his car, and roll into the Pitt by 7 a.m. 

Routine. Reliable. Not as glamorous as your four-a.m.-scrub-call lifestyle, but it worked for him. 

He tapped out a quick text before pulling out of the driveway:

FRANKY

How many brains have you terrorized already?

BABY

Two aneurysms, one awake craniotomy. Stay on your toes today, trauma boy.

He smirked at the screen. God, he loved you.

And God, you were the most competitive human alive.

Frank still remembered your first date, where you questioned his anatomy knowledge over sushi and then challenged him to a game of darts at a bar down the street—one you won, barely, after he’d been too distracted by your smile to aim properly.

Since then, everything had been a game: who could fold laundry faster, who got paged more often, who could make Nico sit the longest with a treat on his nose (Frank held that record at 20 seconds). 

You kissed like you argued—passionately and deep. 

 All teeth and laughter and stubborn pride. 

And yet, somehow, you made it work. 

He parked in his usual spot and thought about your smug little face telling him, “Don’t forget who finished med school top of her class.” 

Frank grinned to himself, he was gonna make today his bitch. 

FRANKY

Reminder that I once splinted a femur with duct tape and a clipboard during a blackout, sweetheart. 

BABY

Reminder that I once drilled through a man’s skull with no power, on the sidewalk. Try again.

God help him, he’d never loved anyone more.

After walking in and setting his stuff in his locker, he wandered around taking note of everyone who was on shift today. 

Frank didn’t expect to see you so early though. 

Neurosurgery lived in a whole different stratosphere most days—your floor, your ORs, your rules. You usually lived in scrubs that had been through hell and back and a ponytail that was more “get out of my way” than “good morning.” But today, as he stepped into the trauma lounge for another quick pre-round coffee, there you were. Leaning against the counter, arms crossed over your navy scrub top, sipping from a mug that very clearly had his name on it.

“Hey, babe,” you said, not even bothering to look up. “Nice of you to show up.”

Frank blinked. “Is that… my mug?”

“I earned it,” you replied. “Three surgeries before sunrise. I deserve all the caffeine this hospital has.”

He moved toward the cabinet, pulled out the backup mug—one that said ‘Trust me, I’m a real doctor’ in terrible Comic Sans—and narrowed his eyes at you over the rim.

“Is this your way of declaring war?”

You gave him a sweet, yet tired, unbothered smile. “No, Langdon. I declared war the day you said you could intubate faster than me.”

“That was four years ago.”

“And you were wrong.”

He chuckled, stepping closer, brushing your elbow with his on the way to the sugar. “You know, most people start their day with a kiss, not an insult.”

You leaned over, kissed his cheek quickly. “That was for being cute. Not for being right.”

He watched you walk away—confident, collected, the same sharp fire in your step you had on your first day in residency. You had charts under your arm and blood on your shoe and a smirk that said you’d already won whatever game he didn’t even know you were playing yet.

You were a smug, brilliant menace.

Especially because of that.

Frank took a long sip of coffee and looked at his pager. It was already buzzing with the first trauma of the day—multiple rollovers on the interstate.

He tapped out a message before heading out.

FRANKY

Bet I beat you on the case board today.

Your reply came five seconds later.

BABY

Already signed off on number 5. Better luck next time, husband. 🧠❤️

A bit later in the day a page came through just as you were wrapping up rounds: NEUROSTAT - TRAUMA BAY 1 - HEAD INJURY / MULTISYSTEM TRAUMA

You barely blinked. Tucked your tablet under your arm and turned on your heel. By the time you got down to the trauma floor, the hallway was already buzzing. Nurses shouted vitals, techs wheeled carts past with barely a glance, and a familiar voice cut through the noise like clockwork.

“Get me a line and open up the central tray—let’s move, people!”

You stepped into the trauma bay right as Frank looked up from the gurney, gloved hands bloody to the wrists, and—despite the chaos—his mouth twitched into a grin.

“Took you long enough.”

“I rushed down four flights of stairs and dodge two ortho residents arguing about tibial screws,” you fired back, snapping on your gloves. “Do you want me or not?”

Frank stepped aside just enough to give you a view of the patient—a mid-30s male, unconscious, intubated, with a deep laceration to the scalp and unequal pupils. His GCS was tanking.

“Blunt head trauma. Vitals are tanking. Pupils blew ten minutes ago. I need your magic fingers,” Frank said, handing over the head CT on a tablet.

You scanned it in seconds. “We’ve got a left-sided subdural, midline shift. He’s herniating. I need him rushed to an OR, now.”

He nodded once and spun toward the nurse’s station. “Page the rest of the neurosurg team, get an OR ready—she’s taking him up.”

“You coming with?” you asked without looking at him, already examining the patient’s vitals.

Frank glanced at the blood pooling around the patient's flank, the numbers on the monitor, then at you. “He needs decompression more than he needs a chest tube right now. I’ve got other patients after him too.”

You locked eyes for a second, both of you moving like pieces on a board already set in motion. No need to explain. No ego. Just you, him, and the patient.

“I’ll be with the team that brings him up after I stabilize the bleed,” he said, voice low as he stepped closer.

“Don’t be late,” you replied, almost a challenge.

Frank smirked, brushing his gloved knuckles briefly against your arm before turning back to the trauma team. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

You didn’t even catch how much time had passed since you had entered the OR. The surgery had gone well. As well as emergency cranial decompressions ever went, anyway. You were peeling off your gloves in the scrub room, sweat still clinging to your neck, your shoulders aching like hell from hunching over the table for hours.

The door creaked behind you.

You didn’t even turn around. “Took you long enough, Dr. Dickwad.”

Frank chuckled, slow and low, the sound bouncing off the tile. “Nice to see you too, Princess Pea Brain.”

You glanced at him through the mirror, catching the way he leaned casually against the doorframe—a surgical cap on his head, scrubs spotted with various fluids, that usual post-trauma glint in his eye.

“You missed the best part,” you said, pulling your hair free from its bun. “His brain practically thanked me for relieving the pressure.”

Frank snorted. “Right. I’m sure it whispered ‘thank you, brilliant goddess of neurosurgery,’ as you were drilling into his skull with a jackhammer”

You turned to face him now, arms crossed. “Hey. At least I didn’t almost forget to clamp the bleeder.”

He raised his hands in surrender. “I didn’t forget. I was strategically stalling.”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling panic now?”

Frank was grinning. That easy, post-shift, we-just-saved-a-life kind of grin that only came after the adrenaline settled and the reality hit you: you won.

Not against each other. Against the clock. Against chaos.

“Come here,” he said finally, stepping closer.

You raised a brow. “Why?”

“So I can do this,” he replied, sliding an arm around your waist and tugging you into him with zero warning.

You yelped, half-laughing, half-scolding. “Frank Langdon, we’re in a sterile environment!”

“We’re outside the OR,” he murmured against your hair. “And I haven’t kissed my wife since before the subdural.”

You softened a little at that. Just a little.

“You’re sweaty,” you muttered.

“You smell like iron,” he said fondly.

Still, you leaned into him, forehead against his chest, letting yourself exhale. He held you there, steady and warm, the weight of the shift slowly slipped from your shoulders.

After a few long moments, you mumbled, “You’re still a dickwad.”

“Yeah,” he whispered into your hair, kissing the top of your head. “But I’m your dickwad, princess.”

mercrvy-glow 2025

[landoughnut]

Green Light, Red Flag

♡ masterlist - request

♡ pairing - max verstappen x fem!reader

♡ summary - max likes you, but it takes the strong feeling of jealousy to admit it

♡ warnings - jealous max, angry-ish love confession, fluff

♡ w/c & a/n - 1.1k | du du du du

"To Super Max!"

The cheer echoes through the private room of the Monaco nightclub as champagne flows freely. Another win, another celebration, and you can't help but smile as you watch Max try (and fail) to dodge the shower of bubbles from his teammates.

"Honestly, you'd think they'd be tired of spraying champagne after the podium," you mutter to your friend, Hannah, who's watching the chaos with amusement.

"Bold of you to assume they ever get tired of it," she laughs.

You've been part of the Red Bull team's PR department long enough to know she's right. Your eyes drift back to Max, who's now arguing with Checo about something, gesturing wildly with his hands the way he does when he's excited. His face is flushed from the champagne and victory, hair still messed up from his helmet, and you ignore the familiar flutter in your stomach when he catches your eye across the room.

"Oi!" He calls out, making his way over. "Why aren't you celebrating properly?"

You raise your barely-touched glass. "Some of us have to work tomorrow, Verstappen."

"Tomorrow's problem," he says, dropping into the seat next to you. His shoulder brushes yours, and you pretend not to notice. "Today we celebrate."

"You mean you celebrate. I just watch you lot make fools of yourselves."

He clutches his chest in mock offense. "I'm wounded. Here I am, trying to include you in my moment of glory—"

"Your fifteenth moment of glory this season," you correct.

"—and you're just standing here judging me." But he's grinning, that competitive spark in his eyes that you've come to know so well.

"Someone has to keep your ego in check."

"That's what I keep you around for," he says, and something in his tone makes you look at him sharply, but he's already being called away by Christian for photos.

You watch him go, trying to ignore Hannah's knowing look. "Don't start," you warn her.

"I didn't say anything!"

"You were thinking it very loudly."

The night progresses in a blur of music and laughter. You're in the middle of a conversation with GP when you feel someone tap your shoulder.

"Excuse me," says a voice you don't recognize. You turn to find a rather handsome man in an expensive suit. "I couldn't help but notice you from across the room. I'm James."

"Oh, um, hi," you manage, caught off guard by his forward approach.

"I'm with the Mercedes hospitality team," he continues smoothly. "Would you like to dance?"

Before you can respond, you feel a presence behind you – familiar, solid, radiating tension.

"She's busy," Max says flatly.

James raises an eyebrow. "I believe the lady can speak for herself?"

You turn to give Max an exasperated look, but the words die in your throat. You've seen every version of his competitive face – the focused pre-race stare, the triumphant victory grin, the frustrated post-DNF scowl. But this? This is new. His jaw is set, eyes dark with something that looks suspiciously like jealousy.

"Max," you say carefully, "I can handle this."

"Can you?" he snaps, then immediately looks like he regrets it.

James glances between you two, understanding dawning on his face. "Ah, I see. My apologies, I didn't realize—"

"There's nothing to realize," you say quickly, at the same time Max growls, "Yeah, you should apologize."

"I'm just going to..." James gestures vaguely and makes a tactical retreat that would make Toto proud.

You round on Max. "What the hell was that?"

"What was what?" He's doing that thing where he pretends to be completely oblivious, which might work on journalists but has never worked on you.

"That whole caveman routine! Since when do you care who I dance with?"

"I don't," he says, but he won't meet your eyes. "I just... don't trust that guy."

"Right, because clearly I can't make that judgment for myself?"

"That's not what I—" He runs a hand through his hair in frustration. "Can we not do this here?"

You glance around, suddenly aware that several people are trying very hard to pretend they're not watching this exchange. "Fine. Outside. Now."

The Monaco night air is cool against your skin as you step onto the club's terrace. The city glitters below, the same streets Max was racing through just hours ago. He's standing at the railing, knuckles white where he grips it.

"Max," you say softly, "what's really going on?"

He's quiet for so long you think he might not answer. Then: "I don't like seeing you with other guys."

Your heart stutters. "Why?"

"Because!" He turns to face you, and there's that intensity again, the one that makes him such a force on track. "Because every time some guy looks at you like that, I want to... I don't know. Put up a safety car or something."

A laugh bubbles up despite yourself. "Did you just make a racing analogy about your feelings?"

"Shut up," but there's a smile tugging at his lips. "I'm trying to be serious here."

"Sorry, sorry." You step closer. "Please, continue with your vehicular emotions."

He groans. "This is why I never said anything. You make everything into a joke."

"Says the king of deflection." You're close enough now to see the flecks of gold in his eyes. "But if you're being serious... I don't like seeing you with other people either."

His breath catches. "No?"

"No." You reach up to straighten his collar, letting your hand linger. "Kind of ruins my plans to eventually marry you and steal all your trophies."

The tension breaks as he laughs, real and warm, his hands finding your waist. "That's your master plan? Bit obvious, isn't it?"

"Well, I was going to be subtle about it, but then you had to go and get all jealous and dramatic—"

He cuts you off with a kiss, and oh – this is nothing like the Max the world sees. This is soft and sweet and just a little desperate, like he's been holding back for as long as you have. You melt into it, fingers curling into his shirt.

When you break apart, he rests his forehead against yours. "Just so we're clear," he murmurs, "this means you're not dancing with anyone else tonight."

"Possessive much?"

"You like it."

"Maybe." You steal another quick kiss. "But only because you're cute when you're jealous."

"I wasn't jealous," he protests automatically.

"Sure, and you also 'don't care' about breaking Seb's record."

He pinches your side playfully. "You're impossible."

"Yeah," you agree, sliding your arms around his neck. "But I'm your impossible."

His smile – soft and real and just for you – is better than any podium celebration. "Deal."

When you eventually return to the party, hand in hand, no one looks surprised. Checo hands Hannah what looks suspiciously like betting money, GP just rolls his eyes fondly, and Christian mutters something that sounds like "finally" into his drink.

Max doesn't leave your side for the rest of the night, and if he holds you a little closer when James walks past, well – you're not complaining. After all, some victories are worth celebrating more than others.

[harrysfolklore]

home hero - charles x reader

gif by @princemick <33

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

Monaco is Charles' home. Growing up, he had watched the Grand Prix from the balconies and rooftops, dreaming of the day he would stand atop the podium. Each year, the pressure mounted as he came so close, only to have victory slip through his fingers.

Today felt different. There was a determined glint in his eye this morning as he kissed you goodbye and headed to the track. You could tell he was ready, more focused than ever before. You had to believe this was his year.

"Are you nervous?" you asked, leaning against the kitchen counter asyou watched him get everything he needed before heading out.

"More than usual," he admitted, flashing you a quick smile,"But I feel good. I have a good feeling about today."

"You’ve got this, Charles. I believe in you," you walked over to him, wrapping your arms around his waist.

"Thank you. I don't know what I'd do without you," he hugged you tightly, resting his chin on top of your head.

"You'd still be amazing," you said, looking up at him,"But I'm glad I get to be here with you."

You arrived at the circuit, the familiar roar of engines filling your ears as you made your way to the paddock. You found your usual spot in the Ferrari garage, the team bustling around with last-minute preparations. You exchanged nervous smiles with the crew, all of you hoping for the same outcome.

You watched as Charles went through his pre-race routine, meticulously checking everything himself even though he trusted his team completely. He looked up at you and smiled, his nervous eyes softening the moment they landed on you.

"Hey, come here," he called softly, waving you over.

You walked over, taking his gloved hand in yours. "You’re going to do great, you know that, right?"

"I just," he sighed, "Really want that win, you know? Not just for me, but for my family, my friends, for us," you smiled fondly at his words, "This is my home and everyone believes in me, I don't want to keep letting them down."

"Charles, you've never let anyone down," you squeezed his hand, "You've given everything you have, every time and that's why everyone believes in you. No matter what happens today, you're already a champion in our eyes."

"You're too sweet," he teased with a small smile, pecking your lips quickly, "I need to go. I'll see you after the race."

"Be safe out there," you said, giving him one last lingering kiss.

You watched as he made his way to the car, taking a deep breath before climbing in. The race was about to begin, and the anticipation was palpable. You found your seat in the garage, eyes glued to the screen, heart pounding with every lap.

As the race progressed, it was clear that Charles was driving with everything he had. Lap after lap, he maintained his position and defended his lead against the competition.

With only a few laps to go, the tension in the garage was at an all-time high. You could barely breathe, every fiber of your being focused on Charles and the car.

And then, it happened. Charles crossed the finish line and the checkered flag was waved, securing his first win at the Monaco Grand Prix. The garage erupted in cheers, and you felt tears of joy streaming down your face.

He did it. He actually did it.

Before you even knew what was happening, you ran to the pit wall, heart soaring with pride as you watched Charles climb out of the car, his face a mixture of disbelief and pure elation. He waved to the crowd, taking in the moment before making his way over to the barrier, his eyes searching for you.

You pushed through the crowd, your heart racing as you made your way to him. When he finally saw you, his face lit up with the brightest smile you'd ever seen.

"Charles!" you called out, your voice cracking with emotion.

"We did it!" he shouted, pulling you into his arms and hugging you tightly, his voice full of joy and relief.

"You did it," you corrected, laughing through your tears. "I'm so proud of you!"

"I couldn't have done it without you," he said, pressing his forehead against yours. "Fuck! I can't believe this is real."

You kissed him, a sweet and lingering kiss that held all the words you couldn't say in that moment. When you pulled back, you saw the love and gratitude in his eyes, and it made your heart swell with even more pride.

"Now go stand on top of the podium, you deserve it."

The celebrations were in full swing as it was time for the podium. Charles was greeted with cheers and applause from the team, his family, and the fans who had supported him through thick and thin. The Monegasque flag waving proudly above him.

The national anthem played, and you watched as tears of pride and joy rolled down Charles' cheeks. This was the moment he had dreamed of, the moment he worked so hard for. And now, it was finally here.

[gaia-prime]

PARIS, Aug 9 (Reuters) - Afghan female athlete Manizha Talash, a member of the refugee Olympic team at the Paris Games, displayed the words "Free Afghan Women" on her cape during her breaking routine in the competition's pre-qualifiers on Friday.

Political slogans and statements are banned on the field of play and on podiums at the Olympics, meaning Talash could face a potential sanction.

source

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The cod-Marxism of personalized pricing

Picks and Shovels is a new, standalone technothriller starring Marty Hench, my two-fisted, hard-fighting, tech-scam-busting forensic accountant. You can pre-order it on my latest Kickstarter, which features a brilliant audiobook read by Wil Wheaton.

The social function of the economics profession is to explain, over and over again, that your boss is actually right and that you don't really want the things you want, and you're secretly happy to be abused by the system. If that wasn't true, why would your "choose" commercial surveillance, abusive workplaces and other depredations?

In other words, economics is the "look what you made me do" stick that capitalism uses to beat us with. We wouldn't spy on you, rip you off or steal your wages if you didn't choose to use the internet, shop with monopolists, or work for a shitty giant company. The technical name for this ideology is "public choice theory":

https://pluralistic.net/2022/06/05/regulatory-capture/

Of all the terrible things that economists say we all secretly love, one of the worst is "price discrimination." This is the idea that different customers get charged different amounts based on the merchant's estimation of their ability to pay. Economists insist that this is "efficient" and makes us all better off. After all, the marginal cost of filling the last empty seat on the plane is negligible, so why not sell that seat for peanuts to a flier who doesn't mind the uncertainty of knowing whether they'll get a seat at all? That way, the airline gets extra profits, and they split those profits with their customers by lowering prices for everyone. What's not to like?

Plenty, as it turns out. With only four giant airlines who've carved up the country so they rarely compete on most routes, why would an airline use their extra profits to lower prices, rather than, say, increasing their dividends and executive bonuses?

For decades, the airline industry was the standard-bearer for price discrimination. It was basically impossible to know how much a plane ticket would cost before booking it. But even so, airlines were stuck with comparatively crude heuristics to adjust their prices, like raising the price of a ticket that didn't include a Saturday stay, on the assumption that this was a business flyer whose employer was footing the bill:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/07/drip-drip-drip/#drip-off

With digitization and mass commercial surveillance, we've gone from pricing based on context (e.g. are you buying your ticket well in advance, or at the last minute?) to pricing based on spying. Digital back-ends allow vendors to ingest massive troves of commercial surveillance data from the unregulated data-broker industry to calculate how desperate you are, and how much money you have. Then, digital front-ends – like websites and apps – allow vendors to adjust prices in realtime based on that data, repricing goods for every buyer.

As digital front-ends move into the real world (say, with digital e-ink shelf-tags in grocery stores), vendors can use surveillance data to reprice goods for ever-larger groups of customers and types of merchandise. Grocers with e-ink shelf tags reprice their goods thousands of times, every day:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/03/26/glitchbread/#electronic-shelf-tags

Here's where an economist will tell you that actually, your boss is right. Many groceries are perishable, after all, and e-ink shelf tags allow grocers to reprice their goods every minute or two, so yesterday's lettuce can be discounted every fifteen minutes through the day. Some customers will happily accept a lettuce that's a little gross and liztruss if it means a discount. Those customers get a discount, the lettuce isn't thrown out at the end of the day, and everyone wins, right?

Well, sure, if. If the grocer isn't part of a heavily consolidated industry where competition is a distant memory and where grocers routinely collude to fix prices. If the grocer doesn't have to worry about competitors, why would they use e-ink tags to lower prices, rather than to gouge on prices when demand surges, or based on time of day (e.g. making frozen pizzas 10% more expensive from 6-8PM)?

And unfortunately, groceries are one of the most consolidated sectors in the modern world. What's more, grocers keep getting busted for colluding to fix prices and rip off shoppers:

https://www.cbc.ca/news/business/loblaw-bread-price-settlement-1.7274820

Surveillance pricing is especially pernicious when it comes to apps, which allow vendors to reprice goods based not just on commercially available data, but also on data collected by your pocket distraction rectangle, which you carry everywhere, do everything with, and make privy to all your secrets. Worse, since apps are a closed platform, app makers can invoke IP law to criminalize anyone who reverse-engineers them to figure out how they're ripping you off. Removing the encryption from an app is a potential felony punishable by a five-year prison sentence and a $500k fine (an app is just a web-page skinned in enough IP to make it a crime to install a privacy blocker on it):

https://pluralistic.net/2024/08/15/private-law/#thirty-percent-vig

Large vendors love to sell you shit via their apps. With an app, a merchant can undetectably change its prices every few seconds, based on its estimation of your desperation. Uber pioneered this when they tweaked the app to raise the price of a taxi journey for customers whose batteries were almost dead. Today, everyone's getting in on the act. McDonald's has invested in a company called Plexure that pitches merchants on the use case of raising the cost of your normal breakfast burrito by a dollar on the day you get paid:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/05/your-price-named/#privacy-first-again

Surveillance pricing isn't just a matter of ripping off customers, it's also a way to rip off workers. Gig work platforms use surveillance pricing to titrate their wage offers based on data they buy from data brokers and scoop up with their apps. Veena Dubal calls this "algorithmic wage discrimination":

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/12/algorithmic-wage-discrimination/#fishers-of-men

Take nurses: increasingly, American hospitals are firing their waged nurses and replacing them with gig nurses who are booked in via an app. There's plenty of ways that these apps abuse nurses, but the most ghastly is in how they price nurses' wages. These apps buy nurses' financial data from data-brokers so they can offer lower wages to nurses with lots of credit card debt, on the grounds that crushing debt makes nurses desperate enough to accept a lower wage:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/18/loose-flapping-ends/#luigi-has-a-point

This week, the excellent Lately podcast has an episode on price discrimination, in which cohost Vass Bednar valiantly tries to give economists their due by presenting the strongest possible case for charging different prices to different customers:

https://www.theglobeandmail.com/podcasts/lately/article-the-end-of-the-fixed-price/

Bednar really tries, but – as she later agrees – this just isn't a very good argument. In fact, the only way charging different prices to different customers – or offering different wages to different workers – makes sense is if you're living in a socialist utopia.

After all, a core tenet of Marxism is "from each according to his ability, to each according to his needs." In a just society, people who need more get more, and people who have less, pay less:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/From_each_according_to_his_ability,_to_each_according_to_his_needs

Price discrimination, then, is a Bizarro-world flavor of cod-Marxism. Rather than having a democratically accountable state that sets wages and prices based on need and ability, price discrimination gives this authority to large firms with pricing power, no regulatory constraints, and unlimited access to surveillance data. You couldn't ask for a neater example of the maxim that "What matters isn't what technology does. What matters is who it does it for; and who it does it to."

Neoclassical economists say that all of this can be taken care of by the self-correcting nature of markets. Just give consumers and workers "perfect information" about all the offers being made for their labor or their business, and things will sort themselves out. In the idealized models of perfectly spherical cows of uniform density moving about on a frictionless surface, this does work out very well:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/03/all-models-are-wrong/#some-are-useful

But while large companies can buy the most intimate information imaginable about your life and finances, IP law lets them capture the state and use it to shut down any attempts you make to discover how they operate. When an app called Para offered Doordash workers the ability to preview the total wage offered for a job before they accepted it, Doordash threatened them with eye-watering legal penalties, then threw dozens of full-time engineers at them, changing the app several times per day to shut out Para:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/08/07/hr-4193/#boss-app

And when an Austrian hacker called Mario Zechner built a tool to scrape online grocery store prices – discovering clear evidence of price-fixing conspiracies in the process – he was attacked by the grocery cartel for violating their "IP rights":

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/17/how-to-think-about-scraping/

This is Wilhoit's Law in action:

Conservatism consists of exactly one proposition, to wit: There must be in-groups whom the law protects but does not bind, alongside out-groups whom the law binds but does not protect.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Francis_M._Wilhoit#Wilhoit's_law

Of course, there wouldn't be any surveillance pricing without surveillance. When it comes to consumer privacy, America is a no-man's land. The last time Congress passed a new consumer privacy law was in 1988, when they enacted the Video Privacy Protection Act, which bans video-store clerks from revealing which VHS cassettes you take home. Congress has not addressed a single consumer privacy threat since Die Hard was still playing in theaters.

Corporate bullies adore a regulatory vacuum. The sleazy data-broker industry that has festered and thrived in the absence of a modern federal consumer privacy law is absolutely shameless. For example, every time an app shows you an ad, your location is revealed to dozens of data-brokers who pretend to be bidding for the right to show you an ad. They store these location data-points and combine them with other data about you, which they sell to anyone with a credit card, including stalkers, corporate spies, foreign governments, and anyone hoping to reprice their offerings on the basis of your desperation:

https://www.404media.co/candy-crush-tinder-myfitnesspal-see-the-thousands-of-apps-hijacked-to-spy-on-your-location/

Under Biden, the outgoing FTC did incredible work to fill this gap, using its authority under Section 5 of the Federal Trade Commission Act (which outlaws "unfair and deceptive" practices) to plug some of the worst gaps in consumer privacy law:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/24/gouging-the-all-seeing-eye/#i-spy

And Biden's CFPB promulgated a rule that basically bans data brokers:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/10/getting-things-done/#deliverism

But now the burden of enforcing these rules falls to Trump's FTC, whose new chairman has vowed to end the former FTC's "war on business." What America desperately needs is a new privacy law, one that has a private right of action (so that individuals and activist groups can sue without waiting for a public enforcer to take up their causes) and no "pre-emption" (so that states can pass even stronger privacy laws):

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2022/07/federal-preemption-state-privacy-law-hurts-everyone

How will we get that law? Through a coalition. After all, surveillance pricing is just one of the many horrors that Americans have to put up with thanks to America's privacy law gap. The "privacy first" theory goes like this: if you're worried about social media's impact on teens, or women, or old people, you should start by demanding a privacy law. If you're worried about deepfake porn, you should start by demanding a privacy law. If you're worried about algorithmic discrimination in hiring, lending, or housing, you should start by demanding a privacy law. If you're worried about surveillance pricing, you should start by demanding a privacy law. Privacy law won't entirely solve all these problems, but none of them would be nearly as bad if Congress would just get off its ass and catch up with the privacy threats of the 21st century. What's more, the coalition of everyone who's worried about all the harms that arise from commercial surveillance is so large and powerful that we can get Congress to act:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/06/privacy-first/#but-not-just-privacy

Economists, meanwhile, will line up to say that this is all unnecessary. After all, you "sold" your privacy when you clicked "I agree" or walked under a sign warning you that facial recognition was in use in this store. The market has figured out what you value privacy at, and it turns out, that value is nothing. Any kind of privacy law is just a paternalistic incursion on your "freedom to contract" and decide to sell your personal information. It is "market distorting."

In other words, your boss is right.

Check out my Kickstarter to pre-order copies of my next novel, Picks and Shovels!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/11/socialism-for-the-wealthy/#rugged-individualism-for-the-poor

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

--

Ser Amantio di Nicolao (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Safeway_supermarket_interior,_Fairfax_County,_Virginia.jpg

CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/deed.en

[artificialroux]

maddie swallowed hard, staring at the blood on her hands. if this was survival, then why did it feel like they were already dead?

notes and lore about my yellowjackets oc, she's still currently in development as i wait for s3 to be finished. post layout heavily inspired by @puppybutcher.

MADELINE "MADDIE" SHEPHERD ( lamb drawn to the slaughter. )

played by olivia scott welch

PRE-CRASH

born madeline annabelle shepard, first name derived from the greek name magdalenē, which is associated with mary magdalene, a disciple of jesus who came from magdala.

maddie grew up in wiskayok, in a busy but loving household as the middle child of three sisters, constantly overshadowed by their academic and athletic achievements.

she was raised surrounded by faith. church on sundays, whispered prayers before bed, the quiet presence of religious symbols in her childhood home. it was something her parents believed in fiercely even if they weren't at church every day of the week. something that was supposed to make sense, supposed to make her feel safe, but for maddie faith was never simple.

she wanted to believe—really, truly believe—but it never settled into her bones the way it did for others. she tried. god knows, she tried. she went through the motions, clasped her hands together in prayer, recited the words with everyone else. but deep down, she always had questions. what if god wasn’t really listening? what if he was, and he just didn’t care? what if there was nothing at all? doubt crept into the quiet spaces of her mind, but she never spoke it aloud. because faith was supposed to be unshakable. and maddie? she was always shaking.

at age 12 maddie was diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder, right as she was entering middle school. it had been building up for years—stomachaches before big events, trouble sleeping, overthinking every little mistake—but it wasn’t until she started having more frequent panic attacks and struggling to focus in class that her parents took her to a doctor.

the diagnosis made sense to her, but it didn’t necessarily make things easier. she wasn’t the type to talk about it much, not wanting to be seen as fragile or difficult. she learned to manage it in her own ways—through routines, distractions, and throwing herself into hobbies—but it was always there, a quiet weight she carried.

spirit in her step, fire in her smile—wiskayok’s heartbeat on the sidelines.

from a young age, maddie was drawn to cheerleading. she loved the way it made her feel—like she belonged to something bigger than herself. she wasn’t the loudest or most outgoing cheerleader, but she had a natural talent for movement and rhythm, and she worked hard to perfect her routines. her sisters would sometimes help her practice, holding her steady as she tried out new stunts or braiding her hair before competitions.

on game days, she especially loved cheering for the girls' soccer team, the energy of the field fueling her own as she called out chants and pushed herself to keep up with the intensity of the game.

the weight of representing wiskayok was pressing on her shoulders—but even then, she never imagined it would be the last time cheerleading truly felt like her world.

maddie hadn’t expected to go to nationals. only a few of the senior cheerleaders were chosen to accompany the soccer team, and with so many girls ahead of her, she figured she’d be cheering from home. but when the final list was announced, her name was there. it felt unreal—one last big trip with the team before graduation, a chance to prove herself on a bigger stage.

she was nervous, excited, ready. boarding that plane, all she could think about was the game, the routine, the thrill of it all. she never imagined none of it would matter.

WILDERNESS

i don't belong here.

the first thing maddie registers is the heat. it rolls over her in waves, thick with smoke, stinging her eyes before she even opens them. something heavy is pressing into her chest, making it hard to breathe. the air smells like burnt plastic and fuel—and blood, and she hears muffled screams all around her. she blinks, vision swimming. everything is sideways. the world has tilted. the seatbelt digs into her ribs, keeping her suspended at an unnatural angle. maddie chokes back a sob, throat tightening with panic.

the screaming is getting louder. she has to move. her hands fumble with the seatbelt, fingers numb and shaking. the buckle won’t—fucking—budge. her breath comes too fast, too shallow, she can’t breathe, she can’t—then it snaps open. she falls forward, catching herself against the seat in front of her. her limbs feel like they belong to someone else, unsteady and sluggish as she stumbles into the aisle. bodies. so many bodies. some still, some barely moving, some missing parts that should be there.

after the crash, most of the few cheer members were killed on impact because they were sitting towards the front of the plane, either from the plane breaking apart, being thrown from their seats, or being crushed under wreckage. maddie stands frozen in shock after running out from the plane—she now was completely alone in a group that wasn’t hers to begin with.

she saw reminders of the other cheerleaders in the wreckage—a stray pompom, a crushed megaphone, a jacket that belonged to one of them—and it made her queasy. this makes her relationships with the soccer girls more complicated. she has no one who truly understands her old world, so she either has to integrate with them or be left behind. it pushes her toward lottie’s influence later on—looking for purpose in all the senseless loss.

maddie clung to scraps of warmth as the wilderness unraveled her.

maddie becomes closest to lottie in the wilderness. while she connects with others, lottie is the one who soothes her anxieties in a way no one else does, offering a strange but undeniable sense of comfort. their bond deepens during doomcoming when lottie quietly braids some strands of maddie’s hair—just like her sisters used to do for her. it’s a small but intimate gesture, one that makes maddie feel seen in a way she hasn’t since the crash.

after the crash, her faith became something else entirely. at first, she prayed like never before. desperate. hollow. raw. she begged for a rescue, for warmth, for safety, late at night when no one could hear. she prayed for the souls of the ones they lost, even the ones they had to eat. but the more time passed, the more survival demanded of them, the more god felt like silence. she watched as lottie’s influence grew, filling the void where faith had once lived.

maddie wanted to resist, wanted to hold onto what little she had left of the faith she grew up with. but she was tired. she was hungry. and she was afraid that if she let go, she’d have nothing left. so she followed. not blindly—not like the others—but because she needed something to hold onto. maybe lottie was right. maybe there was something in the wilderness watching over them. maybe faith wasn’t about god at all. maybe it was about survival.

but even then, doubt never fully left her. it was always there, lingering beneath the surface. a quiet, gnawing thing in the back of her mind. because if there really was something out there—if something was listening—then why did it demand so much from them? and if it wasn’t god, then what the hell was it?

the lamb wasn't ready, but the wilderness was.

after weeks of winter, food runs dangerously low, and the group begins to truly fear starvation. the tension has been building for weeks, whispers of sacrifice hanging in the cold air. maddie, already weighed down by guilt and a growing sense of detachment, starts to believe she is meant to be the one to go. she tells herself it would be easier this way—that if she gives herself up, maybe the others will survive, maybe the wilderness will be satisfied. she offers herself to be eaten instead of participating in the hunt. the guilt of survival, the desperation, and lottie’s growing influence all collide in that moment—she truly believes it’s the only way to atone.

but when the others refuse, when even lottie hesitates, she’s forced to keep living, to reconcile with the fact that she’s not ready to die. because now, she isn’t just surviving—she’s waiting. for what, she isn’t sure. but the wilderness isn’t finished with her yet. this changes her, deepens the conflict within her—between faith and fear, between surrender and survival.

ADULT TIMELINE

played by victoria pedretti

she tried to outrun the wilderness, but in the end, it was always waiting to take her back.

maddie had spent years convincing herself she’d left the wilderness behind. she built a life that was quiet, structured—something she could control. a career helping children, a marriage she thought was love, a world where the past couldn’t reach her. she had been young when she married him, blinded by devotion, desperate for something safe, something certain. but love turned to control, affection to manipulation, and soon she found herself trapped in a life that felt just as suffocating as the wilderness.

by the time the yellowjackets returned to her life, so had the unraveling of everything she had tried to build. the divorce was already in motion, a bitter, drawn-out fight that left her feeling hollow. but that emptiness was nothing compared to what came next. the hunt. the blood. the whispers of the forest that had never really let her go.

at first, she tried to hold on, to remind herself that she wasn’t that girl anymore. but the more the past unraveled around her, the more she felt it creeping back in. the fear. the hunger. the aching knowledge that some things were never meant to stay buried.

[aeth-eris]

★  majors/higher  education  |  signs  in  the  9th  house  ★ 

★   book   a   reading   ★   ★   masterlist   1   ★   ★   masterlist   2   ★

★  aries  in  the  9th  house  ★ 

majors  tied  to  action,  leadership,  and  bold  thinking—aries  energy  thrives  in  fields  that  require  initiative  and  innovation.  think  degrees  in  law  (debate,  litigation),  sports  science  (coaching,  performance  training),  or  military  science  (strategy,  defense).  you  might  also  pursue  something  competitive  like  entrepreneurship  or  pre-med,  where  you’re  constantly  challenged  to  stay  ahead.  aries’  restless  energy  makes  hands-on,  fast-paced  majors  appealing,  so  engineering  or  mechanics  could  also  fit.  their  love  of  adventure  means  international  relations  or  global  studies  might  appeal,  especially  if  you  want  to  explore  different  cultures  or  engage  in  diplomatic  work.  creative  fields  like  film  production  or  performing  arts  (theater,  dance)  might  call  to  you,  as  aries  loves  self-expression  and  commanding  attention.  expect  a  major  that  keeps  you  moving  and  doesn’t  confine  you  to  routine;  aries  doesn’t  do  well  in  stagnant  or  overly  theoretical  environments.  you  might  also  gravitate  toward  activism-based  studies,  like  political  science  or  criminal  justice,  where  you  can  champion  causes  and  fight  for  change.  your  education  could  take  unexpected  turns,  as  aries  energy  often  thrives  in  challenges  and  chaos—possibly  leading  you  to  switch  majors  mid-way  when  something  more  exciting  catches  your  attention.

★  taurus  in  the  9th  house  ★ 

majors  rooted  in  stability,  beauty,  and  value-driven  work.  taurus  energy  is  practical  yet  artistic,  so  degrees  in  interior  design,  architecture,  or  fine  arts  (sculpture,  painting)  align  well  with  their  aesthetic  sensibilities.  you  might  also  find  satisfaction  in  agricultural  sciences  or  environmental  studies,  connecting  with  the  earth  and  sustainable  practices.  taurus’  practical  mindset  leans  toward  finance,  economics,  or  business—majors  that  ensure  long-term  security  and  tangible  rewards.  culinary  arts  or  nutrition  could  appeal,  especially  if  you  enjoy  creating  or  nurturing  through  food.  degrees  in  real  estate  or  hospitality  management  might  align  with  taurus’  love  of  comfort  and  luxury,  allowing  you  to  curate  beautiful  spaces  or  experiences  for  others.  taurus  in  the  9th  craves  knowledge  they  can  use  practically,  so  hands-on  fields  with  clear  career  paths  are  key.  psychology  or  social  work  might  also  resonate,  especially  if  you’re  drawn  to  steady,  nurturing  roles  that  help  others  build  better  lives.  you  could  lean  toward  something  like  cultural  studies  or  anthropology  if  there’s  a  focus  on  the  sensory  aspects  of  different  traditions  (food,  art,  craftsmanship).  whatever  you  choose,  it’ll  likely  be  a  slow,  deliberate  decision,  as  taurus  takes  their  time  to  find  what  truly  aligns  with  their  values.

 ★  gemini  in  the  9th  house  ★ 

majors  focused  on  communication,  ideas,  and  variety—gemini  thrives  in  fields  that  stimulate  the  mind  and  offer  flexibility.  journalism,  creative  writing,  or  media  studies  are  strong  fits,  as  gemini  excels  in  storytelling  and  connecting  with  others.  degrees  in  education  (teaching,  curriculum  development)  might  appeal,  especially  if  you’re  drawn  to  sharing  knowledge  in  dynamic  environments.  gemini’s  curiosity  could  also  pull  you  toward  marketing,  public  relations,  or  advertising—majors  that  let  you  craft  messages  and  explore  trends.  linguistics,  foreign  languages,  or  international  studies  might  resonate,  allowing  you  to  learn  and  communicate  across  cultures.  gemini’s  love  of  tech  and  information  could  lead  to  fields  like  computer  science,  digital  media,  or  data  analysis.  their  versatility  means  you  might  combine  seemingly  unrelated  interests,  like  a  double  major  in  psychology  and  graphic  design  or  sociology  and  creative  writing.  gemini  doesn’t  thrive  in  rigid  or  overly  specialized  fields;  they  need  variety,  collaboration,  and  intellectual  stimulation.  philosophy  or  political  science  could  also  align,  especially  if  you  enjoy  debating  and  exploring  complex  ideas.  gemini  in  the  9th  house  often  means  your  education  will  involve  constant  learning  and  adapting—expect  internships,  networking,  and  possibly  changing  majors  to  keep  things  fresh.

 ★  cancer  in  the  9th  house  ★ 

majors  that  center  around  nurturing,  emotional  connection,  and  building  safe  spaces  for  others.  cancer  energy  thrives  in  fields  like  psychology,  counseling,  or  social  work—anything  where  you  can  provide  care  and  emotional  support.  education  might  also  appeal,  particularly  in  early  childhood  development  or  special  education,  as  cancer  loves  nurturing  young  minds.  degrees  in  nursing,  midwifery,  or  healthcare  align  with  cancer’s  caregiving  nature,  especially  if  you’re  drawn  to  maternal  health  or  pediatrics.  cancer’s  connection  to  home  and  history  could  lead  to  majors  like  interior  design  (creating  comforting  spaces)  or  history  and  anthropology,  focusing  on  family  lineage  or  cultural  traditions.  culinary  arts  or  hospitality  management  could  also  resonate,  especially  if  you  love  bringing  people  together  through  food  or  creating  warm,  inviting  environments.  cancer  in  the  9th  might  draw  you  toward  majors  that  focus  on  healing  or  personal  growth,  like  alternative  medicine,  holistic  therapy,  or  even  spiritual  studies.  film  and  media  studies  could  appeal  if  you’re  interested  in  storytelling  with  emotional  depth.  whatever  you  choose,  it’s  likely  tied  to  themes  of  care,  protection,  and  emotional  resonance.  you  might  also  feel  pulled  toward  studying  abroad  in  places  that  feel  familiar  or  tied  to  ancestral  roots,  seeking  deeper  connections  with  your  personal  history.

 ★  leo  in  the  9th  house  ★ 

majors  centered  around  creativity,  leadership,  and  self-expression.  leo  thrives  in  fields  where  they  can  shine,  so  performing  arts  (theater,  dance,  or  music)  might  be  at  the  top  of  your  list.  film  studies  or  directing  could  appeal  if  you  want  to  create  bold,  visual  stories  that  captivate  an  audience.  degrees  in  business,  entrepreneurship,  or  leadership  studies  might  also  resonate,  as  leo  loves  being  in  charge  and  inspiring  others.  if  you’re  drawn  to  communication,  public  relations  or  marketing  with  a  focus  on  branding  and  storytelling  could  fit.  leo’s  dramatic  flair  might  pull  you  toward  law—especially  areas  like  courtroom  litigation  where  your  charisma  and  presence  can  shine.  education,  particularly  as  a  professor  or  in  roles  that  allow  for  mentorship,  could  also  appeal,  as  leo  loves  to  teach  and  lead.  graphic  design  or  fashion  might  be  your  calling  if  you’re  drawn  to  creating  visually  impactful  work.  majors  involving  performance,  creativity,  or  roles  where  you  can  stand  out  will  feel  most  fulfilling.  study  abroad  programs  in  culturally  vibrant  or  artistic  cities  might  inspire  your  studies.  whatever  you  choose,  it’ll  likely  be  something  where  your  natural  talent  for  commanding  attention  and  creating  joy  takes  center  stage.

 ★  virgo  in  the  9th  house  ★ 

majors  grounded  in  precision,  practicality,  and  service.  virgo  excels  in  detail-oriented  fields,  so  degrees  in  healthcare  (nursing,  medical  technology,  public  health)  or  environmental  science  could  be  strong  fits.  you  might  also  thrive  in  majors  like  biology,  chemistry,  or  nutrition,  especially  if  you’re  drawn  to  solving  real-world  problems.  virgo’s  analytical  nature  makes  them  well-suited  to  data-heavy  fields  like  statistics,  economics,  or  information  systems.  education  is  another  natural  fit,  particularly  in  curriculum  design  or  teaching  science  and  math  subjects.  virgo’s  focus  on  improvement  could  lead  to  degrees  in  psychology,  especially  counseling  or  behavioral  analysis,  where  you  help  others  refine  and  improve  their  lives.  technical  writing,  editing,  or  publishing  might  appeal  if  you’re  drawn  to  language  and  its  meticulous  application.  environmental  studies,  agricultural  science,  or  urban  planning  align  with  virgo’s  interest  in  sustainable  systems.  virgo  in  the  9th  house  often  seeks  practical  applications  for  higher  learning,  so  your  education  might  focus  on  how  to  create  order  and  efficiency  in  the  world.  internships  or  research  opportunities  are  likely  to  play  a  key  role,  as  virgo  thrives  on  hands-on  experience.  you’re  also  likely  to  be  drawn  to  majors  where  you  can  serve  others  and  create  meaningful,  measurable  change.

 ★  libra  in  the  9th  house  ★ 

majors  tied  to  beauty,  harmony,  and  interpersonal  connection.  libra  thrives  in  fields  like  art  history,  design,  or  fashion,  where  aesthetics  and  balance  play  a  central  role.  degrees  in  law,  especially  focused  on  mediation  or  human  rights,  align  with  libra’s  natural  sense  of  fairness  and  justice.  if  you’re  drawn  to  communication,  public  relations  or  marketing  might  appeal,  particularly  in  industries  like  luxury  goods  or  entertainment.  libra’s  love  of  people  and  relationships  could  also  pull  you  toward  psychology  or  sociology,  exploring  how  humans  connect  and  interact.  education,  especially  in  arts  or  humanities,  is  another  natural  fit—teaching  subjects  like  literature,  philosophy,  or  visual  arts  could  fulfill  your  love  for  beauty  and  intellectual  stimulation.  majors  like  international  relations  or  cultural  studies  align  with  libra’s  global  perspective  and  interest  in  diplomacy.  libra  in  the  9th  house  also  points  to  a  strong  desire  for  study  abroad  experiences,  especially  in  culturally  refined  cities  like  paris,  florence,  or  tokyo.  you  might  also  be  drawn  to  interior  design,  event  planning,  or  hospitality  management—fields  where  you  create  harmonious  and  beautiful  spaces.  whatever  you  choose,  it  will  likely  involve  collaboration,  creativity,  and  a  focus  on  creating  balance  in  the  world  around  you.

 ★  scorpio  in  the  9th  house  ★ 

majors  steeped  in  intensity,  mystery,  and  transformation.  scorpio’s  fascination  with  the  unseen  might  lead  you  toward  psychology,  especially  fields  like  forensic  psychology,  trauma  therapy,  or  psychoanalysis.  criminology,  law  enforcement,  or  investigative  journalism  are  also  natural  fits,  as  scorpio  thrives  in  uncovering  hidden  truths.  degrees  in  medicine  or  research,  particularly  in  areas  like  oncology,  genetics,  or  pathology,  align  with  scorpio’s  need  to  transform  and  heal.  scorpio’s  deep,  transformative  energy  might  also  pull  you  toward  majors  like  philosophy,  theology,  or  occult  studies,  where  you  explore  life’s  profound  questions.  anthropology,  archaeology,  or  history  with  a  focus  on  ancient  civilizations  could  appeal  if  you’re  drawn  to  uncovering  buried  secrets.  scorpio’s  intensity  lends  itself  to  creative  fields  as  well—screenwriting,  film  directing,  or  novel  writing  in  genres  like  horror,  thriller,  or  fantasy  might  resonate.  scorpio  in  the  9th  house  might  also  gravitate  toward  environmental  studies  or  activism,  especially  if  there’s  a  focus  on  regeneration  or  fighting  for  underrepresented  causes.  your  educational  journey  may  feel  transformative  and  even  karmic,  with  pivotal  experiences  that  challenge  your  worldview  and  deepen  your  understanding  of  life’s  complexities.  you’re  drawn  to  majors  that  let  you  explore  the  depths  and  create  profound  change.

 ★  sagittarius  in  the  9th  house  ★ 

majors  focused  on  exploration,  freedom,  and  the  pursuit  of  knowledge.  sagittarius  in  the  9th  house  practically  screams  for  degrees  in  international  relations,  global  studies,  or  cultural  anthropology—anything  that  allows  you  to  explore  different  cultures  and  philosophies.  you  might  also  be  drawn  to  majors  in  philosophy,  religious  studies,  or  political  science,  as  sagittarius  loves  diving  into  big-picture  questions  about  morality  and  society.  education  is  another  natural  fit,  particularly  higher  education,  where  you  could  thrive  as  a  professor  or  academic  researcher.  travel  and  adventure  are  key  themes,  so  tourism  management,  hospitality,  or  even  adventure  filmmaking  could  appeal  if  you  want  to  combine  movement  and  creativity.  sagittarius’  connection  to  optimism  and  growth  might  also  lead  you  to  fields  like  motivational  speaking,  public  relations,  or  even  sports  management.  if  you’re  drawn  to  physicality,  degrees  in  physical  education,  sports  science,  or  outdoor  recreation  could  align  with  your  adventurous  spirit.  study  abroad  programs  or  internships  in  foreign  countries  might  feel  essential  to  your  academic  journey.  whatever  you  choose,  it’ll  likely  involve  expanding  your  horizons,  chasing  new  experiences,  and  finding  ways  to  bring  a  sense  of  inspiration  and  adventure  to  your  studies  and  career.

 ★  capricorn  in  the  9th  house  ★ 

majors  rooted  in  structure,  ambition,  and  long-term  success.  capricorn  in  the  9th  house  suggests  a  preference  for  fields  that  offer  tangible  career  paths  and  clear  rewards,  such  as  law,  business  administration,  or  economics.  you  might  also  excel  in  architecture,  engineering,  or  urban  planning,  as  capricorn  thrives  on  building  systems  and  structures  that  last.  degrees  in  political  science,  public  policy,  or  governance  could  appeal  if  you’re  drawn  to  leadership  roles  and  creating  societal  impact.  capricorn’s  disciplined  energy  might  also  lead  you  toward  accounting,  finance,  or  real  estate—fields  that  align  with  your  pragmatic  mindset  and  interest  in  material  security.  academia  or  teaching  might  also  appeal,  especially  if  you’re  focused  on  rising  to  leadership  positions,  like  becoming  a  dean  or  head  of  a  department.  capricorn  in  the  9th  values  practicality,  so  you  may  prioritize  internships,  certifications,  or  degrees  with  clear  professional  applications.  environmental  science  or  sustainability  studies  could  resonate,  especially  if  you’re  drawn  to  creating  lasting  change  in  ecological  systems.  your  educational  journey  will  likely  be  marked  by  hard  work,  steady  progress,  and  a  focus  on  achieving  long-term  goals,  with  a  major  that  reflects  your  ambition  and  desire  for  mastery.

 ★  aquarius  in  the  9th  house  ★ 

majors  centered  around  innovation,  social  change,  and  intellectual  freedom.  aquarius  thrives  in  unconventional  fields,  so  degrees  in  computer  science,  information  technology,  or  artificial  intelligence  are  natural  fits.  if  you’re  drawn  to  the  social  sciences,  majors  like  sociology,  political  science,  or  human  rights  might  appeal,  especially  if  there’s  a  focus  on  progressive  or  revolutionary  ideas.  aquarius’  love  of  innovation  might  also  lead  to  engineering,  especially  aerospace  or  renewable  energy,  where  you  can  create  futuristic  solutions.  degrees  in  environmental  studies  or  urban  planning  could  resonate  if  you’re  interested  in  designing  sustainable  communities.  aquarius  in  the  9th  house  suggests  a  fascination  with  global  movements  and  humanitarian  efforts,  so  international  relations  or  global  health  might  align  with  your  vision  for  creating  change.  you  might  also  be  drawn  to  fields  like  psychology  or  neuroscience,  exploring  how  the  mind  works  and  how  it  shapes  behavior.  aquarius  values  intellectual  freedom,  so  you  could  pursue  interdisciplinary  studies  that  allow  you  to  combine  multiple  interests,  like  technology  and  ethics  or  science  and  art.  your  educational  journey  might  involve  unconventional  paths,  like  online  programs,  self-directed  learning,  or  studying  abroad  in  innovative  or  forward-thinking  countries.

 ★  pisces  in  the  9th  house  ★ 

majors  infused  with  imagination,  spirituality,  and  emotional  depth.  pisces  in  the  9th  house  suggests  a  pull  toward  fields  like  creative  writing,  fine  arts,  or  film  studies,  where  you  can  channel  your  dreams  into  storytelling  or  visual  expression.  degrees  in  psychology  or  counseling  might  appeal,  especially  if  you’re  drawn  to  helping  others  navigate  their  emotions  or  uncover  deeper  truths.  pisces’  spiritual  energy  might  also  lead  you  toward  religious  studies,  theology,  or  even  alternative  medicine,  focusing  on  healing  and  connection  to  the  divine.  majors  in  marine  biology  or  environmental  sciences  might  resonate,  especially  if  you  feel  called  to  protect  and  explore  the  natural  world.  pisces  also  thrives  in  fields  like  music,  dance,  or  acting,  where  emotional  expression  takes  center  stage.  humanitarian  studies  or  social  work  could  be  a  fit,  particularly  if  you  want  to  help  underserved  populations  or  work  for  global  peace.  pisces  in  the  9th  house  also  points  to  a  love  for  escapism  and  exploration,  so  degrees  in  tourism,  hospitality,  or  cultural  studies  might  align  with  your  wanderlust.  your  educational  journey  may  feel  fluid  and  intuitive,  with  shifts  in  direction  driven  by  inner  callings  rather  than  external  expectations.

 ★   book   a   reading   ★   ★   masterlist   1   ★   ★   masterlist   2   ★

[love-that-we-were-in]

betting on all three for us two

pairing: frat!luke castellan x reader summary: you think you like being a little more friendly and a little less competition with luke castellan this year. a sequel to this fic word count: 3.1k warnings: none

author's note: frat luke my dearly beloved loser son who studies pre-med this is for you you know who you are i love you

1. 

The fall semester comes at you faster than you’d like, this rapid change from a golden summer to the crisp air of being back on campus. You’re rooming with someone from an old anthropology elective you took, Silena finally moving into her sorority house. It should feel weirder, how everything has changed since spring break. 

You take the opportunity to build new habits. Early runs, no caffeine after 2pm. Little things that make the day go a tiny bit faster, building blocks to fit around your class schedule. Silena schedules weekly lunches for the three of you and there’s this gravity to it all that you want to study. 

It had been nice to be home for a few months. Your mom had missed having you there, being able to show you the new flowers she planted, how the lemon tree in the yard is twisting weirdly. Board games and family dinners and friends who never left your town. Being back home was resetting. Being back on campus was restarting.

Lee catches you as you leave the gym, offering to walk you to class if you’re heading in that direction. You smile, telling him that you have a late start and pretend he doesn’t frown when your phone buzzes. He mentions that he’s thinking of starting a study group for one of your classes and you tell him you’ll think about joining. 

While he heads towards the main building, you make your way to the campus coffee shop - caught behind the early risers desperate for something to get them through their first lecture of the day. 

“Can I get a flat white and an iced americano with caramel to go please?” You smile at the girl working the counter, stepping aside to glance at your watch.

You run through your schedule for today, ignoring the text that comes through. You know exactly what it says, the same thing every morning, and you don’t even bother to roll your eyes at this point. 

“I can’t believe you ignored my text,” Luke says when you reach the courtyard between the library and the medical building. “Not even a flame emoji.”

You stop in front of him, drinking in the jeans and sweater combination he’s settled on today. It’s a really nice sweater, dark blue and a little baggy. You wonder how quickly he’d notice it going missing. Probably not as quickly as he’d notice the stupid hat he’s wearing go missing. His backpack leans against the bench, pristine.

“No one uses those except you,” you shake your head, handing him the iced drink. “What time does your lecture start?” 

Luke tells you as if he really needs to. It’s this thing you’ve started doing since the semester began, acting like you don’t know his schedule as well as your own. As if the both of you haven’t fallen into this routine in just a few weeks. Like it’s not a highlight of your day. 

Clarisse thinks it’s adorable. Chris thinks it’s hilarious. You think it’s nice to have someone to share your free time with, beyond whatever else you and Luke have. It had been a fear of yours, when Silena mentioned not sharing a dorm with you, that you would fall to the sidelines. That life would come with these new priorities for everyone and you would only be fourth or fifth on their lists, too cemented in the day-to-day that you’d be forgotten.

Morning coffee with Luke stops that fear. 

“Did Silena tell you about the party on Friday?” 

“I have a study group in the afternoon,” Luke says, swirling his plastic cup around so the ice clinks together. “If I do go, I’m showing up late.” 

“Maybe I’ll keep my eye out for you there, Castellan.” 

He laughs and it’s like summer again. There’s something insane about hearing Luke laugh like this, unbroken and loud, nothing like it had been over the phone while you were back home. 

“You’ve got dinner with Silena and Clarisse tonight, right?” He asks, swinging his bag over one shoulder. You throw your empty cup into the trash can as you both start walking. “Is there any point in asking if you want to come round after?”

You knock his arm with your shoulder, laughing, and, instead of feigning hurt like usual, Luke just takes your hand in his, the skin a little colder than you expect. Gazing down at your linked hands, you bite your lip before sighing. 

“If I’m home before eleven, I’ll consider it.” 

Last year, when you first met him, you thought Luke only got that determined glint in his eyes when he was competing. That it was a sign of an unanticipated thrill. Since then, you’ve learnt that it’s not that at all. It’s this thing that ignites within him, determined and passionate and a little boyish. 

You think it might be one of your favorite things about him.

“I will take that deal.”

2. 

You wish you could say you were a little drunk. At least that way you would have something to blame. As it stands, you’re stone cold sober, maybe a little tired from class but nothing that can really be blamed for the lack of weight your actions seem to have right now. 

The only thing you can blame, and you will, is the boy next to you, completely engrossed in the movie playing. They’d been watching it when you arrived, all settled on the couches and you assume this is something they do regularly, and at any other time you might’ve called it cute. 

Not tonight. Not when you walked in to the discovery that Luke wears glasses and you didn’t know about it. It was something you played off, making a joke and settling into the cushions beside him. In the time since, Chris has left for his date with Clarisse and Charlie has pulled out some work to go through in the corner of the room. 

“What’s up?” Luke asks when he realizes you’ve hardly moved in ten minutes, barely even breathing. And it’s the worst possible thing he could do, glance down through the frames with that small smile you’ve gotten used to and curls loose. 

“Nothing’s up,” you let your eyes trail back to the screen. “This is a very cute tradition you guys have going on.” 

Charlie lets out a little laugh from across the room. You feel the way Luke exhales against the side of your face. You think you’re able to go back to pretending everything is normal, make a joke and enjoy the rest of the movie. The second you feel Luke’s fingertips on the skin of your knee, gentle and warm, you know you can’t. 

“You’re swerving,” he whispers, throwing a quick glance at Charlie to see if he can hear but the other boy is engrossed in his work. “Talk to me.” 

“It’s nothing,” you bite the inside of your cheek when he nods encouragingly, incredibly aware of the patterns he’s tracing on your skin. “I just think it’s interesting that you’d choose to wear a hat all the time when the glasses are right there.” 

“What?”

His hand stills and you wait. You wait and you stare at the shape of his jaw and you chuckle when it finally clicks, his adam’s apple shifting as he swallows the conclusion down. “Are you saying you like my glasses?” 

You don’t like how uneven this all feels. Whenever you’ve been with Luke so far, there’s been this mutual balance that you’ve grown used to. Even before now, back when you were locked in silly competitions, you did it on even footing, the expectation that everything meant nothing and you wouldn’t be affected. 

This, the way Luke grins around the realization, hand moving to rest on your thigh, is different. It’s heavier. It’s a loss after a winning streak and you’re kind of obsessed with the way it could drag you down. 

“I just think that hat is stupid.” 

“Yeah, okay,” Luke nods and you know, even if he doesn’t do it outright, he’s laughing. He’s categorizing the information you’ve just given him, placing it where it belongs in his mind, and it’s going to bite you in the ass. “Tell me more.” 

“Luke,” you mutter, gritting your teeth. His fingertips brush against the hem of your shorts and, when you glare at him for it, he just shrugs. You throw a glance over in Charlie’s direction. Still nothing. “Are you insane?” 

He tilts his head like he’s considering the question carefully. If Charlie were to look over, you know he’d assume you were locked in a debate about something silly - a staple of you and Luke - and it wouldn’t matter. He wouldn’t know for a second that you were holding onto Luke’s wrist, his hand itching to move just a little to the left. 

You sigh and the boy beside you raises an eyebrow. You both know that you’ve lost this round. 

When you press your lips to his bicep as the film credits roll, warm even through the fabric of his shirt, you mumble, “I really like your glasses.” 

3.

You aren’t used to watching things from a crowd. You’re used to focusing on yourself, on your team - not watching from a distance, surrounded by people who are there purely for enjoyment. There’s no winning from the stands. 

Luke doesn’t know you’re here. You’d sent him a text that morning wishing him luck, arranging to meet him when his debate was over. You hadn’t bothered to message him when your afternoon class got canceled, choosing instead to race across campus and find a seat in the dim auditorium they’re using. 

There isn’t the crackle of energy you get from swimming, or from watching Luke during track sessions. It’s less intense, for sure, a balance between the fire you know exists within him when he’s competing and the confidence he has in his own intelligence. You’ve argued with Luke, stupid things that neither of you care to take too seriously, and this is just the next stage of that. 

He’s got his glasses on, you note, when the debate gets underway. He’s wearing his lucky green polo, even if he’d never personally call it that, and he’s switched his smartwatch out for an analogue one. The cheap biro you’re used to seeing him use has been replaced by a fancy silver pen that he still taps against his thigh while thinking. He’s sitting straighter than usual, shoulders back. 

It’s almost like meeting him for the first time, focused and confident and sharp at the edges. 

You’re kind of obsessed with it. 

An hour and a winning handshake later, you make your way through the small crowd leaving to find Luke in conversation with one of his teammates. She smiles as you wrap an arm around his waist from behind, the slight tension still lingering in his bones melting away when he realizes it’s you. 

“What are you doing here?” He says, turning enough that he’s actually facing you now. The girl waves you both goodbye. “I thought you had class.” 

“Professor Chase had to cancel. His daughter got sent home from school with a fever.” 

Luke nods, pressing his lips to the top of your head quickly. “You didn’t have to come to my debate.” 

In the few months you’ve known Luke, you’ve learnt more about him than you expected to. You know from summer that Connecticut means looking after his sick mother, that he’s hoping to introduce some new charity events to ksig, that he used to go to a summer camp growing up. You know that his dad never showed up for anything and that he sits in the stands of all of your swim meets regardless of whether it cuts into his study time or not.

More than all of that, you know that the way he’s gazing at you now, a cross between awe and something deeper, is going to drive you crazy one day. You hope he can read the same expression on your face. 

“Thank you for coming,” he says when everyone is finally dismissed, an arm thrown across your shoulders as you make your way out of the building. You loop a finger around one of his, just because you want to. “It means a lot.”

“I told you I would,” and you had, months ago, staring at Luke’s bedroom ceiling, back when you were still caught in the casualness of it all. When Luke was just someone you pretended you weren’t trying to bump into at parties. You’d told him that you would show up for him if you ever got the chance. He’d rolled his eyes, throwing a blanket over you both and told you to go to sleep. He’d drifted off with his nose pressed against your neck. “I keep my word, Castellan.” 

“I know.”

In the evening light of campus, you think it might mean something more. Buried under the timing and the bitter wind until it’s a promise only you and Luke could translate. Asking him about where he wants to go for dinner, you like that no one else could understand the depth of it. 

+1.

Silena catches your attention as you enter the kitchen, grinning wildly and explaining her concept for tonight. Drew gave her permission to throw this week’s party, something themed and fun and it’s something she’s so proud of that you can’t help but grin back at her energy. 

“Even Charlie came,” she tells you excitedly, handing you a drink. “I feel like tonight is going to be it.” 

In all the years you’ve known her, she’s been counting down to it. You don’t exactly understand the fundamentals of what it is, if it’s a real thing or something she can just sense intrinsically. There have been moments where she’s thought of it before, mentioned it offhandedly before shaking her head - as if knowing she was wrong. 

“What even is it?” You ask and, for the first time, she breathes deeply instead of shrugging it off. 

“The beginning of the end,” she says and that doesn’t exactly explain anything. “Everything is about to change.” 

You still don’t really get it, but she’s as confident in this as she is about her clothes, so you nod like you understand. She sends you away not long after that, turning her attention to the new group that’s just walked through the doorway, mentioning that you need to be in the basement in about an hour and you just accept your fate, moving into the next room and falling into conversation with Rachel. 

*

Luke slips into the basement just as Silena starts yelling for everyone to do so, catching your eye across the room and waving. When you’re all instructed to sit down in a circle, you wonder exactly what Silena has planned for tonight. When she places a near empty bottle down in the center of you all, you laugh. 

“Are we actually playing spin the bottle?” Chris asks, prompting a murmured chorus of agreement from everyone else in the room. Silena frowns at him. 

“Wanna bet he ends up getting the most into it?” Luke whispers in your ear and you raise an eyebrow at him. “Loser has to buy the coffee tomorrow morning.” 

“You’re on,” you bump your fist to his to seal the deal. “I think he’s gonna get bored by round 3.” 

“Only boring people get bored of this game. It’s about drive.” 

“It’s about power?” Luke lets out a laugh and Silena turns her glare to you. “Sorry.”

She starts to explain the rules of the game, as if you’re all twelve again, and you bite your lip harder with every comment Luke makes under his breath. It’s a little mean, a little stupid, and you wish you were fifteen again, playing a proper game of spin the bottle for the first time.

Nothing much happens for the first few rounds, Chris starting to grumble the longer the game goes on. Luke clicks his tongue when you point it out, cursing his best friend like this was the worst thing that could’ve happened to him. 

Lee spins and it’s like cosmic interference when the bottle stops between you and Luke, the two of you glancing at each other and then back towards Lee. 

“Should I spin it again?” Lee asks when no one says anything. Silena shakes her head and says, “You can choose or we can vote if that makes you more comfortable.” 

“Please let us vote,” Chris shouts, animated and you narrow your eyes at him, ignoring the smug smile Luke gives you. “I’ll never ask you for anything ever again.” 

Lee glances between you both again, at where your knee rests against Luke’s thigh and the beer you’ve been sharing for the past twenty minutes sits between you. “It might be better to vote.” 

“Sure,” Silena smiles before silencing you all. “Everyone that wants Lee to kiss Luke, raise your hands.” 

You raise your hand and Luke mumbles beside you, flicking your leg and you poke him in return. Anything to avoid kissing Lee Fletcher after two years of avoiding it. 

“That is an overwhelming majority,” Silena says and you know, just by the way her eyes slide over to you, that she didn’t even bother to actually count. “Lee, you may now kiss Luke.” 

There’s this moment where you think Lee is going to just leave but instead he stares at the boy next to you, the relaxed set to his jaw, the annoying baseball cap on his head, how he’s so unbothered by it all. You watch as something clicks in his mind, you really want to know what it is. 

Whatever it was, it makes him grab the bottle again, ignoring Silena’s protests. It lands on the girl from Luke’s debate team and she straightens her back ever so slightly. 

“Silena,” Lee says as he leans towards the girl. “I’m not going to kiss Luke or his girlfriend.”

“Damn straight,” Luke mumbles, grabbing your hand from your lap and holding it in his instead. It’s stupid and it really doesn’t matter to either of you, you know that, but there’s this way he says it - almost like it’s the worst thing he could’ve imagined - and it settles in your gut with the beer you’ve been drinking. “Me or my girlfriend.”

“I’d really like to meet her,” you say, laughing when he huffs and pulls his hat down on your head. When you push the visor up to see him properly, all rosy cheeks and compacted curls, you think you might have found it. Whatever it is.

Based on the way Luke’s nose scrunches and his eyes crinkle, you think he understands that too. 

[itdontmatter283472374]

What are we? Chapter Four

Azzi felt the energy in the gym as soon as she stepped through the door. The sound of basketballs bouncing, shoes squeaking against the polished floor, and the low hum of voices talking strategy all collided together to create a familiar buzz she hadn’t realized she missed. She was here—UConn, surrounded by the women she could only dream of playing with.

Paige walked beside her, her pace steady but her smile wide, like she couldn’t wait to show Azzi off to everyone. The team was scattered across the court, some running drills, others chatting and stretching. Azzi tried to act casual, but her heart was already beating faster than it should have been. She knew she was about to be introduced to a new chapter of her life—one that felt both exhilarating and terrifying all at once.

“Alright, here we go,” Paige said, nudging Azzi with her elbow. “These are my girls.”

They walked up to the sidelines where the team had gathered, and as Paige’s voice rang out, the chatter died down. Eyes shifted toward them, and Azzi felt all of them land on her. She stood up a little straighter, trying to hide the nerves, but there was no mistaking the flutter in her stomach.

“Hey everyone,” Paige called out, drawing a few amused looks from the group. “This is Azzi. She’s, uh… she’s about to make us look bad with that three-point shot of hers, so just get ready.”

A few of the players laughed, and Azzi felt her cheeks heat up. She had, admittedly, practiced her three-pointer more than she cared to admit. She wasn’t trying to make anyone look bad, but she wasn’t about to downplay it either.

“Ayy, I see you,” Aaliyah said with a grin, nudging Saylor, who had a teasing glint in her eyes. “We’ve heard about you. Paige talks about you all the time, girl. I swear, I thought you were already on the team with how much she hyped you up.”

Azzi laughed, a little nervous but trying to keep it cool. “Really?”

“Oh yeah, we know about that three-pointer of yours,” Saylor said, giving her a wink. “But I’m not convinced you can outshoot us.”

Azzi shook her head, a playful smile tugging at her lips. “I wouldn’t be so sure,” she teased.

As the team laughed, Paige rolled her eyes, her lips quirking up as she muttered, “I hate that you’re already ganging up on me.”

The team was warm, welcoming, and easygoing, but Azzi couldn’t ignore the buzz of nerves swirling in her stomach. This was it. The dream she’d been chasing. These were the girls she was going to be playing with. Paige’s teammates.

Evina shot her a smirk, crossing her arms as she leaned against the wall. “So, we’re just letting anyone in here now?” she teased, but there was a hint of respect in her tone. “Nah, I’m just playing. I’ve seen you in action. You’re gonna fit right in.”

Azzi felt her face flush under the weight of all the attention. Paige stood off to the side, watching her with an expression Azzi couldn’t quite place. She was so used to seeing Paige in control, confident, and now, here she was, practically glowing as she introduced Azzi to the team.

“You gonna be alright?” Paige asked softly, her eyes focused on Azzi like she was waiting for her to give the signal that she was okay.

Azzi gave a quick nod. “Yeah, I’m good. Just a little overwhelmed.”

Paige smiled and nodded, her gaze lingering on Azzi for a beat longer than necessary. Azzi caught it—a brief, soft look that made her stomach do a little flip.

“Good,” Paige said, a little too fast. She quickly cleared her throat, as if shaking herself out of the moment. “Alright, let’s go, we need to get this warm-up in.”

But even as they started moving, Azzi could feel Paige’s eyes following her, even as she talked with the rest of the team. Every now and then, Paige would glance over her shoulder, her eyes lingering a second too long on Azzi. It wasn’t lost on her that, for once, it wasn’t her usual competitive gaze—it was something softer, something… more personal.

The girls slowly drifted back to their pre-game routines. Azzi found herself standing by Geno watching as they started their stretches. Aaliyah and Saylor walked over, her voice barely above a whisper. “By the way, Paige is, like, totally into you, no cap. She won’t stop talking about you.”

Azzi’s eyes widened, but before she could respond, Saylor jumped in with a laugh. “Oh, she’s totally right. Paige is practically in love with you, Azzi. I’m surprised she’s not holding your hand right now, honestly.”

Azzi felt her heart race in a mix of confusion and something that felt almost like excitement. But she couldn’t focus on that right now. She had to keep her cool.

“You guys are terrible,” Azzi said, trying to play it off as casually as possible.

“Nah, we’re just saying it how it is,” Aaliyah grinned, giving her a light shove. “Don’t worry, though. We’re just teasing. But seriously, no pressure.”

Azzi laughed and nodded, but it was hard to ignore the feeling that was spreading through her chest. Something new. Something that wasn’t just about basketball anymore.

The team gathered in a huddle as Coach began giving instructions for the warm-up. Paige moved into the circle, standing across from Azzi with a focused look in her eyes. Azzi caught her looking at her once again, but this time, Paige’s gaze lingered for just a moment too long, and then quickly darted away.

Azzi bit her lip, trying to shake the feeling of her heart racing again. But it was hard to ignore how much this—everything—felt like a beginning.

Maybe it was the game. Maybe it was just the fact that she was finally here, standing beside Paige, surrounded by these incredible women. Or maybe it was the way Paige couldn’t stop glancing her way, her lips pulling into that smile that Azzi had always loved.

Whatever it was, it felt like something important was happening. And Azzi couldn’t quite shake the sense that things were about to change in a way that neither of them were ready for.

But for now, she’d settle for just playing basketball, even if that meant having to navigate the unexpected emotions swirling in her chest.

Because, after all, this was the life she’d dreamed of. And it was finally happening.

The air was thick with the hum of a long practice winding down as the team spilled off the court and into the locker room. Azzi, still a little high from the rush of the scrimmage, quickly excused herself from the group, making her way to the hallway where she’d be meeting Geno and CD for a meeting that would change everything. She could feel the weight of the decision already settling in her chest—this wasn’t just about basketball anymore. This was about her future, about her life at UConn.

But first, the team.

As she passed the locker room entrance, she noticed Paige lingering at the doorway. The sight of her, with her hoodie pulled up and her damp hair falling loosely around her face, made Azzi pause. Paige caught her eye for a second, giving her a soft smile before heading inside.

“See you upstairs, right?” Azzi called out, trying to sound casual, but her voice held that little edge of uncertainty.

Paige nodded, her eyes softening. “Yeah, I’ll catch up. Don’t keep them waiting too long.”

Azzi nodded back, forcing herself to keep it together as she turned to head toward the stairs. But she couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at her lips as she made her way up toward the offices. She’d never been this nervous about a decision in her life. UConn—this place, this team, everything—felt like home already. But still, committing was a huge deal. A permanent one. Especially for an indecisive person like herself. 

Meanwhile, back in the locker room, the tension was almost palpable. The team had just finished showering, and the conversations started up quickly, as always, but today they had a different topic on their minds.

“Yo, Paige,” Nika called out from across the room, leaning against the lockers with a grin plastered on her face. “I see you over there, acting all shy. What’s up with you and Azzi, huh?”

Paige froze mid-motion, her hands still tucked into the sleeves of her hoodie as she tried to dodge the question. “What?” she said, her tone a little too defensive. “Nothing. We’re just—”

“Just what?” Aaliyah interrupted with a smirk, crossing her arms as she leaned against the bench. “Girl, don’t act like we don’t see how you’ve been looking at her all practice. You’ve been practically glowing every time she shoots a three-pointer.”

“She’s got skills,” Paige muttered, brushing off the comment like it was no big deal. “It’s just basketball.”

But the teasing wouldn’t stop. Evina chimed in, her voice dripping with mock seriousness. “Girl, you know we can tell. The way you’re all overprotective about her now, like she’s your little sister or something. Are you sure there’s nothing more going on?”

“You’re seriously acting like a big sister now,” Aubrey said with a laugh. “Is that why you’re suddenly looking after her? Gotta watch out for her, huh?”

Paige was starting to feel the heat, her face flushing despite herself. “Can we not do this right now?”

But it wasn’t going to stop.

“Nah, nah, we’re just saying, Paige,” Nika teased, sliding closer. “If you’re gonna keep looking at Azzi like that, maybe you should stop seeing other girls, huh? Can’t be talking about commitment while you’re out here kissing other girls at parties.”

The words hit harder than Paige wanted them to, and she found herself biting her lip, her gaze shifting away from them. She couldn’t help the tiny flicker of annoyance that swept through her. “I’m not ‘kissing other girls,’ okay?” she snapped. “And don’t act like you all know everything.”

But despite the heat building inside her, there was something else. Something she couldn’t quite deny. A tiny part of her liked this—liked the attention. Even though she hated the feeling of being exposed, of people digging into something she hadn’t even fully figured out herself.

Christyn, always the one to break things up when the teasing went too far, shook her head with a laugh. “Y’all need to lay off her,” she said. “But seriously, Paige. You’re gonna have to stop playing coy. We know you like Azzi.”

Paige crossed her arms, half annoyed, half amused. “I’m not playing coy. I just don’t need all of you in my business.”

Evina, ever the instigator, raised an eyebrow. “No, but for real, Paige, if you like her, then go for it. Don’t leave it all unspoken like we did with Christyn last year.”

Paige gave a dramatic eye-roll. “Stop with the ‘unspoken’ crap. It’s not like that.”

But as she glanced at herself in the mirror, adjusting her hoodie and running a hand through her hair, she couldn’t help but let her mind wander back to Azzi. The way she’d looked at her earlier. The way she’d smiled when they spoke. And the way her heart had skipped when Azzi’s hand brushed against hers.

She wasn’t ready to say it out loud. Not yet. But the teasing, while frustrating, made her think that maybe—just maybe—it was time to figure things out. Because if she really liked Azzi, she couldn’t keep running from it.

Azzi sat in the quiet office, the door to Geno and CD’s office slightly ajar, the hum of conversation from downstairs a distant background noise. Her hands were a little sweaty, her heart thumping louder than she was comfortable with. The papers in front of her were official now—her commitment to UConn. It felt surreal.

“We’re really excited to have you on board, Azzi,” Geno said with a smile, leaning forward on his elbows. “This is a huge decision, and we’re thrilled you’re choosing UConn.”

Azzi nodded, feeling the weight of everything crashing in at once. This wasn’t just about basketball. It wasn’t just about making the right decision for her game or her future. It was about who she wanted to be, where she wanted to go.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice steady but her mind racing. “This is all a little overwhelming.”

“I know it is,” CD added, leaning back in his chair with a grin. “But we’ve seen what you’re capable of. We’ve seen the kind of player you are, and we know you’re going to thrive here. UConn is going to be a perfect fit for you.”

Azzi gave a small smile, feeling a sense of belonging she hadn’t felt anywhere else before. She glanced down at the papers one more time, and then—without overthinking it—signed her name at the bottom.

“Welcome to UConn,” Geno said, his voice sincere.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Azzi felt sure. The decision was made. She was here. And it was exactly where she needed to be.

Back downstairs, Paige was still trying to shake the teasing off, but the truth was, it kept tugging at the back of her mind. Azzi was upstairs right now, making it official, deciding to be a part of this world. And Paige couldn't deny that a part of her felt a little pride swelling in her chest. She was excited for Azzi. She was happy for her. But somewhere deep down, she also wanted to be a part of that future.

Maybe it was time for her to figure out what that future looked like.

Because now, everything was starting to feel real.

The locker room doors swung open, and the buzz of voices from the team filtered out into the hallway. Paige had barely stepped out when she spotted Azzi, her heart skipping at the sight of her. The two made eye contact across the corridor, and without hesitation, Paige pushed her way through the crowd of teammates, heading straight for Azzi.

“You ready to go?” Paige asked, her voice light—but there was something quieter underneath, something softer that only Azzi would catch.

Azzi gave her that grin, the one Paige had learned to expect but still felt like it was just for her. “Yeah, I’m good. Let’s get out of here.”

They slipped out together, into the warm hush of the evening. Behind them, voices still carried from the gym, a fading buzz of teammates and coaches. But out here, it was just them—the sky a muted blue, the air holding the last heat of the day.

Inside the car, the soft hum of the engine filled the silence as Azzi pulled out of the lot. The headlights swept across the dark pavement, and they fell into that easy rhythm only people who knew each other well could manage.

“So… any plans tonight?” Azzi asked, eyes on the road, but she glanced at Paige with a raised brow.

Paige drummed her fingers on the window. “I don’t know. Might go out, might stay in. Depends on how I feel.”

Azzi smirked. “You’ve always got a million options. What’s it gonna be tonight?”

Paige smiled faintly, her voice teasing. “Might hit up a bar. I’ve been in desperate need of a night out. And you,” she added, turning toward Azzi, “could use a little loosening up.”

Azzi chuckled, glancing her way. “You’re not wrong. One night off won’t ruin me.”

Before Paige could say anything more, Azzi pulled into the dorm lot. “Here we are.”

They got out into the crisp night air and walked inside. Paige led the way up the stairs and into her room—clothes on the bed, papers scattered across her desk. Lived-in. Familiar.

Azzi stepped inside and gave the room a once-over. “Alright, what’s the move now?”

Paige collapsed onto her bed with a groan. “I need to figure out what to wear. Can’t show up looking like I just crawled out of practice.”

Azzi raised a brow. “You think I need to change? I’m already dressed up.”

Paige rolled her eyes, but her grin softened the gesture. “You’re in joggers and a tank top. Trust me, you’re not stealing any spotlights like that.”

Azzi snorted. “You’re just jealous. But fine.”

She moved to Paige’s closet and pulled out two tops—a low-cut black halter and a white crop that barely covered anything.

“Alright, verdict?” she asked.

Paige studied the tops, her expression unimpressed. “Cute, but way too much for tonight. You’re not wearing either.”

Azzi turned to her, eyes twinkling. “Why not? You gonna stop me?”

Paige crossed her arms. “You’re not my girlfriend, Azzi. But I do have taste. And I refuse to be seen with someone who looks like they belong in a fashion editorial.”

Azzi smirked, but there was something searching in her gaze. “Good thing you’re not my boyfriend, then. You don’t get a say.”

Paige blinked, a little thrown. “Please. You wouldn’t have a boyfriend anyway.”

There was a brief pause. Azzi set the tops down, her voice shifting. “Actually… I’ve been seeing James.”

The words landed harder than Paige expected. “James?” she repeated, trying—and failing—to sound unaffected.

“Yeah,” Azzi said casually. “It’s nothing serious. We’ve been hanging out a bit.”

Paige felt her stomach knot. “Didn’t know that.”

Azzi shrugged, as if she couldn’t quite tell what had changed. “Didn’t think it was a big deal. Casual, you know?” She tilted her head. “Wait… are you jealous?”

“No,” Paige said too fast, too sharply. “It’s whatever.”

Azzi stared for a second, then smiled faintly. “Okay. Just know I’m not tied to anyone. You don’t have to worry.”

“Wasn’t,” Paige said, even though she absolutely was.

The air tightened, tension slipping in like fog. Paige shifted. “Anyway—Nika still wants to stalk that guy from Ted’s tonight. You ready to play backup?”

Azzi laughed, checking her phone. “Oh, she’s got it bad. But I don’t think he’s her type.”

“She doesn’t care,” Paige said with a grin. “She’s just trying to get noticed.”

Azzi tossed her phone onto the bed. “I respect it. But are we spending all night wing-womaning?”

“If we have to,” Paige replied. “But I’m not playing matchmaker. Especially not for James.”

Azzi raised both hands in surrender. “Relax. I’m not the one who needs help.”

She glanced at Paige, her tone light but eyes sharp. “You’ve got your own crush to deal with.”

Paige looked away, busying herself with her clothes. “Whatever. You’re the one with the secret boyfriend. I’m just trying to get dressed.”

Azzi didn’t respond, but the silence said enough. Paige could feel it—something shifting, unsettled.

Azzi stepped back from the mirror, turning to check her outfit. The crop top hugged her frame, black and daring, paired with ripped shorts that showed off legs Paige had absolutely noticed.

From behind, Nika whistled. “You ate.”

Aaliyah grinned. “Top-tier. That outfit is dangerous.”

“Like, illegal,” Aubrey added with a wink. “You’re giving main character.”

Azzi laughed, a little bashful, but pleased. “Y’all are doing too much.”

Paige leaned against her desk, pretending to scroll through her phone. But her eyes kept straying back—to Azzi’s top, to her legs, to the way she smiled.

“Alright, let’s go!” Nika called, already halfway out the door. “I’ve got one tequila sunrise of patience left.”

The group filed out, Azzi and Aubrey up front. Paige fell in step with Aaliyah and Nika in the back.

“You good?” Aaliyah asked.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Nika smirked. “You’ve been watching Azzi like a movie.”

“It’s a free country.”

Aaliyah grinned. “That top is working overtime.”

Paige sighed. “I need a drink.”

“Bad?” Nika teased.

“Desperately.”

Inside Ted’s, the bass throbbed through the floor. College kids swarmed the bar, the dance floor, everywhere. Azzi led the way, hair bouncing, laughter rising.

And Paige followed, silent, trying not to stare.

“You sure you’re fine?” Aaliyah whispered.

“I’m walking.”

“Mmhmm.” Nika elbowed her. “You’re watching her walk.”

They found a high-top in the back. Azzi slid into a seat next to Aubrey. Paige chose the farthest stool, angled away but not far enough to not still look.

“You want a drink?” Nika asked.

“Please.”

Aaliyah waved at the bartender. “Something strong?”

“Very.”

“Tequila makes you honest,” Nika warned.

“Then maybe I shouldn’t drink.”

But even as she said it, Paige glanced back at Azzi—leaning forward, laughing, her top clinging like a dare.

Paige turned quickly away. “I hate everyone here.”

“Yeah,” Nika said, smiling knowingly. “Especially yourself.”

Paige didn’t argue.

She just knocked back the shot the second it landed.

The music had loosened everyone up. By now, the group had scattered across Ted’s—some at the bar, some dancing, others deep in whatever conversations tequila inspired. Paige stayed anchored to the wall, half-watching, half-sipping a drink that had long since gone warm. Her eyes kept drifting to Azzi.

Azzi was electric tonight. Laughing with Aubrey, swaying to the music, shoulder brushing against Nika’s as they danced. Even in the chaos, she stood out. And Paige noticed. God, she noticed.

“Hey,” a voice cut in, low and knowing. Evina slid in next to her, drink in hand.

Paige blinked. “Hey. Didn’t know you were here.”

Evina grinned. “You’ve been staring at Azzi for the past twenty minutes. I could’ve walked in wearing a mascot suit and you wouldn’t’ve noticed.”

Paige snorted, half-embarrassed. “You’re imagining things.”

Evina raised an eyebrow. “Mmhmm. You gonna make a move or what?”

Paige choked a little on her drink. “What?”

Evina jerked her chin subtly toward the other side of the bar. “Because Jalen from the men’s team is over there. And he’s definitely flirting with her.”

Paige’s eyes snapped over. Sure enough, Jalen stood too close, talking animatedly, that smug, easy grin he wore when he thought he was being charming. Azzi was smiling—politely, Paige noted. Or maybe that was just what she wanted to believe.

Without a word, Paige pushed off the wall and crossed the room.

“Yo!” Jalen grinned when he saw her. “There she is. You brought Azzi, right? She was just telling me…”

“Yeah,” Paige said smoothly, slipping in beside Azzi. “We rolled through together.”

Azzi’s eyes flicked toward her, unreadable.

“Man, she’s a good time,” Jalen said, clearly oblivious. “Y’all must keep things lit.”

“Something like that,” Paige replied, cool and easy, even as her hand brushed Azzi’s arm, casual. Jalen didn’t seem to notice.

A moment later, he got distracted by someone yelling his name from across the bar. “Catch y’all later!”

Azzi turned to Paige as he walked off. “Okay… what was that about?”

Paige gave a lazy shrug. “Nothing. Thought you might want a rescue.”

Azzi smirked. “Are you jealous or something?”

“Nope,” Paige said quickly. “Just didn’t want you suffering through his ‘what gym you go to’ routine.”

Azzi tilted her head, amused. “Mmhmm.”

The night wore on. Nika found her guy, dragged him onto the dance floor with zero shame. Aubrey was locked in some deep conversation with Aaliyah. And Paige found herself at the bar again—Azzi beside her now, close enough that their knees brushed when they shifted.

The song changed—something bass-heavy and hot—and Azzi leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of Paige’s ear.

“Nika’s making moves,” she whispered, voice low and warm. “Think she’ll finally seal the deal?”

The breath on her neck sent a shiver down Paige’s spine. She turned sharply, startled and flushed, caught off guard by how close Azzi’s face was now. Their eyes met, and Paige’s heartbeat kicked up hard.

“She better,” Paige muttered, trying to sound casual. She wasn’t sure it landed.

Azzi smiled, leaning just a little more into her space, fingertips brushing the rim of Paige’s glass. “And us? Are we making moves?”

Paige blinked. Her throat felt dry.

She set her drink down and straightened. “You wanna head out?”

Azzi looked at her for a beat—quiet, unreadable again. Then she nodded. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

And just like that, they slipped out together. 

Aubrey and Aaliyah were still by the bar, casually talking and laughing, but as they caught sight of Azzi and Paige slipping away, their faces changed.

Aubrey glanced toward Aaliyah, eyebrow raised. “Did you see that?”

Aaliyah smirked. “I saw. Think they’re finally making a move?”

Aubrey chuckled, shaking her head. “They’ve been dancing around each other all night. I knew something was gonna happen.”

Aaliyah leaned in, eyes glinting with curiosity. “It’s about damn time.”

Alright, this took me a minute, but I hope y'all enjoy it. The next chapter might contain smut. I do not know yet if I want to write that or not, but let me know if you guys have any ideas.

[pisstintedglasses]

Lessons of Letting Go

Fem! Reader x P.SH

warnings: MDNI, "i can fix him" syndrome backfires, consensual underage sex, somnophilia, mentions of underage drinking, cheating, a quite heinous amount of fluff. 

DON'T LIKE, DON'T READ

word count: 23.3k 

Playlist for whilst you read:

A Thousand Years - Christina Perri'

You are The Reason - Callum Scott

Paper Rings - Taylor Swift

Claire de Lune - Claude Debussy

Don't Stop Me Now - Queen

"Get You" – Daniel Caesar ft. Kali Uchis

"Earned It" – The Weeknd

"Ribs" – Lorde

“Tangerine” – Glass Animals

"From the Dining Table" – Harry Styles

Chapter 1 of; Lessons Learned

The announcer's mic-amplified voice reverberated throughout the stadium as he revealed the scores of your opponent. Whilst she celebrated her relatively high score, clutching her fan-given plushie as she cheered with her coach, you fiddled with your fingers in an attempt to calm your anxious nerves. You were the last one to perform (thanks to your lucky hand when you pulled for the order of who performs), and all those before you exceeded each other's score each time, setting the standard higher and higher. And you were afraid you couldn't even just reach that same peak.

Your coach, Ivan saw your obvious discomfort, lending a firm and on your shoulder and shaking the bloody nerves off of you. "Calm down, will you? You've done months of training, just as much and maybe even more than your opps did. You'll put up a fight."

Ivan was a 29-year-old, Russian, ballet coach. He and your sister were classmates in college, and she just so happened to tell Ivan about your new little profound passion about ballet. You were only 9 at the time, but when Ivan saw that youthful spark of passion flare from your rusty arabesques, he jumped at the opportunity to shape your ember. Shape your talent into skill. And that, he did.

He streamlined your passion and made you into a decent dancer. Decent enough to win a couple regional-level competitions. Trophies of gold, silver, bronze from said competitions adorned your glass-encased achievement shelf. (Which your mom insisted to have built). Your parents were quite content with all your milestones, be it big or small. But you weren't. It pissed you off to no end that you couldn't go beyond the regionals.

One not-so-faithful day, on your last competition as a pre-junior, thoughts about how you have to win this consumed your better judgment. You couldn't focus at all. You kept throughout your entire routine, and it frustrated you to no end. And on the last Fouette that was supposed to be the cherry on top of your performance, your feet hit one another and leave you to come undone in a clumsy, crying mess.

With your heart feeling like it's caught up in your throat, you covered your tear-stained face and ran off stage right as your song ended. And so did your career. That competition had 9 finalists, and you ranked LAST. You couldn't even bare attending the awarding ceremony. You publicly embarrassed yourself out there, and especially now at your ripe pre-pubescent years, you knew your peers would be whispering among themselves about how dramatic you acted or how shitty your performance was. It was horrific. And just like that, what was once the spark that lit your dreary Mondays turned into to one of the most socially, emotionally, and mentally traumatic events of your life. So, in an attempt to cope with it, you pushed it away.

Anything related to dance, your old friends, Ivan. You wanted nothing to do with it anymore. You were already unraveling thread by thread, your fervent spark of ambition was being pulled away by the seemingly unreachable pinnacle, that is, the Nationals. Childish, or perhaps as arrogant as it may sound, you knew you had what it takes to get there, but your just somehow can't. And you don't know what's stopping you. You've blamed Ivan, for not teaching you enough, but you knew deep inside you wouldn't have gotten to the level you were at without him.

After coming to a consensus with your parents, they let you quit the team, and sent you to the studio to pick up your things while they handled the resignation letters. You were grateful they never pushed you to do anything. They saw that ballet became toxic for you and they didn't even hesitate to let you leave when you saw fit. Anyway, they drove into the studio's parking lot and headed for your head manager's office, in order to deal with the paperwork. It was nighttime now, so you presumed all of the others would have gone home.

So, you didn't expect to find him here. Ivan.

The studio was supposed to be empty. Late enough for the lights to be dimmed, the floor to be cold beneath your feet, the mirrors to stop echoing back the dancer you used to be. But there he was-Ivan-leaning against the far wall, arms crossed like he hadn't been waiting, but you both knew better.

You hesitated at the door, one foot still out in the hallway, as if you could still change your mind. As if walking away now would hurt less than what you were about to do.

"I'm done," you said.

Your voice didn't shake. It wasn't a declaration. It was just... a fact. Like gravity. Like something that had always been true, you just hadn't said it out loud yet.

Ivan didn't move. Not at first.

You didn't mean to say it like that.

But the words came out anyway, sharp and final.

"I'm done."

Your voice cracked a little, but you tried not to care. You didn't look at Ivan. You couldn't. If you did, you'd probably back down. You'd probably see that look on his face-that mix of confusion and disappointment-and swallow the words, like always. So you stared at the floor instead, at your busted old slippers with the frayed ribbons and the tiny bloodstain near the toe. You hated those shoes. And you loved them. And you hated that you loved them.

"You're quitting?" Ivan asked. His voice wasn't loud or angry-it was just quiet. Tired, maybe. Like he already knew.

You nodded, even though your hands were shaking.

"I can't do it anymore," you muttered. "I just... I don't want to."

That wasn't the truth. Not really. You did want to dance. You wanted it so bad your chest hurt. You wanted Nationals. You wanted the stage, the lights, the moment. But lately, it felt like the more you wanted it, the further it slipped from your hands.

Ivan didn't say anything at first, and that made it worse.

"I've been trying," you blurted. "I've been trying so hard. But it's like I'm stuck. Everyone's getting better and I'm just... here. Still making the same stupid mistakes. Still forgetting the same stupid counts. Still losing balance like a baby."

Your throat burned.

"I'm supposed to be good, right? That's what everyone says. 'You've got talent, you're a natural, you'll make it someday.' But what if they're wrong? What if I'm not enough?"

You finally looked at him. His arms were crossed, his jaw tight-but his eyes were soft. Too soft. You hated that.

"I thought you'd help me get there," you said, barely above a whisper. "I really did. But maybe you didn't teach me enough. Or maybe you thought I could figure it out on my own. But I couldn't. I can't."

Ivan stepped closer, but you took a step back.

"I'm twelve, Ivan," you said. "Twelve. I'm not supposed to feel like a failure already."

There was a silence after that-heavy, like the walls were pressing in. You wiped your nose on your sleeve, trying to be tough. Trying to not cry like a little kid. But everything was just... too much.

You thought he'd yell. Or say you were being dramatic. Or lecture you about dedication and drive and how quitting now would ruin everything.

But instead, he just looked at you, like he saw through all of it.

"You're not a failure," he said quietly.

You didn't answer. You didn't believe him.

Because right now? You didn't feel like a dancer. You just felt... small. And tired. And really, really lost.

He stood closer now, arms cautiously extended to his sides to offer a much-needed hug, which you've gladly accepted. You let yourself soak his leotard as you clung to him. "You've accomplished so many things-"

"Well I didn't accomplish enough! And I never will! Now that I blew my last pre-junior performance, I don't think people will take me seriously as a junior!"

He sighed and wrapped his arms around your shaking shoulders. "Would it be too soon for me to suggest figure skating?"

❄︎⋆｡˚𓂃｡˚☃︎˚｡⋆❄︎⋆｡˚𓂃｡˚☃︎˚｡⋆❄︎⋆｡˚𓂃｡˚☃︎˚｡⋆❄︎⋆｡˚𓂃｡˚☃︎˚｡⋆❄︎

Now, stood you in one of the biggest ice skating competitions of your time, regionals, once again. The nationals are just at arms-length, so you knew deep within yourself you couldn't afford to pass this up. You dare not waste the 3 years Ivan has spent building you back up, this time, on the ice. You've done well in the short program, all you had to worry about now was the free skate. No longer clad in those painful pointe shoes, those itchy tutus, no. You sported a fresh, tight yet comfy, baby blue leotard that helped in boosting you confidence, paired with your favorite pair of blades-gifted to you by your sister.

The familiar vowels of your name ware called, summoning you to the spotlight, and claim the stage (rink) as your own. Breathing in the mint-scented air deeply one more time, you stepped onto the ice and glided along the sides, plastering a genuine smile and greeting those who cheered for you. The deafening clamor of the crowd's applause breeched your ears, you almost missed the first few notes of your song. The audience definitely did, though, as it seemed their hoorahs only grew louder at the sound of your performance starting.

You began to dance your prepared choreography upon hearing the calming voice of your designated piece for today-Christina Perri's "A Thousand Years." A sweet song whose melody harmoniously matched your performance. Innocent, almost fragile, your jumps were on beat with the cadence of the guitar, cello, and piano instrumental.

It wasn't just the soft melody that resonated with your performance; it was the lyrics as well. The words, "I have died every day waiting for you," seemed to echo in your heart as your body glided effortlessly across the ice. It was as if each movement was a reflection of the years of dedication, the countless hours of practice, and the quiet, unspoken devotion to your craft. Every jump, every spin, felt like a pledge of love to the art of figure skating itself-timeless and unyielding.

As the song built into the chorus, "I will love you for a thousand more," you could almost feel the embrace of the ice beneath you. It reminded you of the unspoken bond between skater and ice-an eternal connection that exists beyond the fleeting moments of each performance. The melody wrapped itself around you like a gentle, yet powerful force, urging you to give everything, to pour your soul into every movement, just as the song's lyrics spoke of eternal love.

You've always loved this part of figure skating, the cold air and ice beneath you enveloping your body and soul in this tranquil trance that helped keep your mind at ease. It was never like this with ballet. All you could feel in ballet was the sweat that would always pool at your back at the tremendous pressure of the spotlight and stares that settled on you on that non air-conditioned stage. The fans were usually directed at the judges as if they were the ones breaking their bones just to properly execute a Cambre. You never felt like that with your new love.

Figure skating, much like love, is about vulnerability-about trusting your body to carry you through difficult lifts, delicate landings, and dizzying spins, even when the odds seem insurmountable. The lyrics of "A Thousand Years" aligned with the very essence of what you felt skating on the ice: a love that transcends time, a passion that refuses to be extinguished. It was not just a performance; it was a love letter to the sport, an expression of devotion and commitment. "I will love you for a thousand more," you whispered to yourself, feeling the music fill every corner of your soul.

With each passing note, you were no longer just performing; you were telling a story of love, loss, and hope-of pushing through adversity and continuing to glide forward, no matter the challenges. Every movement you made felt like a promise-just as the song promised eternal love, you promised to keep dancing, no matter how many years it took.

And with the instruments slowing down to halt, so did your performance, as you struck your final pose. You finally let out the breath you didn't even realize was being held in and opened your eyes. The flashes of the lights overhead flickered your gaze, making you squint a bit before bowing at the judges who bared the look of satisfaction, impressed expressions. White roses and Frolass plushies were littered across the ice, which the staff has helped with gathering them all. You strode over to one of said plushies and hugged it close to your chest, giving the audience one final wave and bow if gratitude before you made your way off the ice.

Once your blades came in contact with the floor, you couldn't even get the chance to put your guards on them since Ivan sprung up to you and gave you one of the most genuine hugs he's ever given. "I told you you'd do amazing." You reciprocated the hug and pulled back, "You think the judges liked it?" Ivan scoffed, "Are you kidding? They looked entranced the entire time you were up there." The both of you couldn't help the proud smiles from spreading on your faces.

He guided you back to your designated seat where they filmed your reaction upon hearing your score, and he gave you a bottle of water, wrapping a jacket around you when he saw you shiver. You didn't notice it when you were still performing, but your hands were shaking from the cold. Well, you thought it was shaking just from nervousness. Not too long after, your family approached with proud smiles plastered on their familiar faces, already congratulating you with strings of praises regarding your performance.

A little girl passed by you, not too old-probably about five years younger than you. She was cheerful, skipping a little with each step as she clutched the hand of who you presumed was her grandmother. A middle-aged couple trailed behind, and next to them, a boy just slightly older than the girl, dressed in a striking figure skating outfit, clearly waiting for his turn on the ice.

Your heart warmed at the sight-there was something so pure about the quiet excitement of a supportive family. But then your gaze caught something else: a small red stain spreading across the girl's light shorts. You immediately recognized it. The judges take a while tocalculate the scores, so you decided to act on it.

You didn't think twice. You grabbed a pad from your bag, hid it under your jacket, and hurried towards her. Approaching gently, you quickly wrapped your jacket around her waist, discreetly slipping the pad into her pocket. Startled, the little girl stumbled back slightly, and her family froze, giving you confused, wary looks. You offered a small, apologetic smile, speaking in a hushed whisper, "I'm sorry to interrupt, but... she seems to have bled through."

The mother gasped softly, lifting the jacket to check-and sure enough, the growing stain was there. "Oh, dear," she murmured, her face melting into maternal concern. You gestured subtly to the pocket. "I slipped a pad in there... in case you need it." The mother quickly mouthed a "thank you" before hurrying the girl toward the restroom, the father and the boy following right after. You smiled to yourself, relieved to have helped, and turned to make your way back to the seating area where your parents were waiting-your performance long done, the adrenaline still buzzing faintly in your veins.

But a voice stopped you. "My, my," the grandmother called out warmly, making her way over. "You're not just a pretty girl-you've got a beautiful heart too!" You flushed, laughing shyly. "It was really nothing, ma'am. I know how embarrassing it can feel..." The grandmother nodded sagely, folding her arms over her chest. "Takes one who's been through it to understand. Kindness like that is rare, you know."

You smiled at her, a little bashful, but grateful too. Her gaze lingered on you a moment longer, her lips quirking mischievously. Then, leaning a little closer, she asked in a whisper, "Tell me, sweetheart... you're single, aren't you?" You blinked, caught completely off guard. "Um... y-yeah, I am." "Perfect!" she chirped, clapping her hands once with delight. She shuffled aside with a flourish-and only then did you notice that someone had been standing awkwardly right beside you this whole time.

The boy from earlier, the one in the figure skating costume. You had noticed him earlier when the men were called to warm up. His costume was a somewhat baggy blouse that faded from clear white into a very vivid and deep blue. It was a bit similar to yours, though much darker, it had the same ombre effect.

His head snapped up to meet your gaze at the same time you looked at him, both of you freezing like deer caught in headlights. "This here's my grandson," the grandma said proudly, patting Sunghoon's shoulder. "He's about to perform, actually. Talented, polite, good-looking-what more could you ask for, huh?" You stared, the realization hitting you a second too late. Sunghoon was stunning up close, even more so than you'd noticed before. His cheeks tinted the faintest shade of pink as he gave you a tiny, sheepish smile.

"I-uh, I'm Sunghoon," he said, voice soft but clear. He gave a small, polite bow despite the obvious embarrassment pooling around him. You managed to smile back, flustered but charmed, as you introduced yourself. "I, uh, already performed. You're up next, right?"

"Yeah," he chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. "Kinda hard to focus after that whole thing, but... thanks for helping my sister." His voice was earnest, sincere, and you felt the knot of nerves slowly unspool in your chest. "It was nothing," you said, laughing lightly. "Good luck out there." The grandmother beamed between the two of you, her matchmaking spirit practically radiating. "Maybe you can stay and watch him perform?" she suggested sweetly, not even trying to hide her intentions.

You met Sunghoon's shy, hopeful gaze-and found yourself nodding before you could even think twice. "I'd love to. Is he up next?" The grandmother shook her head, "Only two more boys and then it's his turn. Won't you stay until then?" You were about to nod when you heard your dad call out your name, calling you over to them since you score was about to be announced. In a haste, you excused yourself with the promise of coming back.

Your heart thrummed violently in your chest, Sunghoon long forgotten as your mind was swallowed whole by endless insecurities and what-ifs. What if it wasn't enough? What if you fell short again? Your hands trembled as your family wrapped you into a tight, protective hug, excitement buzzing around you like static in the air.

The announcer's voice finally crackled over the speakers, slicing cleanly through the tension. "For our final competitor in the Junior Women's division-"The world seemed to slow to a crawl. "A free skate score of 117.48 points! You felt your breath catch, stuck halfway between a gasp and a prayer. "Added to her short program score of 72.36, that brings her total to 189.84 points-" A heartbeat. Another. "-securing first place!"

Your family's cheers burst into the air around you, your sister practically shaking you in her arms. You stood frozen for a second, as if the words hadn't quite registered, before the realization slammed into you all at once.

You had won.

You had won.

Cheers erupted around you, and you felt your heart soar, your dad lifted you in the air. The moment felt so surreal. Years of hard work and you've finally got what you wanted. All in an instant, it felt like a fever dream. One second you were being introduced to some cute guy, and you were a winner in the next. It's all happening so fast you couldn't believe it. It only took one look at Ivan's tear-stained face to have you let the waterworks loose too. Adrenaline and bliss thrummed throughout your veins as he spun you around. Amidst all the chaos, your eyes met Sunghoon's, who was looking at you with genuine astonishment.

Somewhere in the stands, you could faintly make out Sunghoon's family cheering too, his little sister jumping and pointing excitedly.

But right now, it was just you and the thundering beat of your heart, drowning in a tide of relief, disbelief, and a wild, soaring kind of joy you hadn't felt in years.

When he noticed your gaze on him, he hastily looked away. His mom and sister were back though, and they were looking over your noisy, still celebrating huddle as well. His mom looked over to the grandma for an explanation, which she gave. After being hauled around by your family taking pictures of you, you finally sought the chance to excuse yourself and do good on your promise to watch Sunghoon's performance earlier. Of course, your sister didn't miss the chance to tease you about it. And neither did your dad.

"Ooh, meeting boys already? Our little champion's all grown up," your dad teased, nudging you playfully with his elbow.You groaned, hiding your face in your hands. "It's not like that," you mumbled, but the heat rising to your cheeks betrayed you. Your sister gasped dramatically, clutching her chest. "Not yet like that, you mean." Your mom chuckled from behind the camera she was still holding. "Let her be. She's earned a little attention after today."

Ivan, who had been listening nearby, chimed in with a mischievous glint in his eye. "Just don't forget about us once you're famous and running off with handsome boys." That sent your whole family into another fit of laughter, and you swatted at the air in front of you, trying to escape. "I'm just going to watch his performance!" you insisted, voice climbing with exasperation. "Like I promised!" "Right, right," your dad said, exaggeratedly wiping a fake tear from his eye. "First it's watching performances... next thing you know, wedding invitations!"

"Dad!" you whined, your face burning hotter than ever. Your sister winked at you, clearly enjoying every second. "Go get 'em, champ." You shook your head, laughing despite yourself as you turned away, feeling their teasing gazes follow you all the way across the gym. Sunghoon's family beamed as they congratulated you on your win

"I knew your performance was something special. Sunghoon-oppa here couldn't take his eyes off you earlier-" Yeji, the girl you helped earlier, said brightly, but she barely got the words out before Sunghoon clamped a hand over her mouth, face turning an adorable shade of red. "Yeji!" he hissed in a hushed yell, his voice dripping with embarrassment. His nervous chuckle made their parents laugh, the sound light and teasing.

Sunghoon's mom smiled warmly at you, a fondness in her eyes as she looked between you and her son. "I hope Sunghoon gets into the nationals too," she said, voice gentle. "It'd be nice if the both of you won, right?" "It'd be the perfect excuse for a date," his grandma added mischievously, her tone playful enough to make Sunghoon visibly shrink into himself. "Halmeoni!" he groaned, dragging his hand down his face. You couldn't help the laugh that bubbled out of you, nerves and flattery mixing into something light and giddy.

"It's okay," you said, smiling shyly at them all. "I think... just competing together would already be really special." Sunghoon peeked at you through his fingers, and when he caught your eye, he smiled too - small, genuine, a little shy around the edges. Yeji, now free from his hand, beamed. "You have to teach me how to be that cool when I compete!" Sunghoon's dad chuckled and asked, "How long have you been skating, if you don't mind me asking?"

You shifted your weight, thinking back. "Um... technically, not that long," you admitted. "I used to do ballet, actually, until about three years ago." "Really?" Sunghoon's mom perked up with interest. "Yeah," you nodded, a little sheepishly. "I kept trying to qualify for the ballet regionals, but... I never really made it past the preliminaries. I guess after a few years of that, I just felt like maybe my heart wasn't in it anymore. Skating kind of... gave me a second chance at something I really loved."

"You must have worked really hard," Sunghoon's dad said, sounding genuinely impressed. "I still have a long way to go," you said quickly, laughing a little. "But it feels different this time. Like... even when I lose sometimes, I want to keep trying." Sunghoon, quiet until now, spoke up, his voice softer, thoughtful. "That's really cool. I mean it." You looked over and found him smiling at you again - properly this time, without hiding - and the way his eyes crinkled just slightly at the corners made your heart skip.

"You're already amazing," Yeji chimed in enthusiastically, tugging at your sleeve like you were an old friend. "I'm gonna cheer for you both at nationals!" Sunghoon's grandma patted your shoulder warmly. "You're part of the family cheering squad now too, dear. You better get used to it." Everyone laughed, including you, and for a moment, standing there with them, you felt something settle in your chest - a sense of belonging, easy and bright.

A few minutes later, Sunghoon was finally called down for his performance.

(Refer to this performance of hoonie if you want any visual aid lmao. for the sake of the plot, however, we are gonna ignore his actual rank in the video--- p.s. he did amazing here in this performance. ANOTHER P.S., this fanfic isn't too accurate on the times of hoonie's performances but alas, I am too lazy to redo it)

You hadn't expected to find yourself sitting here, bundled up among strangers who somehow already felt like family. After helping Sunghoon's little sister earlier, his family had insisted-no, insisted-you join them to watch his free skate. And you, still a little flustered and embarrassed, had agreed. Now here you were, heart thudding in your chest, watching the boy you'd only just met take the ice.

The lights dimmed slightly, and the familiar opening notes of the music drifted through the rink. It was a bright, soaring melody, full of lightness and energy-and somehow, it fit him perfectly. You leaned forward without meaning to, your breath catching as Sunghoon pushed off into his first glide.

Each movement was smooth, effortless, like water finding its path. His blades cut clean lines across the ice, turning with a precision that could only come from endless hours of practice, yet he made it look so natural, so easy. You couldn't tear your eyes away. His jumps were light, airy, as though gravity itself hesitated to pull him back down.

He was-

Beautiful.

Beside you, Sunghoon's little sister tugged your sleeve excitedly.

"Isn't he cool?" she whispered, her voice bubbling with pride.

You nodded quickly, a small, breathless laugh escaping. "He's amazing. He moves like... like the music was made just for him."

You turned your gaze back to the ice just in time to catch Sunghoon launching into a jump-a perfect triple. He landed so cleanly you barely heard the blade hit the ice. The melody picked up, playful and bright, and Sunghoon matched it effortlessly, his movements light and joyful without ever losing the grace that came so naturally to him.

His mom smiled at that, her eyes warm.

"He's always been good at feeling the music," she said softly. "Even when he was just a little boy. We'd put on anything, and he'd just start skating around the living room, pretending it was a rink."

"He makes it look easy," you murmured without thinking.

You ducked your head quickly, face burning, but couldn't help smiling.

Sunghoon's dad chuckled warmly.

"That's the trick. He's spent years making it look that way."

His grandma leaned in closer, her voice teasing.

"Maybe he's showing off a little more today, hm? After all... there's someone new in the crowd."

The music swelled into its chorus, and Sunghoon moved with it as if his body had been designed to echo the sound. Every turn, every extension of his arms felt right, like he wasn't just skating to the melody, but was the melody. You could feel his energy even from here-the quiet determination, the bursts of joy, the fierce concentration beneath it all.

The music softened into its final notes, and you turned back just in time to see Sunghoon finish with a quiet flourish, one knee touching the ice, head bowed. For a moment, the rink was silent except for the soft scrape of his blades slowing to a stop. Then applause erupted-and you were on your feet before you even realized it, clapping hard enough that your palms stung. Around you, his family cheered and whooped, but your eyes stayed locked on him.

Sunghoon straightened slowly, lifting his gaze toward the stands-and for a brief, dizzying second, it felt like he looked straight at you. Your heart somersaulted, your hands still clapping even as you forgot how to breathe. It was the kind of performance that made you fall in love with skating all over again. And maybe-just maybe-with the boy who made it look like flying.

He finally glided off the ice, going to the same seat where you were earlier. The 2 other boys who went before him gained a relatively high score, but you knew from the masterpiece you were just blessed with, he had a huge chance to win. Actually, you were praying on it. If he really did get to win, the two of you would get to go to the nationals together. You watched from afar as he heaved. All those jumps must have rendered him exhausted.

His family began to head to him, so they can check in, with you in tow. Though, it was still going to be a while before his score gets announced so you knew you had time. You passed by your family and quickly introduced them to one another first, just to get them acquainted and to let them know who you were walking with. Of course, praises for Sunghoon erupted from them as well. You've just come to terms with your attraction for the boy but it seems like he's already won the favor of your immediate family. Including Ivan.

Your seats were near the "hot seat" as you would call it, so you opted to just have the Parks sit next to your family, that way they'd be close to Sunghoon without having to stand the entire waiting time while the judges evaluated. After what felt like an eternity, the commentators finally revealed his score.

The announcer's voice crackled through the speakers, snapping you out of your daze. Everyone around you leaned forward instinctively, waiting for the numbers to flash onto the giant screen. You found yourself holding your breath without even meaning to.

"And now, Park Sunghoon's score for the free skate..."

The screen flickered, and then the numbers appeared in bold, glowing print.

"He receives 154.26 points for his free skate-"

There was a small gasp around you-his family clutching each other's arms in excitement, his little sister nearly bouncing out of her seat.

"...for a combined total of 233.75 points!"

Your hands flew up to your mouth, hiding the huge grin breaking across your face.

"Oh my god," you whispered, half laughing, half breathless.

"He did it!" his sister squealed, grabbing your sleeve and shaking it.

Sunghoon's dad let out a booming laugh, clapping his hands together.

"That's our boy!" he said proudly, his voice thick with emotion.

You could hardly take your eyes off Sunghoon, who was smiling on the monitor, bowing politely before flashing a quick, bashful grin at the camera. He looked overwhelmed, relieved, proud-and somehow still so humble despite the incredible score. Leaning closer, Sunghoon's grandma teased in a low whisper, "Better start practicing how to answer interview questions. They're gonna be calling him a national treasure soon."

His mom brushed away a tear with a soft chuckle.

"He worked so hard for this. He deserves every point."

And somewhere deep inside, a small, secret wish stirred:

You laughed, heart thudding with pride that felt far too big for someone you had only just met. But somehow, it didn't feel strange at all. Watching him stand there, practically glowing under the spotlight-you were just... happy. And honored.

Happy to have witnessed it.

Honored to be part of it, even in this tiny way.

Maybe this wasn't the last time you'd be cheering for Park Sunghoon.

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The trip to another country was nice. New, but nice. Especially when a really cute guy (who is your boyfriend now) is sat next to you the entire plane ride with his head perched on your shoulder. To say you felt excited was a total understatement. You were fucking estatic. You bagged first place AND a total cutie? Honestly, the plane could have crashed but you still would have had a smile on your face.

Anyway, it's been 4 months since the regionals, during that time, Ivan and Sunghoon's coach arranged multiple joint training sessions among the two of you, the rationale being that both of you were representing the country anyway, so might as well see and know each other's routines. Maybe even help each other out and develop into partners.

And that's exactly what happened.

Every few days when your parents came to pick you up from the rink, his family would invite yours to their house to have dinner and vice versa. Everyone got acquainted quickly, and so did you and Sunghoon. Two months into practice, he told you to dismiss your parents from picking you up that day. Reason why? He wanted to walk you home. You still remember every detail from that walk so vividly.

The air was crisp, and the leaves were a cool shade of orange, since it was already fall. You're beginning to get the impression that Sunghoon had a very particular reason why he seemed hellbent on taking you home today. At first, you thought it was just because he was tired of being constantly teased and pressured both his parents and yours to get together with you, but the more you observed him that day, the more you realized he looked like he had something he wanted to say. His mouth kept opening and sharply sucking in a breath, as if he were preparing to give a speech, but alas, no words came out of his mouth.

It was a habit of his. A shy, timid boy who only gets loud with his sister. He was a man of a few words. Always twiddling with his thumbs, back slouched. Clearly not too confident in himself. You noticed this from the very first time you met, all the way back at the regionals' free skate. Whilst all the other participants flaunted even during just their warm-up with the stance and expression of confidence, he prepared meekly.

You always wondered why he was like this. To you, he has every right to parade himself, albeit you're glad he doesn't. He has the looks and talent, yet he seems to be so insecure. Opting to let someone else do the talking for him, in fear of being judged for something he'd say wrong. You wanted to change that. Help him get out of his shell and realize that he's fucking beautiful. That he has nothing to be afraid of.

You've only over seen him at ease sporadically; when he's with Yeji, when he's alone, and when he's on the ice. If only he could come to grasp how ethereal he looks when he's in his element. When he's not constantly thinking about what others have to say about him. You thought this way too, back when you were still in ballet, and it was NOT a healthy mindset. You learned that letting go of other peoples' hearsay was the key to living a happy life, ESPECIALLY as a teenager. As the saying goes; Ignorance is bliss.

As you finally got your spatial awareness back, you noticed you were already in your neighborhood. And you must admit, your curiosity of what Sunghoon wants to say was gnawing at you, since your time together for the was already close to being cut short. Looking over to the boy, he met your eyes, since he's been looking at you the entire walk, looking for a good opening to start his spiel. His head immediately turned upon being caught staring, stammering a small "sorry" as his ears flushed a nice hue of pink.

You stopped in your tracks, your gaze fixed on him with a hint of curiosity and suspicion. His flustered expression, the way he kept stealing glances at you-was it possible? Could he actually like you, too? Your thoughts began to race, but before you could process anything further, Sunghoon froze, his eyes widening slightly as he realized you weren't walking beside him anymore.

He slowly turned around, face now a deep shade of pink, and stammered, "I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-" He trailed off, his voice faltering as he tried to form an excuse.

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms loosely in front of your chest, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "Sunghoon," you started, your voice playful yet laced with an edge of curiosity. "We've been walking for so long now. And I know you want to say something. So... just say it already."

Sunghoon shifted uncomfortably, his gaze flickering to the ground before he let out a nervous laugh. "I-uh," he began, trailing off again. The usual habit of his, always hesitant, always careful with his words, was in full force. You could see the way his fingers fidgeted at his sides, like he was gathering the courage to speak but wasn't quite sure how.

You took a step closer to him, giving him a reassuring smile. "Sunghoon, you don't have to be nervous around me. Just tell me what's on your mind."

For a moment, he looked at you, as if weighing the decision, before his mouth opened again. This time, the words came out in a rush, his voice barely above a whisper. "I-" He hesitated, then met your gaze directly, his eyes serious now, "I've been thinking about this... about you, actually." He took another breath, his voice trembling slightly, "I think... I think I might like you."

Your heart skipped a beat. The words hit you like a wave, pulling you under before you could take another breath. Sunghoon. Sunghoon was telling you that he liked you. Of all the things you thought might happen on this walk, that was the last thing on your mind.

You blinked in surprise, struggling to catch up to the moment. He... he liked you? You had always thought he was special, that there was something about him that set him apart from everyone else. But the thought that he might see you the same way? That was something else entirely.

"Really?" You managed, your voice softer now, as if you were trying to wrap your head around it. "You... like me?"

Sunghoon's face turned an even deeper shade of pink, his hands fumbling nervously with the straps of his backpack. "Yeah," he whispered, looking away, almost as if he were trying to make himself smaller, hiding behind the words that now seemed to weigh heavily on his shoulders. "I know it sounds sudden, and I-I didn't want to say anything at first. But... every time I see you, every time we talk, it just feels like I'm supposed to tell you. Like... like it's the right thing to do."

Your heart was racing, but you could feel your own body relaxing in response to his words. Something about the rawness in his voice made everything around you seem quieter, softer. For the first time, you realized that Sunghoon wasn't just the shy, awkward guy you always saw in practice-he was someone who, despite his quiet demeanor, felt things deeply. And he was letting you in.

You took a few steps closer to him, so close that you could almost feel the warmth of his nervous energy. "You don't have to apologize, Sunghoon," you said gently, placing a hand on his arm. "It's not sudden. And it's not wrong to feel this way. But I-" You hesitated, suddenly unsure of how to say what was on your mind, "I'm glad you're telling me."

Sunghoon looked at you now, his eyes wide, like he couldn't believe what he had just confessed. You smiled at him, a soft, comforting smile, letting him know you weren't judging him. "You don't have to hide anymore," you continued, your voice calm and steady, "You've got nothing to be afraid of."

His gaze dropped again, a nervous laugh escaping his lips. "I'm just... not good at this kind of thing," he admitted, his voice quieter now. "I've never been good at expressing myself. I guess I was always worried about saying the wrong thing, or not being enough." He paused, biting his lip. "But when I'm with you, it's different. I don't feel like I have to hide. Even if I mess up, you're just... you're just there, listening. And I've never felt that before."

You couldn't help but soften at his words, feeling a warmth spread through you. It was clear now-Sunghoon wasn't just shy because he was uncertain about his feelings for you. He was shy because, deep down, he didn't believe he deserved someone who saw him the way you did.

You moved even closer, until you were standing right in front of him, close enough to reach out and touch him. Your voice dropped to a whisper, as if you were sharing something deeply personal. "Sunghoon, you don't need to worry about not being enough. You are enough. You're more than enough. And you deserve someone who sees you for exactly who you are, without any fear of being judged. I like you. I've liked you for a while now, actually."

Sunghoon's eyes widened, his lips parting in shock, as if he couldn't believe what you were saying. His hands dropped to his sides, his shoulders relaxing in a way that was almost imperceptible, but to you, it felt like he was finally letting go of a burden he'd been carrying for so long. "You... like me?" he repeated, his voice barely audible.

You smiled softly, your fingers brushing against his arm gently. "Yeah," you said, "I like you. And I think you're incredible just the way you are. You don't need to be anything else. You've got everything it takes to be amazing, Sunghoon."

For a moment, the two of you stood there in silence, the only sound being the soft rustling of the fall leaves in the wind. Sunghoon's face softened as he looked at you, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He looked like he had just heard the most beautiful thing in the world, something he had been longing to hear for a long time.

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Thank you for seeing me. I-I've always been so scared of what others might think, but with you... with you, it's different." He took a step closer to you, his voice barely above a breath. "You make me feel... okay. Like I'm not broken. Like I'm not something to hide."

You reached out, your fingers brushing his in a quiet, intimate gesture. "You're not broken, Sunghoon. You never were."

The moment stretched on, and for the first time, you could feel the weight that had been pressing on both of you begin to lift. The air between you felt lighter now, warmer. And in that quiet, fall evening, surrounded by the golden leaves, you realized something: this wasn't just a confession-it was the beginning of something new. Something both of you were ready for.

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The plane touches down in Hong Kong with a gentle jolt, and the air shifts in an instant. After four hours in the sky, you finally step foot on the ground of this bustling city. Your heart is pounding in your chest, a mix of excitement and nervousness flooding your veins. The competition is finally here, and you're about to face it head-on, but the thought of being here, so far from home, feels surreal.

Sunghoon is right there beside you as the plane's doors open, both of you standing in the crowded terminal. He's been with you this entire time, and the fact that he's not just here as your boyfriend but also as a competitor, somehow makes everything easier. The initial shock of being in a new city fades when you look at him, his familiar warmth grounding you.

He notices the way your eyes are scanning the chaos of the airport, and he nudges you gently with his elbow. "Hey, are you okay?" His voice is soft, concern lacing each word, and you give him a reassuring smile. "I'm fine," you reply, trying to mask the flutter in your stomach. "Just... this is a lot."

"I know," he says, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear, a gentle touch that makes your heart skip. "But you've got this. I'm right here." You nod, grateful for his support. The nerves don't completely disappear, but they're definitely easier to manage with him here. As you both make your way through the airport, Sunghoon's hand slips into yours, his fingers intertwining with yours in that comfortable, familiar way that makes you feel like you can face anything. The anxiety that's been gnawing at you slowly starts to lift with each step.

Then, from behind you, Ivan's voice cuts through the moment. "Oh, look at that," he teases, his voice dripping with playful sarcasm. "A couple of lovebirds, huh? Are we in Hong Kong for the competition or just here for a vacation?" His grin is all teasing, but there's a warmth in his eyes that tells you he's genuinely happy for you both.

Sunghoon rolls his eyes but grins nonetheless. "We're here to compete, Ivan, not go on a honeymoon." You grinned at his snide, lately, he's been able to joke and talk a lot more freely. It enlightened you, seeing him slowly breaking free of his laid-back inhibitions. Ivan raises an eyebrow, a smirk on his face. "Sure, sure. Whatever helps you focus. You two are the definition of 'couple goals.'"

You glance over at Sunghoon, who's already laughing, the lighthearted moment easing the tension even more. It's good to know that even though Ivan likes to tease, he's just as invested in you both succeeding here. But what catches your attention is Sunghoon's coach, who has been silently observing from the sidelines. He quietly chuckles to himself, shaking his head as if amused by the light banter between you and Ivan, but he doesn't speak. His quiet laughter is a soft reassurance, like he's acknowledging the bond you share with Sunghoon without saying a word.

As Ivan continues his teasing, you lean into Sunghoon, your heart a little lighter. "You know," you start, voice playful, "if you keep getting teased like this, you'll never focus on the competition." "Don't worry," Sunghoon says, his voice filled with warmth. "I'm always focused when you're around." He gives you that smile-the one that always makes your heart race-and you can't help but grin back.

"Let's just focus on winning this competition first, then we can talk about being 'couple goals' after, yeah?" you say with a wink, nudging him back. He chuckles, pulling you closer, his arm casually resting around your shoulders as you walk out of the airport. "Deal. But, for the record, I'll be cheering the loudest for you." And just like that, the nervousness fades completely. With Sunghoon by your side, there's nothing you can't handle.

The competition isn't until tomorrow afternoon, because Ivan wanted to get here early, for the sole purpose of having time to explore around first. So, after the four of you went and left your luggage at the hotel you were accommodated to, the coaches let you two roam around the city (whereas they stayed behind the two of you just a few meters distant).

The narrow streets of Hong Kong bustled around you, neon signs glowing overhead as a soft drizzle misted the air. You clutched your umbrella tighter while Sunghoon adjusted the strap of his backpack, glancing over his shoulder to make sure your coaches weren't too close behind. "They're literally stalking us," he whispered, flashing you an exaggerated look of horror.

You stifled a laugh. "They're just... protective," you said, watching your coaches pretend to examine a street vendor's wares while clearly keeping one eye on you both. Sunghoon leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear. "Protective is checking in by text. This? This is tactical surveillance." You bit your lip to hold in a laugh. "At least they're letting us walk alone," you teased. "For now." He nudged you playfully with his shoulder. "Race you to the next corner before they put us on a leash."

"You're on," you grinned, and with a sudden burst, you darted forward. Sunghoon chased after you, laughing, both of you slipping between the crowds with your coaches shouting "Be careful!" somewhere behind. When you stopped, breathless and grinning under the flickering lights of a side street, he caught your hand without thinking. "You're crazy," he said, eyes sparkling. "You love it," you teased back.

He opened his mouth like he was going to deny it, but then just shook his head, smiling. "Yeah. I do." His fingers squeezed yours. For a second, the noise of the city faded. It was just you, him, and the thundering of your heart before tomorrow's big day. "You ready?" he asked softly. "For tomorrow?" You hesitated, but his gaze was steady, grounding you.

"I think... with you here, I am," you said. He tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear, looking a little bashful even as he did it. "Win or lose, you're already everything I admire." Before you could say anything, Ivan's voice rang out, startling you both. "Sunghoon! Five-minute break's over! Stretch time!"

You groaned, and Sunghoon laughed helplessly. "See? Tactical." As you made your way back toward the watchful eyes of your coaches, he whispered, "After you win, real date. No chaperones. Promise." You squeezed his hand once before letting go, feeling the silent vow linger between you. You would win tomorrow.

And Sunghoon would be waiting at the finish line.

After checking out this homey little restaurant, the 4 of you went back to your joint hotel room. The place you guys opted for was a bit expensive and fancy, so your coaches decided to just share the deluxe family room. It was beautiful there. 4 single beds, an adorable dining set just a few feet away from the beds, a fridge filled with complimentary snacks, a big ass bathroom, and a cute balcony that gave you a good view of the city.

"Whew, I am drained! You two shouldn't have run around earlier, you better not get sore right before the competition!" Ivan scolded, dramatically jumping into his bed with an exasperated groan. "Geez, we aren't old, Ivan, we don't get cramps as easily as you do." Sunghoon snickered as his coach feigned offense. Ivan could only roll his eyes at your mock, "Okay, okay. But on a serious note, you kids should rest up. Tomorrow's the big day."

You dismissed him with a nod, peering into the fridge and investigating it's contents. Oh! "Sunghoon-ah! There are some tiramisu bites here!" His eyes lit up upon the mention of his favorite dessert, "Really? No way!" He was already sticking his head into the fridge, hands already grabbing a piece, making you giggle at his eagerness. "You really like that stuff huh?" You say as you grab a piece of your own and some cheese flavored chips you bought from the convenience store earlier.

Oddly enough, the air-conditioner was positioned on the floor, right below his bed. He sat down right in front of it to refrain from sweating too much, after all, the weather here in Hong Kong is more humid than what you were used to in Korea. You settled down next to him, tearing both packets of the tiramisu and the chips, switching bites from the two snacks to avoid getting sick of the other one immediately.

The night had fallen silent, the usual hum of the city lost to the thick walls of the hotel room. The soft glow from the bedside lamp illuminated both of you as you sat on the edge of the bed, your legs crossed beneath you, staring at the floor. Sunghoon was quiet, his hands resting in his lap, fingers occasionally fidgeting with the fabric of his pants. The weight of his silence seemed to hang in the air, and it wasn't the usual comfortable quiet between the two of you. No, this was different.

You could feel his thoughts racing, the burden of something he was holding back. It wasn't like Sunghoon to be so closed off. Usually, he was the one who could make light of any situation, flashing that radiant smile that made everything feel easier. But tonight, he was distant. Something about the pressure of the competition seemed to have cracked open a part of him that he hadn't shared with anyone.

Finally, after a long pause, his voice broke the silence. It was softer than usual, quieter, almost as if the words themselves were hesitant to leave his mouth.

"You know," he started, his eyes focused on the floor as if searching for the right words. "When I first started skating, I was one of the only boys who joined. The rink was mostly filled with older girls. They were so... well, they were so different from me." He paused, his hand slowly brushing over his face, as if trying to erase the memories that were starting to resurface. "I was just a kid, and they... they never included me in their conversations. I'd watch them huddle in groups, laughing and talking about things I didn't understand. And I just... I stood there, feeling so out of place. I guess I just wasn't one of them."

There was a certain vulnerability in his voice that you hadn't heard before, a crack in his usual confidence. He didn't seem like the Sunghoon you knew, the one who walked through life with an easy smile and a confidence that could light up the room. This was something deeper. You could feel his pain in the quiet between his words.

"It wasn't just the silence," he continued, his voice growing even quieter. "They would snicker, and I could hear them whispering when I wasn't looking. 'What's he doing here?' 'He'll never make it.' I think... I think that's why I started closing myself off. I just didn't want to be the odd one out anymore. I didn't want to feel that way ever again."

You could see the sadness in his eyes now, something raw and unspoken that he was only just revealing to you. Sunghoon had always been a bit of a mystery when it came to his past, but this moment, this quiet honesty, was unlike anything you'd expected. He had always been strong, but this was his vulnerability - the part of him that had been shaped by those years of feeling alone.

For a brief moment, the room was still. You could feel your heart tugging for him, understanding more than ever why he had become so introverted over the years. The isolation, the judgment, the teasing - it was all still there, lurking in the back of his mind. But he wasn't just the shy, quiet boy anymore. He was Sunghoon - strong, talented, and capable of so much more than he realized.

"You know," you began, your voice steady, but your gaze filled with empathy, "none of that matters anymore. Fuck those girls, Sunghoon." Your words were sharp, but they were laced with all the conviction you could muster. "Don't mind what anyone has to say about you. They didn't know you. They didn't see the real you."

You shifted closer to him, placing a hand gently on his arm, meeting his gaze with nothing but honesty. "You're perfect just the way you are. You're more than enough. And if they couldn't see that, then that's on them. It has nothing to do with you. You're here, you've worked so hard to get here, and you're going to keep getting better. Don't let their judgment stick with you."

For a long moment, Sunghoon remained still, absorbing your words. His gaze softened as he looked at you, a quiet breath escaping his lips as though the weight of his past had been momentarily lifted.

"You're right," he said quietly, his voice barely a whisper. "It's just hard to forget sometimes. You know, when you've been carrying something like that for so long..." You gave him a gentle smile, squeezing his arm reassuringly. "I get it. But you're not carrying it alone anymore. Not with me. You never have to carry it alone."

Sunghoon's lips curled into a small, appreciative smile, his eyes glistening a bit, though he quickly blinked it away. The distance between you two had closed in that moment, a bond forged not just through words but through understanding. He may have been scarred by his past, but he was no longer alone in facing it.

And for the first time in a long while, Sunghoon allowed himself to believe it. To believe in the people who truly saw him - not as the shy, isolated kid on the ice, but as the incredible person he had become. The person who deserved every bit of happiness and success that was waiting for him.

There, the both of you collapsed into laughter as you shared embarrassing stories with one another, wiping some of the tiramisu's cream on each other's noses and cheeks, and basically just cuddling with one another. You didn't even notice that your hands were intertwined with one another, but when you did, your eyes snapped to his. He was looking at you once again, this time with that beautiful smile of his etched onto his face.

The hum of the air-conditioner filled the small hotel room, a low, steady noise that somehow made everything feel even quieter between you two. You sat side by side on the floor, your knees brushing lightly now and then, switching bites between the tiramisu and the chips, laughter still lingering from earlier. Every so often, you'd catch Sunghoon sneaking glances at you - not the playful, teasing ones he usually threw your way, but something softer, something that made your heart stutter in your chest.

A smear of cream clung stubbornly to the corner of his mouth. "Hold still," you murmured, leaning closer without thinking. You wiped it away with your thumb, only realizing how near you were when you felt his breath against your skin, warm despite the cool blast of the air-con. His hand instinctively found yours again, your fingers tangling together without hesitation this time. Your laughter died down into a tender, stretched-out silence. The humid air wrapped around you both, and it was almost too easy - too natural - when you both started leaning in.

At first, it was tentative, the space between you narrowing second by second. You caught the way his eyelashes fluttered shut just as your noses brushed. A soft, uncertain breath escaped your lips - and then you closed the last bit of space. The kiss was featherlight, like the both of you were scared to press too hard, scared to shatter the fragile, perfect thing that was happening. He pulled back just slightly, enough to search your eyes, a small, almost disbelieving smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Finally," he whispered, voice low and a little shaky. You couldn't help but laugh under your breath, giddy, your forehead resting lightly against his. And for that moment - no coaches, no competition, no pressure - it was just you and him, and the sweet, dizzying feeling of falling into something you both had been tiptoeing around for far too long.

Your moment stopped when you heard the click of a camera. Your heads turned to Ivan, who had his phone out, mischievously grinning at his screen. "Ooh, I'm gonna send this to your sister." He taunted, earning a scoff from you, "You wouldn't" you challenged, now glaring daggers at the man whose fingers dangerously hovered over your sister's instagram icon.

"Hate to ruin your moment there, but you two should get ready for bed already." Sunghoon's coach tittered a laugh, nudging towards the darkening night sky that was visible from the balcony. Reluctantly, the both of you pulled away from each other as you silently agreed on who gets bathroom privileges first. It was you.

So, after quickly grabbing your hygiene kit and some pajamas from your bag, you headed into the bathroom and immediately switched on the tap and the shower, trying to make much noise as possible to cover the squeal you were about to make. OH MY FUCKING GOD THAT WAS MY FIRST KISS. The realization has just dawned you. You just kissed Park fucking Sunghoon. Of course, you're a new couple, so it took you 2 whole months to finally get a kiss in.

You were jumping around the bathroom as you watched your reflection from the corner of your eye. Your face was flushed, grin unable to be wiped off. You felt more mature then. You felt like a woman. "We can hear you, you know!" Ivan's voice rang from outside, making you sigh out in frustration. "Let me celebrate my first kiss in peace, dammit!"

Little did you know, Sunghoon was just as happy as you were, if not more. As you hurried into the bathroom, he leaned back on the bed, his eyes half-closed as the rhythm of his racing heartbeat filled his ears. Every thud felt like a drumbeat in his chest, strong and urgent, echoing the excitement that had taken root inside him since you'd stepped into his life. It wasn't just the rush of competition - it wasn't even the thrill of winning or the anxiety about tomorrow's big event. It was you.

He couldn't stop the smile that tugged at his lips, no matter how hard he tried to keep it in check. The joy you exuded, the little sounds you made as you moved around the bathroom, all of it made him feel like he was floating. It was a feeling he hadn't anticipated, something deep and powerful that surged up from the depths of his chest.

And then, just as he thought his heart couldn't possibly beat any faster, he heard it: your excited peals of laughter, muffled but still clear through the thin walls of the hotel room. Your happiness, your genuine, unfiltered joy - it was contagious. It hit him like a tidal wave. He couldn't help but chuckle to himself, staring at the ceiling as if trying to gather his thoughts in the midst of this overwhelming feeling.

He felt on top of the fucking world. Like nothing could bring him down, no obstacle too large, no competition too difficult to face, because you were here. You were in his life. And right now, that was all that mattered.

For a fleeting moment, his thoughts turned inward, a small but growing realization settling in his chest like a weight he couldn't ignore. Maybe it was too early to say it out loud, but the truth was undeniable. He was already in love with you.

He felt it - deep in his thrumming heart, that undeniable, warm certainty. The way his thoughts always returned to you, the way he caught himself smiling at the thought of you even in the most mundane moments. The way your laughter still rang in his ears, even now, and how it filled the empty spaces inside of him in a way nothing else ever had.

His fingers absentmindedly traced the edge of the blanket, but his mind was a million miles away, caught in a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions that were only growing louder. It had only been a short time, but with you, everything just felt... right. More than right. Perfect. But when was the perfect time? He didn't want to rush it, didn't want to ruin this delicate, almost fragile moment between you two. It had to be special, the way everything with you felt.

As the minutes passed, and you continued your happy noises from the bathroom, he found himself lost in his own reverie, a soft smile still playing at the corners of his mouth. What was he even waiting for? Was there a perfect time, or was this it - now, in this moment, when everything felt right and the air between you two was thick with the unsaid but deeply understood feelings that had started to bloom between you?

Maybe it was the excitement and buzz for the upcoming competition, maybe it was the strange, charged atmosphere of the hotel room - but something inside him told him to hold onto this. To savor the joy, the uncertainty, the possibilities that lay ahead.

For now, he would wait. But deep down, he knew it wouldn't be much longer before he couldn't keep it to himself any longer. He would find the perfect time. And when he did, he wouldn't hesitate. He had to be confident in saying it.

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The bustling sounds of the city faded as you and Sunghoon stepped out of the cab and approached the entrance of Mega Ice, the indoor rink located in MegaBox. The nerves in the air were almost palpable as the crowd gathered around the venue, the buzz of anticipation rising with every passing minute. Today's event was just the short program for junior men and women, while tomorrow was the free skate. Two days of hell where you'll have to show all that you've got to the judges, the audience, and the cameras who were broadcasting everything to the world.

Sunghoon's eyes flickered to the sea of people, his shoulders tense under the weight of the situation. You could see it in the slight quiver of his hands as he adjusted the strap of his bag, his gaze lost in the magnitude of the crowd. He had always been calm in the face of competition, but today, something felt different. You could feel it in the way he moved, in the tightness around his eyes. The enormity of the event was sinking in, and his usual composure seemed to be slipping through his fingers.

You slowed your pace and walked alongside him, offering him a reassuring smile. You knew exactly what to do. "Hey, just remember... we've been preparing for this," you began, your voice steady, trying to match his unease with confidence. "You've worked so hard for this moment. All that training, all the hours on the ice, it's brought you here. And no one can take that away from you."

He sighed, his eyes still locked on the crowd, his breath coming a little faster now. "I know, but... I don't know. It's just... it's different today. The crowd is huge, and I can feel the pressure." He shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable in the midst of the noise and chaos. "What if I mess up?"

You stopped walking for a moment and turned to face him, placing a hand on his shoulder. He glanced at you, his expression a mixture of doubt and exhaustion. "You won't," you assured him, your voice firm yet gentle. "You're not the type to mess up. You've got this." You smiled, giving him a playful nudge. "Look at you-you're practically made for this."

He let out a shaky laugh, but the tension was still there. "You make it sound easy."

"Well, it is," you said, meeting his eyes with a look of complete sincerity. "You've been skating for years. You've trained with the best. You're ready for this. And you've got me with you every step of the way."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly not expecting that. "And if you fall flat on your face, what then?"

You grinned, a playful gleam in your eyes. "I'll just make sure you catch me when I do."

The tension between you two slowly dissolved as he chuckled softly, the corners of his lips lifting. You could see the edges of his nerves softening, just a little. The thought of facing the crowd wasn't as overwhelming now. You stood there for a moment, both of you looking at the massive crowd in front of you, and then you turned to face him with more assurance.

"You won't fall, Sunghoon," you said, your tone lighter now, but filled with conviction. "But even if you do, I'll be there to pull you up. And I know you'll do the same for me."

He seemed to breathe a little easier at that, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "Thanks. You always know what to say to make me feel better."

You winked, giving him a thumbs-up. "Of course. But remember, you're not alone in this. No matter how big that crowd is, out there on the ice, it's just you. And you're going to crush it. I believe in you."

For the first time that day, he smiled fully, the smile that reached his eyes. It was a quiet moment, but in it, you both understood - the crowd, the competition, the nerves - none of it mattered. What mattered was the trust between you, the belief that you'd both give your best. And that was enough to settle both your hearts.

The men were called to perform first, ladies' second, so you stayed near the entrance to the rink so you could watch him up close, Ivan and his coach on either side of you, almost biting their nails in anticipation. Sunghoon was already called on the ice for their warm-up. Shrieks erupted from the audience when he took his jacket off in this cool ass mannner, and you couldn't help it, the action swooned you too.

Your heart raced-not for yourself, but for him. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he adjusted his suit one too many times. You knew what was coming, yet the nerves gnawed at you both. The atmosphere was electric and thick with anticipation.

After the boys were done warming up, Sunghoon and the rest left as one participant you recognized from videos you saw online centered, in front of the judges. The stage lights flickered to life, casting a warm glow over the entire venue. The hum of excitement from the crowd filled the air, creating a buzz that seemed to vibrate through the floor. You stood in the audience, watching Sunghoon as he prepped for his turn.

You had always admired how Sunghoon could stay composed under pressure, but tonight, something felt different. His usual calm was overshadowed by a quiet unease, the kind that was hard to mask, even for him. You wanted to reassure him, to tell him everything would be fine, but you could see the storm of thoughts swirling in his mind. His breath was steady, but there was a flicker in his eyes that betrayed his nerves. You could almost feel the tension in the air, the weight of the moment pressing down on both of you.

"Sunghoon," you said softly, as you approached him, "You've got this." You weren't sure if he heard you, but his gaze briefly met yours, and for a second, you could see a glimmer of gratitude in his eyes. His opponent was already done, and he was already up next. Then, without another word, he stepped forward, his movements graceful but deliberate. He was going first, and you knew that meant he had to set the tone for everything that followed.

The moment the music began, you held your breath. The stage was his, the spotlight an extension of his confidence. He moved with purpose, his body flowing through the choreography, his expression focused. But even as he performed with precision, you could feel the nervous energy radiating off him-like an electric current you couldn't escape. His every move was calculated, but there was an undercurrent of doubt, something beneath the surface that wasn't quite in sync with the rest of him.

You couldn't help but feel that rush of empathy for him. You knew what it was like to stand before a crowd, vulnerable and exposed. You had seen him go through countless rehearsals, pushing himself to the limit, always trying to perfect every move. Now, it was his time to shine, and yet, you could see the hesitation in his eyes. A split second of doubt-a fraction of a moment-but you felt it too.

Your heart clenched when he stumbled, just a slight misstep in his footwork. It wasn't major, but it was enough to make you hold your breath. The crowd didn't notice, but you did. His face shifted, just for a moment, as if wondering whether he should keep going. You wanted to shout out, to tell him that it was okay, that everyone stumbled sometimes. But instead, you kept silent, your fingers pressing together as if in silent prayer for him.

And then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the doubt disappeared. Sunghoon steadied himself, his eyes narrowing with renewed determination. His movements regained their fluidity, his form sharpening with precision. You could see the change, the way he refocused, pushed through the nerves, and turned what had been a potential mistake into a strength. It was like watching someone transform before your very eyes, finding their center in the midst of chaos.

As the final note echoed through the arena, you let out the breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding. Sunghoon stood tall, his posture straight, his expression a mixture of relief and satisfaction. His shoulders were no longer tense, and for the first time that night, he allowed himself a small smile. The crowd erupted into applause, but you knew that it wasn't just the performance they were cheering for-it was his perseverance, his resilience. You couldn't help but feel proud, not just for the flawless performance, but for the man he was becoming.

Various stuffed toys rained from the audience, some bouquet of flowers as well for him. Another thing you loved about figure-skating was how adorable and thoughtful the crowd usually is after a performance, giving these cute gifts to those they were rooting for. Sunghoon beamed at the audience, picking up those they have offered him with sincere gratitude. 

You made your way to him as he stepped off the stage, his breath coming in steady waves, his eyes reflecting a quiet pride. Without thinking, you reached out, giving him a gentle tap on the shoulder. "You were amazing," you said, your voice full of sincerity. Sunghoon turned to face you, his usual stoic expression softened by the warmth of your words. There was a brief pause before he replied, his voice almost a whisper, "Thanks."

In that moment, you realized that it wasn't just the applause or the recognition that mattered-it was the small moments between the chaos, the understanding, and the connection you shared. No matter how many performances, how many challenges, you would always be there, cheering him on. The journey was just as important as the destination, and together, you were walking it side by side.

As Sunghoon caught his breath, you stood by him, offering the comfort of your presence. The night had been a reminder of just how much he had grown, not just as a performer, but as a person. There was so much more ahead of him, so many more stages to conquer. But for tonight, you would celebrate the victory of this moment-the one where he pushed past his fears and rose above them.

And as you both stood there, amidst the echoes of the crowd's cheers, you knew that this was just the beginning. Whatever came next, you would face it together. 

He gave you one final nod of encouragement as his coach dragged him away to the hot seat. The scores were still being calculated as the 3rd competitor made his entrance, the music already garnering the audience's attention. Ivan lightly tugged on your jacket and silently checked if you were anxious or anything, but his tense shoulders relaxed when he saw you didn't look pained in any way whatsoever. I mean, how could you be alarmed when Sunghoon just inspired the living shit out of you. If anything, you felt amped up. You were certain his performance would make it into the top three, so you had to make yours would be just as good. 

Minutes feel like hours whenever you're waiting for something to happen. It definitely applies to when you're squirming in your seat as you worry about your score in a prestigious competition since you're representing your fucking country. That's what Sunghoon was undergoing right now. There, in the hotseat with labored breaths, a sweaty ass and a white sheep plushie squished by his clammy hands. 

The chill of the rink seeps through your jacket as you wait near the boards, skate guards clutched tightly in your hands. Your heart hammers against your ribs, the steady beat louder than the buzz of the commentators overhead. You can't take your eyes off the screen, your breathing shallow and uneven.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen," one of the commentators announces, voice slicing through the tense air, "the score for Park Sunghoon in the Short Program—"

You hold your breath.

Sunghoon's performance replays behind your eyes — the sharp precision of his spins, the fluid grace of every transition, the sheer command he had over the ice. It had been the kind of skate that pulled people to the edge of their seats, left them hanging on every movement. You know he deserves a spot in the top three. Still, anticipation claws at your gut, as if some unseen hand could still tip the outcome.

"Park Sunghoon, ladies and gentlemen, delivered a truly remarkable performance today," the second commentator chimes in, a note of awe in their voice. "A seamless blend of strength and elegance, especially in those final jumps. His precision is unrivaled, and it's no surprise that he's managed to capture the judges' attention with such a commanding presence."

Your pulse quickens at the praise. You can practically feel the energy in the rink shift as Sunghoon's score flashes on the screen. "Park Sunghoon scores 56.61 points, placing him currently in second place!" The crowd erupts into a wave of cheers and applause. You feel a rush of pride swelling inside you — he made it into second place. Just like you'd hoped. Just like he deserved. His performance had earned every bit of that ranking, and you can't help but beam. You're so proud of him. But as the excitement simmers, another feeling quickly rushes in to take its place: urgency.

You glance at the running order. Two more skaters, then it's the women's turn. Your turn. Watching Sunghoon climb the leaderboard doesn't just fill you with pride — it ignites something hotter, sharper inside you. I have to match that brilliance, you think to yourself. I have to step onto that ice and make it my own.

You think of the countless hours spent alone in empty rinks, the falls, the frustration, the quiet victories no one ever clapped for. The sharp sting of sore muscles after a long practice, the lonely moments when all you had was the sound of your skates carving through the ice. Every moment has led to this — a chance to show the world what you're made of. A chance to be seen. A chance to be remembered.

As the next skater finishes their performance, the nerves in your stomach twist even tighter. You want to be calm. You want to be composed. But the adrenaline is overwhelming, your breath shallow as you mentally prepare to step into the spotlight.

Sunghoon and his coach happily march back to you and Ivan, exchanging hugs and congratulations with to them. Such a sappy moment, yet it felt nice to tangle into the sticky sweetness before stepping into the cold abyss, that is finally performing for what you've aimed for since day one. Sunghoon's hand caressed your cold ones. Which is ironic since his hand was just as cold, but it helped warm you up nonetheless. 

It was finally your turn. This is your moment.

Tonight, you promise yourself, you'll leave your own mark deep in its surface.

The familiar coldness of the rink nipped at your skin, but it wasn't the chill that had your heart hammering in your throat. It was the weight of everything you had worked for, everything that had brought you to this exact moment. The crowd's energy buzzed in the air, but you shut it out, focusing only on the steady glide of your skates across the ice as you made your way to the center.

Your body moved without hesitation, instinct guiding you as you struck your starting pose. The judges' eyes were locked on you — you could feel their gaze, but it wasn't fear that tightened your chest. It was something else. You were ready. You had to be. The music began, the unmistakable opening chords of "Don't Stop Me Now" blasting through the speakers, the energy of Freddie Mercury's voice filling the arena. "Tonight, I'm gonna have myself a real good time..."

For a second, everything else faded. The sound of your skates cutting the ice, the way the rink seemed to pulse with life — it all aligned. The song itself was a rush, a perfect match for the moment you had waited for. The kind of song that didn't just ask for you to perform but demanded that you pour every ounce of your being into it. You had no choice but to give everything you had.

Your costume caught the light as you moved — a sleek, form-fitting design that shimmered under the spotlights. The fabric was dark and mysterious, a deep, glimmering black with accents of gold that rippled as you spun. It reflected the tempo of the song, each motion sharp and confident, each movement drawing the audience in as if the performance itself was alive.

You moved across the ice with purpose, each glide more determined than the last. You remembered Sunghoon — not just the boy who had changed you, but the boy who had shared in your dreams. Together, you had promised to be winners. Together, you had built a future that seemed so possible, so real. The weight of those memories drove you forward. He had taught you how to fight for what you loved, even if he wasn't there with you now.

The music was building, your energy rising to match it. "I'm having a ball, I'm having a good time..." You could feel the audience, the judges — everything — pulling you in, urging you to give more, to push further. This was your moment. You weren't just performing for yourself anymore; you were performing for every memory, every person who had ever believed in you, every time you had doubted your worth. And yes, for Sunghoon too, in a way.

You spun, soaring through the air with a controlled grace, your body aligned with the beat of the song, the rhythm of the ice. Every jump felt lighter than air, every movement a declaration of everything you had fought for. And when you landed, the music hit its peak. You struck the final pose, chest heaving, your heart pounding not in fear, but in triumph. You had done it. You had given everything you had.

The arena erupted in applause. You couldn't help the grin that spread across your face as you skated a slow circle, the sound of your supporters cheering louder than anything else in the world. You looked up, catching sight of your friends in the crowd — and, of course, they were there, as always, holding a mountain of Pokémon plushies. Some were even tossing them onto the ice as they cheered for you, their excited shouts a joyful chorus. You scooped up one of the plushies, laughing softly, knowing that despite everything — the struggles, the pain, the growth — this was exactly where you were meant to be.

It felt liberating having to perform with all your might, and everyone seemed to appreciate it. Excitedly, you sped right through the eyes and straight at Sunghoon, jumping into his outstretched arms, sending both of you tumbling to the floor, the plushies you both were holding following suit. It's so cliche, but he made you feel all too giddy to the point where you don't care. Or maybe the adrenaline from the performance really got to you. 

Your coaches cracked up at your antics, pulling you up and off Sunghoon by the arms. You just came to notice the random burst of screams that came from the crowd since you jumped into his arms, confused at the sudden sound, your eyes scouted the arena for an answer. Perhaps there was an intermission number or something that stirred the crowd awake. Your questions were answered when you heard the commentators laugh out, ""It looks like our performer's got some extra energy after that routine! What an adorable moment, everyone! Looks like we've got a little unexpected performance happening here as well!"

You blinked in surprise, your face flushing a deep shade of red. It hit you then — the crowd hadn't been screaming because of some random intermission number. They were cheering for you. For the way you had jumped into Sunghoon's arms like you were the lead in some cheesy rom-com. The realization made you both embarrassed and oddly elated at the same time.

Sunghoon chuckled softly, holding you close for a moment longer before he helped you back on your feet. His grip was steady, and the glint of amusement in his eyes only made your heart race faster. "Guess we're the show now, huh?" he teased, that familiar smirk playing on his lips. You gave a playful shove, still trying to gather yourself. "Shut up," you muttered, but there was no malice in it. You were laughing, your pulse still pounding with adrenaline. You had just given it your all, and despite the sudden awkwardness, you didn't regret a single second of it.

The applause didn't stop. In fact, it seemed to grow louder, a mix of appreciation and laughter from the crowd as they witnessed the fun, carefree moment you'd shared with Sunghoon. But you could hardly focus on that now — your eyes were still darting around the rink, scanning for your friends, your supporters, the ones who had always been there.

It was cliche, yet, but sometimes cliche felt the most real. And in that moment, with all the noise around you and the lights shining down, you felt like you were exactly where you were meant to be. With your heart still racing, you held onto that moment — and the plushies — for as long as you could.

Ivan eventually snatched you to the hot seat, your knees jerking as you hugged yourself in suspense. Why'd the judges always take so long in giving out ratings? It always just gives your stomach extra time to churn in and shrink itself. Your grip on Ivan's hand (which he offered for you to hold) steeled when the announcer's long awaited voice rang through the arena's massive speakers. 

"And there you have it, folks, what a spectacular display of skill and grace! Let's see how the judges scored this remarkable performance." The first commentator's voice rings out, his tone full of admiration. You can feel the tension building as the second commentator chimes in."Indeed, an impressive show of precision and artistry. Now, let's get the official score. After a routine like that, it's anyone's guess where she'll land, but there's no denying the level of talent she's bringing to the ice."

Your heart pounds in your chest, and for a moment, it feels like everything around you fades as the numbers flash on the screen. You can't tear your eyes away from the display, holding your breath in the brief silence. "And the score is in!" The first commentator exclaims. "With a total score of  57.63, she secures the second-place spot in this highly competitive short program!"

A rush of emotion sweeps over you. Relief, joy, pride. You've made it. Your hard work, all the hours spent on the ice, and the moments of doubt — it all feels worth it. The applause from the crowd fills your ears, but it's the commentators' voices that hold your attention now. "Second place, folks, an outstanding achievement, especially in a field as competitive as this! It's clear that she's earned her place at the top. With the free program still ahead, anything can happen, but with a performance like that, she's definitely one to watch."

You can feel the warm glow of satisfaction spreading through you as your supporters cheer, their enthusiasm washing over you like a wave. You glance up at them, noticing the familiar faces, their smiles of pride and encouragement. But it's not just for them — this is for you too. You've pushed yourself further than you ever thought possible. The commentators' voices continue to echo in the background, but you're too lost in the moment to focus on anything else. You've made it this far, and you're determined to finish strong.

In the end, the two of you happily walked hand in hand, wearing matching grins and silver medals dangling from your proud chests. You've already told your parents about the win, and of course they were estatic. They actually already knew, since they were glued to the tv as to support from home. Your dad was crying when he picked up the phone, drawling about how proud the family is. As expected, your sister brought up the hug, but it was overshadowed by the good news. 

That night, your coaches spoiled the two of you rotten by treating you to this really fancy restaurant as a reward, buying some soju and urging the both of you to take a sip or two. "Come on, you know you want to. I won't tell you parents, so don't worry about them finding out" Ivan urged an already open bottle to both yours an Sunghoon's glass. Giving one another a look of uncertainty, the two of you internally debated whether or not to do it.

But the moment Sunghoon cracked a smile, you did too, already grabbing the battle from Ivan and pouring nearly equal amounts into your glasses, clinking it together and downing the bitter, clear liquid that was so strong, you were gagging the rest of the night while Sunghoon asked for a couple more sips. This night was the start. Sunghoon's turning point. 

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Years passed by in a blur, and now, you were 17, lounging in Sunghoon's bedroom as a random movie played on his laptop. The two of you has long gotten more and more comfortable with one another as you tried and experience more new things together. He bought you your first pet, you both went to your first unsupervised party together, and a lot more risque stuff. Both of you wanted to lead up to the actual thing with baby steps first instead of diving in headfirst and accidentally hurting each other in the process due to inexperience. So, you planned it. 

Today, you were going through another first. Your first blowjob as a couple. 

It began with a hand straying from his shoulder all the way to his thigh from beneath the blanket. Gentle caresses littered across his body until you saw a tent form. He was embarrassed from it, and tried to push you away, stammering a half-assed excuse to get you to stop, "D-don't look!" His demeanor only made you coo in his ear, "You don't want to, Hoonie?" 

Your hand halted, waiting for him to push you away. One last chance to walk away, but when he didn't move, your hand flew right to his crotch. Pointer finger poking at the clothed peak of the bulge. He bit his lips, hands grabbing at the laptop to raise its volume to drown out the sinful noises he knew he was going to make. "The door is locked, right?" You asked, worried his mom might barge in on you two.

Was he able to process your question? No. Did he nod nonetheless? Yes. 

Oh well, who were you to deny him of his pleasure when he obviously wants it, if his jerking hips were anything to go by. You continued palming at his erection, mouthing kisses all over his neck. Your bodies felt so hot, as if you were veiled by the warmth of your horniness, leaving you too feeling like your brains melted into a puddle of sinful desires. There was already a damp spot in his shorts, and he bagan to feel impatient.

Slipping a finger around the seam of his shorts and underwear, he pulled it off just enough to let his cock spring free. It slapped against your hand, making you retract it from the sudden feeling of touching a dick for the first time and him; sigh out in relief of feeling another hand touch his dick, even just for a split second. Your pussy fluttered when your hand made contact with the foreign...object?

Gathering enough courage, you reached for it again, feeling it twitch at your grasp, Sunghoon's already letting out silent moans. "What do I do..?" You ask eyes fully open yet not really looking at him. You were staring into nothingness as you imagined how your hand as his cock looked like under these sheets. "J-just wrap your hand around it and move it up and down.." He instructed, wrapping his hand around yours and guiding its movements.

You couldn't help but moan at the feeling of just his dick against your hand. His chest heaved as the pace of your hands quickened, "Baby, please-please.. talk.. I want to hear your voice." He breathed out. "W-what do you want me to say?" Twitch. "Anything, oh god, say anything, baby."

His voice was strained against his throat, head thrown back into the pillow. The muscles of his next were flexing, it looked so damn enticing. "Mm.. you look so hot right now Hoonie.." You say before you traced your tongue along the veins and Adam's apple on his neck. Whispering profanities, Sunghoon announced he was close. "Count for me..."

And so you did, counting down from three to one. And like some magic trick, he came on your command, cum spurting and wetting the blanket as he spasmed. His back arched, brows furrowed, mouth slacked. It felt like a blessing to get to see him orgasm. Because of your hand, not to mention. 

Your lips crashed into his with a messy urgency, tasting your shared breath as your tongues slid against each other in a sloppy, desperate kiss. Every flick, every suck, felt like a continuation of what had just happened—raw and reckless. Your hand, still slick from the way you'd been stroking him moments ago, trailed off his spent cock, his cum clinging to your fingers. Instead of wiping it away, you reached for his hand, lacing your sticky fingers with his, letting the mess smear between your joined palms. Filthy, intimate, and perfect.

"How was it, baby?" you murmured against his kiss-swollen lips, voice dipped in smug satisfaction as you pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. They were glassy, half-lidded, the pupils blown wide with lingering pleasure.

He whimpered, actually whimpered, too fucked-out to form a real sentence. "It was... fuck, amazing..." His voice cracked, wrecked from moaning your name like a prayer.

You hummed softly, the sound low and pleased, vibrating from your chest. With a slow, languid movement, you nestled closer, laying your head over his heart, its thudding beats still racing beneath the surface of his chest. The rise and fall of his breathing began to sync with yours as your eyelashes fluttered closed. Wrapped in the sticky heat and the quiet aftermath, you allowed your body to melt into his, eyelids growing heavy, ready to drift off to sleep cradled in the comfort of his embrace.

You sighed, eyelids fluttering shut as his arm instinctively wrapped around you, cum drying on your tangled hands like a dirty little promise. The room was silent except for the soft sound of your breathing, still in sync, and the occasional satisfied exhale escaping his lips.

If you slept like this, stuck together and still covered in the aftermath, you didn't mind one bit.

"You definitely have to let me make you feel good too."

A smile found its way on your lips again, "Some other day, Hoonie."

And with that, the two of you slipped into dreamland, tangled against each other's limbs, movie long forgotten. The credit scenes were already showing at this point, when his door creaked open, revealing Mrs. Park. Had she walked in ten minutes earlier, she would've kicked you out immediately. Turns out the door wasn't really locked. 

Fortunately, the sight that met her eyes was just her son and his girlfriend fast asleep as they innocently cuddled. She sighed, feeling her maternal senses take over her once again, turning the movie off and folding the laptop shut, closing the door as quietly as she could behind her so as to not wake you two up. Completely unaware that his son's dick laid flaccid, caged in your warm hands, hidden beneath the warmth of her freshly laundered sheets. 

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 The soft hum of the air conditioner was the only sound filling your room, aside from the subtle rustling of your sheets. The house was quiet—eerily so—but you weren't complaining. Your parents and sister were away for the night, some conference meeting they couldn't drag you to, and it had left the house blissfully empty. Yours. Yours and his.

Sunghoon sat on the edge of your bed, fingers nervously fiddling with the hem of his hoodie as he looked at you with that unsure, boyish glance he always gave you right before crossing a line. You knew that look. You welcomed it. "You sure?" he asked, voice just above a whisper, as if speaking any louder would shatter the fragile air between you. "That I can... try?"

You leaned back against your pillows, legs stretched out and bare, your shirt slightly oversized—his, actually—and hanging just low enough to be teasing. You tilted your head, smirking softly. "I told you, Hoon... my body's yours to figure out." His breath caught.

You could practically see the thoughts racing behind his eyes. He wanted to touch you—badly. Not just to get you off, but to learn. To explore. To study every sigh, every shiver, every sound he could pull from your lips. His fingers twitched where they rested on his lap. "You can experiment," you said again, a little slower this time, the weight of the words sinking into his skin. "Touch me. See what makes me feel good. What makes me melt. What makes me beg."

Sunghoon swallowed hard, and the shift in his posture was subtle—but telling. His hand finally moved, hesitantly brushing against your thigh, testing the waters. Warmth bloomed where he touched you, tentative but thrilling. "I wanna learn you," he murmured, his fingers splaying out slightly, stroking over your skin like it was sacred. "I wanna be good for you."

You reached for his hand and guided it further up, heart thudding in anticipation. "Then learn, Hoon," you whispered, breath ghosting across his cheek. "Use me." His cheeks flushed, and his hand trembled just a bit—but it didn't stop. It traveled. Down, in. Testing. Tasting. Exploring you with reverence and heat. And with the house so empty, with no one around to hear the sounds he'd draw out of you, Sunghoon let himself indulge

His fingers traced the hem of your underwear with a kind of focused awe, like he couldn’t believe you were letting him touch you like this—soft, slow, exploring, not rushing anything. You parted your legs for him without a word, giving him silent permission, and his breath hitched at the sight of you—barely dressed, spread out just for him, waiting.

“Tell me if I’m doing it right,” he whispered, voice hoarse, but his fingers were already moving. He slipped beneath the fabric, his touch featherlight as he finally cupped you fully, his fingers grazing your folds like you were the most delicate thing he’d ever handled. You bit your lip and let out a soft moan, hips twitching into his touch. “Keep going… You’ll know when you are.”

His jaw clenched, a flicker of pride flickering in his eyes. One finger dragged through your slick slowly, his eyes glued to your expression like it was his manual. He circled your clit once, uncertainly, then again with more purpose. Your breath hitched. “There,” you gasped, voice strained, and he immediately focused on it, his finger pressing just a little firmer, learning your rhythm, watching every reaction. “F-Feels good when you do that…”

Sunghoon licked his lips, completely entranced. “You’re so wet… fuck,” he muttered under his breath, a flush creeping down his neck. “Is that all from me?” You nodded, pulling him down into a kiss as he continued working his fingers in slow, exploratory movements. “All yours, Hoon. All because of you.” He groaned into your mouth, encouraged. Emboldened. He slid a finger into you carefully, eyes darting between your parted lips and the subtle arch of your back. Then another. Your walls clenched around him, needy and warm, and he swore softly again.

“God, you feel… amazing,” he whispered, curling his fingers ever so slightly, testing, watching. You gasped and gripped his wrist. “There. Just like that. Again—”. He obeyed immediately, curling again, hitting that spot that made you tremble. You moaned freely now, the sound echoing off your bedroom walls, shameless and hot.

He was getting better by the second—more confident, more curious. Your thighs trembled around his hand as he leaned in, voice low against your neck. “I wanna make you cum with my fingers,” he murmured, breath tickling your skin. “Let me? Please?” “Do it,” you whispered, dizzy with heat. “Make me yours.”

And that he did. Quickening the pace of his fingers as your hands desperately clawed on the sheets of your pillow. The pads of his fingertips reaching the all the good crevices in you, you swore you saw stars cloud your vision when you hit your peak. Sunghoon stood watch, keeping his hand in place, peering at the way you arch and spasm all because of him. He thought you looked so damn beautiful, with your sweat-stained face and neglected nipples perking through your shirt. 

Without much of a thought, he leaned in and popped your clothed bud into his mouth, nipping and prodding at it with his tongue. His act made your cunt flutter and pulse, so he kept doing it. All you could do was mewl and tangle your fingers into his soft, black locks. You rode out your high, and when you finally completely got off, the feeling of immense drowsiness took over you once again. And it seems like it had Sunghoon in a chokehold too, as he collapsed onto you and tucked his face into the crook of your neck.

Your body was still humming, nerves frayed in the best way, as if every inch of your skin had been kissed with static. You lay there—limp, warm, sticky, and so unbelievably satisfied—while Sunghoon draped himself over you like a blanket, his breath fanning gently against your neck. His lips pressed a lazy kiss to your skin, then another, like he just couldn’t stop touching you, even if he was too exhausted to do more.

You chuckled softly, the sound barely more than a breath. “You good?” you murmured, fingers lazily carding through his hair, still a little damp with sweat. “I think I died for a second,” he mumbled against your skin, voice low and hoarse, but laced with a teasing kind of affection. “If that’s what death feels like, I don’t even wanna come back.”

You laughed, cheeks warm, your heart fluttering from more than just the aftermath. “Dramatic much?” “Dead serious,” he grinned, finally shifting to look at you, his cheek pressed against your shoulder. His eyes were half-lidded, sleepy and content. “You sounded so pretty… like you were made for me.”

Your stomach flipped at the honesty in his tone. You turned to face him fully, your noses almost touching now, the air thick with warmth and something deeper than lust. “Mm… You’ve got good hands,” you murmured, fingers brushing down his jaw. “I think they’re my favorite now.” “Oh yeah?” he asked, smirking faintly, thumb tracing slow circles on your hip under the blanket. “Wanna let me try more things next time? Take notes?”

You raised a brow, pretending to be serious. “You’re taking this science experiment thing very seriously.” “I’m a thorough learner,” he whispered, kissing your collarbone softly. “And I wanna know everything… like what kind of kisses make you melt, what kind of touches make you gasp—” “What words make me beg,” you added cheekily, and he chuckled, low and fond.

“Exactly,” he breathed. The silence that followed was comfortable, filled only with the sound of your mingled breaths and the soft creaking of the sheets as you both shifted to get closer. His leg tangled with yours. His fingers intertwined with your hand under the blanket—sticky, warm, and so gentle. “I like this,” you murmured, your voice growing sleepier. “Not just the… y’know, mind-blowing stuff. I mean this. You. Here.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple, barely audible but full of something unspoken. “Me too.” And then nothing else needed to be said. Because in that dimly lit room, beneath tangled sheets and the ghost of each other’s touch, everything already felt like a promise.

You didn’t know how long you’d been lying there—tangled up, limbs heavy, breath slowing—but neither of you made any move to separate. Sunghoon stayed draped over you like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go, his leg slung lazily over yours, his face still nuzzled in the crook of your neck. You shifted a little under him, chuckling weakly. “If you keep breathing on my neck like that, I’m gonna start thinking you’re trying to wind me up again.”

He groaned softly, lips grazing your skin as he spoke. “Too tired to do anything right now… but if you wake me up in, like, an hour…” You laughed, real and low and warm. “Oh? Setting a cooldown timer now?” “Call it recovery time,” he mumbled, his fingers tracing idle shapes on your side. “You wore me out, babe.”

“Please,” you snorted, twirling a strand of his hair around your finger. “You were moaning like you were the one being touched.” “That’s because I was losing my mind,” he admitted shamelessly, lifting his head just enough to meet your eyes. “You’re dangerous.” You smiled, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “Dangerous, huh?”

“Mmhm. But like… the ‘ruin me in the best way’ kind.” You rolled your eyes fondly. “So dramatic.” “Yeah,” he whispered, leaning in to kiss the tip of your nose, then your cheek, “but only for you.” Your cheeks warmed, but you were too relaxed to hide it. You let out a soft sigh, your hand sliding up his back, palm warm against his bare skin. The silence that followed was comforting, filled only by your breathing and the faint creak of the bed as he settled in even closer.

“Hey,” he murmured a minute later, sleep tugging at his voice. “Mm?” “When I wake up…” he paused, tracing your lower lip with the pad of his thumb. “Can I try using my mouth next time?” Your breath hitched, your thighs instinctively pressing together. “Hoon.” “What?” he smirked, already smug. “You said I could experiment.” You narrowed your eyes at him, lips twitching. “Yeah, and now I’m gonna experiment with suffocating you with this pillow.” He laughed into your neck, the sound sleepy but genuine. “Worth it.”

And with that, he tucked himself in against you again, holding you a little tighter as both of you finally began to drift, your bodies messy and close, your hearts stupidly full. "Seriously speaking, though, I'll let you." 

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So that’s how he woke you up— Not with a kiss to the cheek, not with whispered words or lazy cuddles. No. It was the wet, deliberate slide of his tongue, dragging between your thighs, starting at the crook of your knees and working its sinful way upward.

At first, you thought you were dreaming. The warm, slick sensation felt too good, too filthy for reality. But then you blinked open your bleary eyes, only to be met with the sight of Sunghoon sprawled out between your legs, his hair messy from sleep, his eyes dark and half-lidded with hunger.

Your legs instinctively clamped together, embarrassed by how easily your body responded to him even after everything last night. But he didn’t force them apart. He didn’t rush. He simply nestled himself deeper into the space you allowed, his large palms smoothing up the outsides of your thighs in slow, lazy strokes, coaxing you to relax without a single word.

Of fucking course he was.

And all the while, his tongue continued its maddening path—

Long, wet drags along your lips, broad and languid, never breaching further, never grazing your sensitive clit. He was taking his time, savoring you, tasting you like he had all the patience in the world. You let out a soft, frustrated whimper, threading your fingers into the sheets. He was teasing you.

Every slow pass of his tongue, every deliberate avoidance of your most sensitive spot had you trembling, your hips twitching in silent desperation. But Sunghoon just chuckled low against your skin, the vibration sending a jolt straight through your core. “You’re so warm down here,” he murmured, voice thick and gravelly from sleep, the tip of his nose nudging gently against your folds as he spoke. “So sweet.”

You squirmed, a soft, needy sound falling from your lips, but he only pressed a kiss against your mound—tender, almost reverent—and resumed his unhurried pace. “Relax, baby,” he whispered, teasing another slow lick along your slit, making your thighs tremble against his shoulders. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And God, the way he said it—low, certain, promising—made your entire body feel like it was melting into the mattress.

You gasped. Your hips jerked. Your fingers flew to his hair on instinct, clutching at the soft strands as your back arched clean off the mattress. “Shit—Sunghoon—” you breathed out, voice already trembling. He moaned low against you like he’d been starving, like the taste of you was all he needed to survive. His arms looped under your thighs, locking you in place, and then he really got to work—flattening his tongue against your clit, then flicking, then circling, relentless and rhythmic.

Sunghoon was going to ruin you again.

And you were going to let him.\But you didn’t expect how quickly he’d shift gears—how the moment he felt your thighs twitch with impatience, he gave in. His lips parted, and with one firm, messy lick, he finally dragged his tongue over your clit.

There was no more teasing. No more testing. Just full, unfiltered hunger. The slick, obscene sounds of his mouth on you filled the room, and you were already unraveling, moans spilling out freely as he sucked gently, then harder, drawing more of you into his mouth like he couldn’t get close enough. You looked down through bleary eyes, and the sight of him nearly broke you—his dark hair messy between your thighs, eyes fluttered shut like he was praying with his mouth, a single muscle ticking in his jaw every time you whimpered his name.

You came hard, with a gasp and a shudder, your body curling into itself as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through you. He held you steady the whole time, lapping you through it, not stopping even as your thighs trembled violently around his head. When it was over, when your body had fully gone boneless and your breath came in shallow, spent little whimpers, he finally pulled back—his lips glossy, cheeks flushed, eyes hazy with pride. He pressed a gentle kiss to your thigh. “Good morning, baby.”

He lifted his eyes then, locking them with yours, and fuck—

That look. It was so full of need. Of devotion. “Come on, baby,” he rasped, breath hot against your core as he licked you again. “Let go for me. I wanna feel you fall apart.” And with how he mouthed at your clit—sucking slow, then fast, then slow again—you did.

And just like that, you took his first time giving head. And you'll be damned if you don't steal his first time receiving either. Instantly, after you regained your strength, you flipped him over, so now, you were mounted on to him, crotches dangerously close to one another. Your breathing was ragged. If you scooched your ass just enough, you knew this would immediately lead to something else. But it's too early for that. 

So, before he could even get a word in, you were already moving—sliding down the sheets with slow, deliberate grace, eyes locked onto the outline of him beneath his shorts. He was already hard. Straining. Practically twitching from how badly he wanted you, and yet still trying to keep it together.

You looked up through your lashes, lips parted just slightly, playing it innocent when the intent behind your gaze was anything but. "Can I?" you asked, voice soft—sweet like honey, sticky like sin. He looked down at you like he was caught between heaven and hell, his knuckles turning white where they fisted the blanket beneath him. You could see it all over him—the way his throat bobbed, the way his abs tightened, the way his eyes searched yours for permission and fear all at once.

You hovered just above his lap, face so close your breath ghosted over the fabric. And then—

You pressed your cheek against the bulge. That single, teasing nudge had him sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth. His hips bucked, just barely, like he couldn’t help himself. Like your skin on him, even through the layers, was enough to short-circuit his restraint.

“Baby…” he whispered, voice strained, “what if I hurt you?” You blinked slowly, your expression still soft but oh so certain. “Then take it slow. Learn me.” Your fingers toyed with the hem of his waistband, eyes still never leaving his. “I trust you.” And that broke him. Something behind his eyes snapped—need, love, desperation all crashing together. He exhaled shakily, letting his head fall back for a second before locking eyes with you again, gaze wild now. Hungry.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he muttered, almost like a prayer. Almost like a promise. And then, his hips lifted slightly in silent surrender—offering himself to you, placing every ounce of his control in your hands. You smiled. Because now, it was your turn to ruin him.

Lowering his shorts, you peeled them down slowly, watching every inch of skin reveal itself like it was sacred. And the moment the waistband cleared his hips, his cock sprang free—flushed, heavy, leaking at the tip. But what caught your attention more than anything else… was the huge, damp patch darkening his gray boxers.

Your brows lifted, lips parting with a small, breathy chuckle. “Hoonie…” you murmured, tracing a finger just along the edge of the wet fabric. “Did you come while you were fingering me earlier?” His jaw tensed. His eyes fluttered shut, like even the memory of it was too much. A deep flush crept down his neck. “I—” He let out a shaky breath. “I didn’t mean to. You were just… you looked so pretty falling apart. I couldn’t—fuck, I tried to hold it.”

You smiled, eyes softening as you looked up at him. There was something heartbreakingly sweet about it—about how much he wanted to please you, how deeply your pleasure affected him. “That hot, huh?” you whispered, leaning in to press the lightest kiss to the slick tip of his cock. He twitched under the touch, breath catching.

“You have no idea,” he rasped, voice low and wrecked. You hummed, lips brushing against him again, deliberately slow. “Guess I’ll have to return the favor… make you feel it all over again.” And this time, you weren’t playing innocent. You were in control—eager, unhurried, and fully aware of the way he fell apart beneath your touch. His hands gripped the sheets again, but this time he didn’t speak. He just watched. Watched you like you were something unreal—something he’d only ever dreamt of touching, let alone being touched by. And you—You were just getting started.

You took your time, savoring the moment—the way his chest heaved with every breath, the way his hands gripped the sheets like he was trying to hold onto his control. You knew what you were doing to him, and it made you want to tease him more.

With a slow, calculated motion, you leaned in again, this time pressing your lips gently to the tip of his cock, letting your breath flutter across him. His body stiffened immediately. You could feel the heat radiating off him, see the way his eyes clenched shut in frustration.

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath. “You’re killing me.”

You smiled, a soft, knowing curve of your lips as you slid your hand up his shaft, your thumb swiping at the precum leaking at the tip. His hips jerked slightly, and you had to fight the urge to laugh at how desperate he already was.

“Patience, baby,” you teased, your voice a little too sweet. You swirled your thumb over him one more time before you let your tongue flick out, tracing the vein along the underside of his cock. He inhaled sharply, his body shaking as you moved up and down, slow and deliberate.

“Just like that… fuck,” he groaned, head falling back against the pillow, his lips parted as if he couldn’t quite catch his breath. “You’re perfect, so perfect.”

You hummed in response, pulling back just enough to look up at him. His eyes were dark with lust, lips trembling, and you could see how hard it was for him to keep it together.

“You like that, Hoonie?” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “You like how I’m taking my time?”

“God, yes…” he moaned, his hips moving involuntarily. His fingers tightened around the sheets, knuckles going white. “You have no idea how bad I need you.”

You chuckled softly, but there was no humor in it—just a wicked thrill, the kind that made everything feel so much more intense. You slid your mouth down his cock slowly, inch by inch, taking him deeper. The feeling of him on your tongue made your own body ache with desire, but you were focused—completely focused on him and how he was unraveling under your touch.

When you finally took him all the way in, his body stiffened, and a loud, desperate moan escaped him. His fingers threaded into your hair, pulling you even closer, but you pulled back, lips teasing the tip once more.

“Can’t have you coming too soon, Hoonie,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, but your words were laced with authority. “I want to make this last.”

He groaned, eyes shut tight as if just hearing you say it was enough to drive him mad. “You’re fucking killing me,” he breathed, voice trembling. “But god, please… don’t stop. I can’t—fuck, I can’t wait.”

And you didn’t. You kept going, taking him deeper, sucking him slowly, teasing the edges of his control with every movement. Your hands cupped his balls, massaging gently, making him gasp, pulling every inch of pleasure from him as he squirmed beneath you.

He was losing it, and you could feel it—how his body was shaking with the effort of holding himself back, his breaths coming in shallow gasps.

“Please,” he whispered, voice strained and desperate. “I need you to finish me.”

But you were far from done. With one final, long, slow draw of your mouth over him, you pulled away, leaving him gasping, eyes wild and wanting. The air between you both was thick with anticipation, the kind of tension that left you both breathless. Sunghoon’s hands were trembling slightly as he touched you, fingers skimming over your body as if he was mapping every inch of you. His lips brushed over your neck, gentle but desperate, his warm breath mingling with your skin.

"Are you sure?" His voice was low, just above a whisper, but you could hear the doubt, the fear that you might say no, even though he was aching to go further.

You nodded slowly, running your fingers through his hair, holding his face close to yours. “I’m sure, Hoonie. I want this. I want you. But I need you to take care of me.”

A flicker of concern passed through his eyes, but it was quickly replaced by something stronger. Something primal. "I’ll take care of you, I swear," he breathed, his hands moving to lift your legs gently, positioning you just the way he wanted you.

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. His eyes were locked onto yours, searching, seeking permission. He needed to know you were truly ready, even though his body betrayed him—his cock was throbbing, aching, desperate to be inside you.

You held his gaze, offering a soft smile, your voice a whisper of reassurance. “It’s just you and me, Hoonie. Let go.”

His lips crashed to yours in an almost desperate kiss, as if the act of kissing you could drown out the flood of emotions swirling inside him. Slowly, he shifted between your legs, his breath uneven as he positioned himself at your entrance, his cock pressing against your slick folds.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his forehead resting against yours, his body trembling slightly as he fought the urge to just push inside. He was trying to be patient, trying to give you time, but the need inside him was overwhelming.

“You’re mine now,” he muttered against your lips, as he slowly pushed the tip inside, watching your face for any signs of discomfort. “Tell me if it hurts. I’ll stop.”

You nodded, breathing deeply, your body slowly adjusting to the sensation of him inside you. It was a mix of pain and pleasure, but you knew it would be worth it. “I’m okay,” you whispered, your voice shaky but filled with need. “Just… take it slow.”

Sunghoon’s face twisted in concentration, the effort to control himself evident in the way his jaw clenched. He didn’t want to rush it. He wanted to savor every second of this moment—your first time together.

He pushed deeper, inch by inch, his breath coming faster as he filled you completely. You gasped, your nails digging into his back as you adjusted to the fullness of him. It wasn’t easy—there was still that stinging burn, that feeling of being stretched, but you could tell by the way Sunghoon’s eyes widened that it was just as intense for him.

"God, you feel so tight," he muttered, his voice barely audible, strained with both pleasure and restraint. “So fucking perfect.”

You moaned softly, your body slowly adjusting as he began to move, his thrusts slow and measured at first, as if he was waiting for you to tell him it was okay to go faster.

“Move, Hoonie,” you whispered, your voice thick with need. “Make me feel good.”

And with that, he let go. The restraint he’d been holding onto shattered as he started to thrust deeper, harder. His body moved with yours, a rhythm built on desire and the desperate need to feel more of each other. Each movement sent shockwaves of pleasure through you, your body quickly heating up from the friction, the connection.

He kissed you again, more urgently this time, his hands gripping your hips to pull you closer, driving deeper into you with every thrust. You could feel the tension building, the way your body started to coil tighter, your moans escaping uncontrollably as he made love to you with a passion that left you breathless.

“Oh God, Hoonie,” you gasped, your hands grasping at him as you clung to him for support. “You feel so good. Don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” he grunted, his voice raw, desperate. “Not until you come for me.”

He was relentless now, his thrusts speeding up as your bodies collided with a force that made your head spin. The pleasure began to mount, and before you knew it, you were on the edge—teetering on the brink of ecstasy, every nerve in your body screaming for release.

With one final thrust, you exploded, your body shaking violently as the orgasm ripped through you, pulling a broken gasp from your lips. Sunghoon followed soon after, his name falling from your lips in a breathless, needy cry as he came inside you, his body shuddering with the force of his release.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You were both panting, your chests rising and falling in sync as you lay there, tangled in each other, letting the aftershocks of pleasure subside.

And you knew it. You loved it. Every second of it. He did too. And he sure as hell wasn’t afraid to voice it out.

Before he could think it through, the words spilled out of his mouth, and he just couldn’t hit the brakes. His body trembled beneath yours, eyes wide, filled with a mixture of desperation and raw adoration. The room felt thick with the tension, his voice strained as he struggled to hold it all together.

"Fuck... I love you," he gasped, the words slipping out like a confession he didn’t even know he was ready to make.

The moment hung in the air between you two, heavy and electric. His gaze locked with yours, wide and vulnerable, as if he’d just said something he couldn’t take back—but he didn’t want to. Not anymore.

His chest heaved as he breathed heavily, his fingers gently caressing your hair, as if afraid to break the fragile moment that just passed. “I love you, I love you so much, I—” He cut himself off with a groan, hands finding purchase on your hips as if grounding himself. “God, I don’t know what the hell I’m saying, but I know I mean it.”

You froze for a moment, feeling a wild rush of heat fill you—not just from the way he was touching you, but from the sheer vulnerability in his voice, the way his eyes begged for you to believe him. To feel it with him.

And it hit you.

It hit you harder than any of the touches or moans, deeper than any of the teasing and slow build-ups. He wasn’t just desperate for you physically anymore. Sunghoon was in love with you.

You leaned in, pressing your forehead against his, letting the weight of the moment settle over both of you. His hands were trembling now, brushing over your skin like he was still in awe of the connection between you two.

"Sunghoon..." you whispered, voice shaky but full of the same raw emotion.

His lips hovered just above yours, his breath mingling with yours as he let out another desperate sigh, this time filled with a quiet ache. "I can’t stop thinking about you," he said, his voice cracking slightly, making your heart race. "I didn’t want to say it like this... but I’ve never been more sure of anything. I love you."

Your heart beat wildly, and for a moment, neither of you moved, both suspended in the fragile vulnerability of the moment, both knowing this wasn’t just about the physical anymore—it was something deeper, something neither of you could deny anymore.

And before you could even answer, he kissed you—a slow, tender kiss that conveyed everything he’d just said. The love, the urgency, the wanting.

This wasn’t a tease anymore. This was real.

And you knew, then, you were both in this together.

"I love you too."

❄︎⋆｡˚𓂃｡˚☃︎˚｡⋆❄︎⋆｡˚𓂃｡˚☃︎˚｡⋆❄︎⋆｡˚𓂃｡˚☃︎˚｡⋆❄︎⋆｡˚𓂃｡˚☃︎˚｡⋆❄︎

Reminiscing all your sweet moments, your firsts, the six years of your life you spent with him. Within those six years, you'd fixed his insecurities, helped his growth as a person, supported him through all his decisions—and he did the same for you. There was a time when it felt like the world revolved around just the two of you. You saw each other not as perfect, but as irreplaceable. Eventually, the two of you moved in together in a homey little apartment near your university. It wasn’t anything extravagant, just a one-bedroom with creaky floorboards and slightly chipped kitchen tiles, but it felt like yours. It was yours. A space that smelled like his cologne and your favorite candle, always a little cluttered but always filled with laughter.

Sunghoon had gotten a part-time job at a cute cafe just around the corner. He insisted on it—to help with the expenses, he said—but more than that, he refused to let you stress. He absolutely refused to make you lift a finger if he could help it. “You focus on school, I’ve got the rest,” he used to say with a kiss on your temple and a warm mug in hand. And for a while, that worked. For a while, things were good. You’d wake up tangled in each other’s limbs, argue over what movie to watch, fall asleep in the middle of your shared chaos. You had your own rhythm, your own peace.

But then—around five months into living together—something shifted.

At first, it was subtle. Sunghoon started coming home later and later, offering excuses that felt thin no matter how kindly they were worded. “Extra shift,” “a coworker called in,” “the register was off.” You tried not to be that kind of partner. The clingy, paranoid type. So you gave him space. You didn’t question him much. You trusted him. But days stretched into weeks, and the distance between you only grew.

He was tired all the time, barely present when he was home. Meals were skipped. Conversations were short. Affection faded. What was once his warm hand on your back as you drifted off became cold sheets and an empty side of the bed. You were patient—God, you were so patient. You tried to initiate, to ask him gently if everything was okay. But he brushed it off, each time more dismissively than the last.

Until one morning, it all boiled over. The fight started like most fights do—quiet, subtle, like a crack in glass. You didn’t even mean to start it. Not really. You just asked him if he’d be home in time for dinner.

He barely looked up from tying his shoes, already halfway out the door. “Probably not. Minji asked if I could cover her closing shift again.”

Again. That word tasted bitter on your tongue now. Minji. Again.

You stood by the kitchen counter, arms crossed, forcing your voice to stay steady. “You’ve been covering for her a lot lately.”

He looked up briefly, his brows twitching in annoyance. “She’s going through some stuff. It’s just a few extra hours.”

“A few extra hours every night,” you snapped before you could stop yourself. “Hoon, I don’t even remember the last time we had dinner together without one of us falling asleep at the table.”

He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair, the same hand you used to hold when things got hard. “I’m working, okay? I’m trying to help. We’ve got rent, utilities, your tuition—it’s not like I’m out partying.”

“I didn’t say you were,” you murmured. “But you’re never here anymore. I feel like I live with a ghost." The fight came out fast and harsh—words sharp like broken glass. He was getting ready for another late shift, and you, exhausted and hurt from feeling ignored for weeks, finally snapped. “It’s like you don’t see me anymore,” you cried, your voice cracking. “I didn’t move in just to live alone with someone else’s toothbrush in the bathroom!”

He looked at you, jaw tense, eyes tired—not from lack of sleep, but from detachment. “I’m working so you don’t have to. Isn’t that what you wanted?” he shot back. The words felt like a slap. And before either of you could stop it, it spiraled. It turned into something ugly, something neither of you wanted to say. You didn’t even kiss goodbye when he walked out. He didn’t even look back.

The words struck something in him. He stood straighter, jaw clenched. “So now I’m the bad guy because I’m trying to keep us afloat?”

“No,” you said, a little softer now, trying to rein it back. “You’re not the bad guy. I just… I miss you.”

“We’ll talk later. I’m already late.”

He paused, and for a moment, you thought he might meet you halfway. Say I miss you too. Say Let’s figure it out.

But instead, he grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder.

“Hoon—”

He was already at the door, not even looking back. “We’ll talk later.”

And just like that, the conversation ended with the click of the door closing behind him.

But guilt came fast. And heavy.

Maybe he was stressed. Maybe you’d pushed too hard. You didn’t want him walking into work with that fight weighing him down. So a few hours later, after pacing the apartment, you decided to go to the café. To surprise him. Maybe share a muffin, maybe hug him and say sorry first. Maybe—just maybe—fix things.

You stood there, staring at the silence he left behind. The untouched plates on the table. The half-cut vegetables you were chopping for a meal that wouldn’t be shared.

You didn’t know it then—but you wouldn’t get the chance to talk it out.

Because that night, while you were preparing to apologize, to meet him halfway, to forgive—

On the way, you stopped by a small fruit vendor and bought a small brown paper bag of fresh tangerines—his favorite. He always peeled them for you, careful not to get the juice on your fingers. It felt like a quiet way to say, I’m still here. I still care.

He was in someone else’s arms.

And the conversation would turn into a wound you’d never forget.

The bell chimed when you walked into the café. The place was warm and cozy, as always, but unfamiliar faces were behind the counter. One of the other staff—someone you’d only seen in passing—recognized you. “Oh, you’re Sunghoon’s girlfriend, right? He’s in the back. You can go ahead, he won’t mind.”

You smiled, heart fluttering with nervous hope, gripping the bag of tangerines tighter as you pushed through the swinging door into the back room.

And then your heart stopped.

There he was.

Sunghoon.

His back pressed against a shelf, hands tangled in the hair of a girl pressed flush against him. Her fingers were fisted in his shirt, his mouth locked with hers—hungry, desperate, familiar. You stood frozen, eyes wide, breath caught somewhere in your throat. The bag slipped from your hand. The tangerines hit the floor, rolling lazily across the tiles. They didn’t even notice at first.

It wasn’t until you turned, the door creaking slightly on your way out, that he looked up—eyes meeting yours, going wide with panic. “Wait—wait, no, fuck, baby—” You didn’t stop walking. Not until he grabbed your arm outside, dragging you away from the cafe’s front, his voice frantic and broken. “It wasn’t what it looked like, I swear, please—I messed up, but I—It didn’t mean anything!”

You laughed bitterly. “That’s supposed to make me feel better? That it meant nothing to you?” “I was confused, I was tired—things got hard, and I panicked—please, don’t leave me,” he begged, tears brimming in his eyes. “Let’s talk. Let’s fix it. We can fix this.” But something in you had already snapped. The trust you held so tightly—shattered. You had given him everything. Your love. Your time. Your home. Your soul.

And now you were standing outside the place he kissed someone else, the same place he used to bring you coffee from, the same one where you waited for him in the past—smiling, waving at him through the window like something out of a romance film. But this wasn’t a film. This wasn’t a scene you’d ever wanted to see. Because this—this was real. You were standing under the harsh neon glow of a sign that used to mean warmth and familiarity, and now it felt like it was branding you with betrayal.

The scent of roasted beans and sugar lingered in the air, but it was no longer comforting. Not when it clung to the fabric of your clothes alongside the image of her hands on him. Not when it tangled in your lungs like smoke from a fire he started with his own hands. Your voice came out quieter than expected, barely carrying over the ringing in your ears.

“I'm gonna start packing,” you said, almost to yourself. Sunghoon flinched like the words struck him physically. “No,” he whispered, as if saying it soft enough would erase it. “Please, no. Don’t go.” His hands trembled as he reached for yours, but you stepped back before he could touch you. And that broke him further. His breath hitched, eyes darting across your face like he was trying to memorize it—like he knew this might be the last time he’d get to look at you without shame, without distance, without regret.

“I know I fucked up,” he choked out. “I know I did. But I love you. I’ve always loved you. It didn’t mean anything, I swear—she was just there, and I was stupid, and I—I panicked. We were drifting and I didn’t know how to fix it.” Tears welled in your eyes, and you hated how badly you wanted to believe him. But it wasn’t about just the kiss. It was about everything that led to it. The silence. The absence. The way he started treating you like an afterthought.

“And you thought that kissing someone else would help you fix us?” you asked, voice barely steady. “You thought that would bring me back?” “I wasn’t thinking,” he muttered, almost childlike, like regret had stripped him of the version of himself you knew. “I was scared.” You shook your head slowly. “You weren’t scared. You were careless.”

He staggered back a little, like the words winded him. He opened his mouth, but no apology could fill the gaping hole he'd carved into something that used to be sacred. “I stood by you for six years,” you continued, blinking back tears. “I believed in you when you didn’t believe in yourself. I made a home with you. I chose you. Every single day. And you—you didn’t even think twice.”

“I did think. I regret it. I’ll do anything. Just don’t leave. Please,” he pleaded, voice breaking mid-sentence. “You’re all I have.” You exhaled sharply, the pain gnawing in your chest almost unbearable. “Then maybe you should’ve treated me like that before you lost me.” The silence between you stretched. Only the faint sound of traffic and your own heartbeat thrummed in your ears.

You didn’t wait for him to speak again. You turned away, your footsteps heavy against the sidewalk, each step a confirmation of the choice you had to make—for yourself. You weren’t going to beg to be chosen anymore. Not when he had already chosen someone else—even if it was only for a moment. Because that one moment had torn through six years. And some things, no matter how much you want to save them, just don’t survive the wreckage.

You laughed at the absurdity of the situation. With you, he learned to love himself. But you, you learned to let go. It took you 6 years, but you finally graduated from this lesson. You also realized that Sunghoon didn't learn you. He fucking learned to be wild. To be confident in himself. And it hurt more knowing you taught him to. 

Eventually, you finally gathered all your belongings from your former home, opting to move in with your homie for life, Ivan, who accepted you with open arms. He didn't even say a word to your family or the Parks, but they still somehow managed to find out, awestruck and just as heartbroken as you were at the sudden separation. They couldn't blame your for wanting to leave, though. It just gravely affected them too, since you and Sunghoon practically came as a pair in gatherings or even just a normal dinner on a Tuesday night. 

It was gonna be hard filling out the cracks he's left on you and your family, (and vice versa), but you'll have to manage, and you are managing it. Just not in the healthiest way possible.

 - to be continued - 

[holyblonded]

just some hcs of estrella and ale being like so so similar, similar movements, phrases, actions, personality traits that kinda things and olga is just there like “like mother, like daughter” shaking her head in amusement

— olga swears she’s living in a constant state of déjà vu. estrella and ale move the same, talk the same, react the same, it’s like watching a younger, more chaotic version of alexia walking around the house.

— the first time olga really notices it is when estrella scores a goal and does that little half-smirk, half-nod that ale does before pointing to the stands. olga literally blinks because she’s seen that exact expression a thousand times before, just on a different face.

— they both have the same ultra-competitive streak. whether it’s football, a casual game of uno, or who can reach the car first, neither of them backs down from a challenge. olga has had to physically separate them during board games because neither will accept losing.

— their pre-game rituals are pratically identical. estrella started copying ale’s routine, and now they both do the same stretching sequence, tie their cleats the same way, and tap their shin guards three times before stepping onto the pitch.

— they both have the same instinct to touch their noses when they’re thinking, the same way of crossing their arms when they’re annoyed, the same unimpressed stare when someone says something dumb. olga has been on the receiving end of that look from both of them at the same time, and it’s terrifying.

— estrella starts pacing when she’s stressed, hands on her hips, muttering under her breath—exactly like ale does. olga points it out once, and estrella immediately stops and glares at her, but then ale walks into the room and does the exact same thing, and olga just shakes her head, muttering, “like mother, like daughter.”

— they even have the same weirdly specific habits, like peeling fruit a certain way or always picking the same seat in the car. estrella will be sitting in a restaurant, tearing apart a piece of bread the exact same way ale does, and olga will just sigh because there’s no escaping it.

— the worst is when they team up against olga. whether it’s ganging up on her in arguments (always playfully, but still unfair), making fun of her accent, or just both deciding to be stubborn at the same time, olga has learned to pick her battles.

— estrella doesn’t like to admit it, but deep down, she loves being compared to ale. and ale pretends not to care, but every time olga says “she’s just like you,” there’s a little glimmer of pride in her eyes.

[mrcrawly]

Jayvik headcanons

hello jayvik nation im dumping these here bc im almost done with the second chapter of my fic and these have been stewing a while

Viktor

has the most beautiful curly calligraphy handwriting ever but it's so curly and fancy you genuinely can't read it

Ibuprofen allergy. source: my twisted mind

fidgeting with stuff all the time. paperclips, pencils, clips, rubber bands, the buttons on his vest

bonus to that one: he messes with his vest buttons so much that Jayce is constantly having to sew them back on when they come off

chronic nail biter

big sweet tooth

great cook but a shitty baker

"get even" kind of person; probably holds grudges from the second grade

doesn't cry very often but can be sensitive in the sense that he cares very much how his closest friends view him and internalizes their opinions

love languages are words of affirmation and acts of service

likes to be touched but not held (autism)

hates winter because it makes his joints hurt, summer is unbearably hot and he can't stand it, he has spring allergies; default fall enjoyer

animals really like him and strays tend to show up at the lab or follow him around

children like Viktor. Viktor doesn't like children back

kids will sometimes randomly talk to him and tell him things in public and he doesn't have the heart to be mean to them or ignore them so he just sits there like "mhm ☺️" while they talk until their parents apologize and walk off

probably has a pet reptile (a turtle or some kind of lizard methinks)

cold natured and wears seven hundred billion blankets to bed every night no matter the season

identifies as male in the sense that he was born a man and just never bothered to think much about it but doesn't fully grasp the concept or purpose of gender. could tell you what makes a man a man or what makes a woman a woman but doesn't understand why nor care

interested in jayce from the beginning but never felt as if he was in competition with Mel

sorry they can pry the JayMelVik love triangle out of my cold dead hands ♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️

not very affectionate because he doesn't know how to discuss his own feelings but very good at soothing other people

Jayce

dysgraphia (i think that's the term?) – not many issues with reading but not the best with writing

viktor is hyperlexic so it works out alright

AMAZING at drawing. like if he didn't have the passion for science he would be an artist. he draws out all their diagrams and blueprints and Viktor labels them

can cook pretty well but doesn't like to do it; if he stays at Viktor's place then Viktor always cooks for him

likes baking because he controls every single thing that goes in and it's very exact

both he and Viktor have chronic pain in their hands (carpal tunnel) from spending all their time taking notes and working with small delicate parts

he doesn't complain about his even when it bothers him because it feels silly knowing how bad Viktor's pain is every day 💔💔💔💔

10,000 step haircare routine but Viktor's looks better anyway

used to be prone to acne as a teen (if accutane existed in arcane he would have been an accutane kid)

(i was an accutane kid and im projecting)

shaved regularly pre-hexcore because his father had facial hair and he looks a lot like his dad anyway; he was always a little worried if he grew it out it would remind Ximena too much of his dad and make her sad

took entire days off of work and pushed deadlines back when Viktor got bad just so he could stay with him when Viktor was in too much pain to do practically anything

used to deliberately sleep in the lab because Viktor would stay late and he didn't want Viktor to be alone in case he passed out or something happened

love languages are physical touch, gift giving, and quality time

money doesn't exist to him when he's buying other people things. can't do secret santas at Christmas bc he constantly exceeds the budget

simultaneously one of those people who legitimately cannot accept gifts and feels bad when people give him things

was genuinely so in love with Mel; used to have dreams about marrying her and living somewhere quiet with her

most definitely forgave her for manipulating him on the council and understood her but it was just never the same

bottom. argue with the wall

OUGHHHH my shayla 💔💔💔💔💔💔💔

guess my favorite character challenge level impossible (it's so unbelievably obvious)

[bueckersworld]

SYNOPSIS: headcannons for kk and her cheerleader girlfriend, some of which are during game days, others in their downtime.

WARNING(S): none, just fluff!

info. masterlist. taglist.

────୨ৎ────

❊. - sideline high fives: kk always looks to the sidelines after hitting a clutch shot, and her girlfriend will be there waiting for a quick, energetic high-five, no matter how intense the game gets.

❊ - lazy sundays: on their days off, they’ll have lazy sundays, staying in pajamas, binge-watching netflix, and ordering their favorite takeout. they’ll joke around and tease each other about random things, always keeping it lighthearted.

❊ - powerful motivation: before every game, kk’s girlfriend gives her a small handwritten note or a charm for good luck. it’s a small gesture, but it always helps boost kk’s confidence before stepping onto the court.

❊ - cooking together: they love cooking dinner together after a tough practice or game. kk is surprisingly good at baking, while her girlfriend excels in making healthy snacks that they can both enjoy.

❊ - victory hug: after a win, kk and her girlfriend have a tradition of running into each other’s arms for a quick, victorious hug. it’s their way of celebrating together, no matter how big or small the victory is.

❊ - late-night drives: after a big game, win or lose, kk and her girlfriend enjoy late-night drives with no destination in mind. it’s their time to relax, talk about anything, and just enjoy each other’s company.

❊ - cheerleader’s secret signals: kk’s girlfriend has a subtle routine she performs whenever kk is about to make an important play. whether it’s a slight wink or a raised fist, it’s her way of telling kk, “i believe in you.”

❊ - personal playlist: kk makes her girlfriend a personalized playlist with all their favorite songs, and they’ll listen to it while getting ready for the day, helping them feel energized and close.

❊ - on-court focus: kk can always count on seeing her girlfriend cheering loudly in the crowd. no matter what’s happening, just hearing her cheer will center kk, helping her refocus during intense moments of the game.

❊ - cheer routine practice: even in their downtime, they’ll practice their respective skills. kk will work on her basketball moves while her girlfriend practices cheerleading stunts and choreography, occasionally offering each other tips and laughs.

❊ - pre-game ritual: right before the game starts, kk and her girlfriend exchange quick words of encouragement, even if it’s just a soft “you’ve got this” from her girlfriend as kk heads out onto the court.

❊ - diy projects: kk and her girlfriend love working on diy projects together. whether it’s painting a mural in their room, making matching friendship bracelets, or customizing their sports gear, they enjoy getting creative and making things together.

❊ - celebrating with a dance: after a big win or a standout play, kk pulls her girlfriend onto the court for a spontaneous dance. it’s usually something goofy, but they both love it, and it’s a secret tradition between them.

❊ - stargazing: on clear nights, they’ll drive out to a quiet spot, lay on the hood of the car, and stargaze. they’ll talk about their dreams and laugh at the constellations they “invent,” enjoying peaceful, intimate moments.

❊ - nervous pre-game routines: when kk feels nervous before a game, her girlfriend knows exactly what to do—she’ll step onto the court during warm-ups and do a small cheer for kk to calm her down and remind her to have fun.

❊ - board game tournaments: on rainy days, they’ll have board game tournaments, with kk often teasing her girlfriend about being a “gracious loser” when she doesn’t win. they get super competitive, but always end with a hug and a laugh, no matter the result.

❊ - cheering at the sidelines: while kk plays, her girlfriend is constantly cheering, but it’s not just for the team—kk can always hear her girlfriend’s voice cutting through the crowd, hyping her up with every move.

❊ - personalized workout sessions: to unwind, they’ll create personalized workout routines based on their favorite sports. kk might teach her girlfriend a few basketball drills, while her girlfriend shows kk some cheerleading stretches or stunts, blending their athletic worlds.

❊ - basketball & cheerleading mix: sometimes after a big game, kk and her girlfriend will come up with creative ways to combine their sports, like practicing cool moves that merge basketball dribbling and cheerleading stunts.

❊ - cafe dates: they love going to their favorite local café, grabbing their favorite drinks, and people-watching. sometimes they’ll grab a notebook and sketch or jot down ideas for their next big adventure, enjoying the simple joy of each other’s company.

© bueckersworld

𝑤𝑖𝑡𝘩 𝘩𝑢𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑘𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑠٫ 𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑎..