#every time i look at this drawing i laugh

[paintedcrows]

Just Yanking Your Chain, Buddy!

Some alt versions! I couldn't decide how far I wanted to go with rendering this

[yieldtotemptation]

NOVEMBER ft. Somi

somi x male reader smut

9k words

"It's this challenge I'm doing. One whole month—thirty days—without having an orgasm," you're explaining, failing spectacularly at keeping things professional. Something possesses you to add: "No nutting. Hence the name."

Somi just stares at you. Flabbergasted.

Leans forward, elbows on her knees, chin in her palms; tearing your entire existence apart with her eyes.

"Can I just say, and I genuinely mean this in the nicest way possible—but that’s the stupidest fucking idea I’ve ever heard."

—

Here's the conclusion you've arrived at from the one hour you've spent with her: Jeon Somi is some kind of demon.

It’s not a joke, it’s not some painterly metaphor you’re drawing—Somi has clawed her way out from the depths with nothing but a ponytail and an alarmingly tight pair of leggings; arriving on Earth, in the flesh, to make your life a living, breathing, sweat-drenched hell.

So, yeah.

Somi, the succubus. Or something close to that.

It's the only explanation for it really.

See, you're a photographer. Of women, specifically.

Beautiful women in intimate settings, sparse aesthetics. That’s your whole deal. Just homing in on the subject, capturing something ‘real’ without any distractions. Get the essence of who they are when there’s no one looking.

Pretentious, sure, but it’s what’s kept you in demand with the glossy magazines and the avant-garde galleries and the starlets desperate to convince the public that they’re more than just the pretty robots their agencies have programmed them to be.

So, suffice to say, you've met all the types.

The innocent idols that need a mountain of coaxing to come out of their shells. The stone-cold divas that barely acknowledge your existence, yet somehow still expect you to anticipate their every demand. And the flirts, willing to do just about anything for the camera with a wink and a nudge, if it means getting an edge on the rest of the industry.

But Somi? She just is.

Pure temptation incarnate, from head to toe, without even trying. Thighs that threaten to strangle your self-control, a waist that makes sinners out of saints, tits that would have physicists reconsidering the very nature of gravity, all topped by a dangerous smile that could melt a fucking igloo with its sheer wattage.

Somi’s hot.

She knows it, the world knows it, the public crucifies her for it. And she just takes it all, all of it. Melts it all together and forges it into armour.

And now she’s here, in your private space. None of the usual entourage of make-up artists, managers, whatever. Just herself and an absurdly sweet frappé. Looking so comfortable that it’s making you feel like you’re intruding.

She’s leaning on your table, ass flush against the wood, arms crossed, and her eyes—those fathomless dark pools—land on yours, holding them hostage.

Barely has to make any effort when she laces her words together, piles on an unhealthy dose of insinuation, cocks an eyebrow and asks—“So, how do you want me?”

Naked, preferably. On all fours, ass to the sky. Or maybe on her knees, mouth hanging open, tongue out, elbows squeezed together to make her tits sing.

Yeah, you're already composing the perfect shot in your head.

Fuck.

You rub your eyes. Maybe thirty days of self-imposed abstinence has finally broken you, and this is all some kind of feverish hallucination driven by your libido.

But no, Somi is still there, lounging in your studio, all curves and challenge. Just being insanely hot.

You cough, clear your throat. Put on the mask of someone far more professional.

“Anywhere you’d like,” you’re answering, keeping your expression decidedly blank. This isn’t the first time you’ve been the only outlet for a young sexpot desperate to let off some steam. You have the experience. But again—fuck. Thirty days is far too long. Somi is far too much. “Just keep it natural. Like I’m not even here.”

Somi just laughs, sweet and sinful, her whole thing. Pushes off the table with a grace that seems almost supernatural (again, see the demon theory), before adding a thought, like it just sprung up in her pretty head— “Easier said than done.”

Distractions aside, all things considered, she’s the perfect subject.

Gets what you’re going for immediately, makes herself at home amongst your studio's chaos. Glides around the room, runs her fingers over your equipment strewn about—the lights, the lenses, the negatives hanging in the corner.

The sway of her hips, the flex of her back. The dip of her brow and purse of her lips when she asks, "What's this for?", and the genuine interest when she listens to you explain about aperture, and light metres, and so on and so on.

(Snap a photo of her silhouette when she's by the window, leaning against the glass to spy on the passers-by.

Snap a photo of her smile, when you say something that's really not that funny, but she laughs anyway.

Snap a photo of her legs, when she finds a couch to lay on—stretching herself out, showing off their length, the tone of her thighs, the promise kept hidden by her leggings being pulled tighter and tighter.)

Another hour passes quickly, and you take a break there, more for your sanity than her endurance. Leave her to her own devices while you flick through the shots you’ve managed to get so far.

Only, when you scroll through your laptop, scan through the dozens upon dozens of rapid-fire photos you've taken—it's a horror show.

None of them work.

Not because of her, but because of you.

The way you've shot her. Far too revealing—you've put too much of yourself in these pictures. Turned them from images to confessions. Each one a fucking love letter to her body—her legs, her tits, her lips, her ass, her tits again—everything about her that makes you ache.

It's not art. It's borderline pornographic.

And yet, Somi's still just lying there.

Drinking down another pick-me-up that she's had delivered, this one with enough caffeine to take down several horses, chatting away so casually while you try to stitch your soul back together. Sipping and talking about who-knows-what, throwing out feelers, smiling easily, laughing sincerely, utterly oblivious to the havoc she's wreaking on your self-control.

An effortless grace when she lifts herself off the couch, saunters over to you and leans in far too close, gets far too familiar, lays on far too much charm when she asks, “Mind if I take a look?”

Yeah, you do, but you still force a calmness into your voice that you’re certainly not feeling when you turn the laptop so she can see.

“Wow,” is her initial review, and now she’s touching you, hand on your shoulder, tits pressed up against your arm and you’re certain that none of this is accidental, like an oh, just trying to get closer so I can better appreciate the photos you’re flipping through, never mind that you're getting a precise estimation of my cup size just from the feeling alone.

Do your best—ignore the pressure, the warmth, the softness. Watch her face, see all the tiny details; her eyes lighting up when she catches something she likes, her thoughtful hum at a particularly good shot. The smacking of her lips, the furrow of her brow, the recognition as you scroll.

One by one, with each photo, her expression morphing from curiosity to understanding.

She notices.

“You’re good at this.”

You wait for it. “That’s all?”

Her eyes glint, “None of these can be used though.”

“I know.”

The screen’s frozen on a particularly compromising shot: there’s Somi’s face, barely in it, just the bottom-half, her lips pouting out and looking all plump and delicious. Camera angled up high, pointing down the dip of her tight, sheer top and the shadowy valley that makes up her cleavage. Scanning down to her legs, folded to the side beneath her, the squish of her ass cheeks over her heels, spilling into the corner of the screen.

Sin, captured in fifty megapixels, barely contained inside a four by six frame.

A submissive dream.

“These for your personal collection, or—” and when she catches the heat rising up the back of your neck, changing directions, “—not that I mind, as long as I get a copy.”

Clearly finding all this much funnier than you are—that smile’s a knife to your chest. So sharp and knowing; it would have you gasping for air, if only you’d look.

Keep it cool, play it off with a shrug, “We’ll try again.”

“I doubt we’ll get any different results,” Somi’s predicting, bouncing on her toes now, getting closer and closer until she doesn’t need to make much of an effort to make herself heard. Close enough that she could feel you now, if she wanted to. Just brush her fingers over you and get a good idea of the reason why this photoshoot is going so far off the rails.

She instead leans her chin onto your shoulder, breath hot against your cheek. Like throwing a match on gasoline.

All the power of this girl, this woman, wrapped up in a single gesture. Wielding it so freely, so innocently, so easily. Heat that's self-aware, that knows just how much it's burning.

You caution, “Keep it professional.”

“Doesn’t that run counter to the whole aesthetic. I thought we were going for raw?”

“Natural.”

“What’s the difference?”

You need to stop yourself, shut the laptop, end the session right now before it’s much too late. Before you’re turning to her and realising just how close her lips are to yours, just how tiny her waist is compared to your hands, and you're saying the words that will end all semblance of propriety and professionalism— “With you, I don’t think there is one.”

“Well as long as we agree,” and Somi’s turning away, striding back to the couch, leaving you to breathe again. Making you thankful for the space, but missing the suffocation of her heat all at once.

Plopping herself down on the cushions, one leg folded under the other, leggings so thin you can see the shape of her underneath. Natural, just like you asked—looking like she's the only one here that’s exactly where she wants to be.

You’re thinking you’re off the hook.

Maybe you can get back to work.

Only, “So, it’s been a while, then?”

“Somi,” you’re saying her name for the first time, officially, and it’s coming out far too strangled. Far too needy. She loves the sound.

“Come on, humour me.”

“Somi,” again, you’re trying, clearing out the cobwebs from your throat.

“Sir.”

What the fuck.

She doesn’t move. Waits patiently for your answer.

You give her the inch, knowing she’ll take the mile.

Raking a hand through the back of your head. “Thirty days.”

The look on Somi's face is apoplectic. You're glad you have the wherewithal to capture it.

"It's a—" and you're feeling quite stupid as you explain it to her in detail; the abstinence for a month, the purpose of it all, the supposed benefits, "challenge."

That sends Somi ranting, hands flailing in the air. Incredulous, at you, at this challenge, at the idea of putting yourself through this self-imposed torture. “Stupidest fucking idea I’ve ever heard.”

And then, when she sees your face.

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“But seriously. Thirty days? And not once.”

Your voice is dry. “No.”

“Not even by accident?”

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Wet dreams, nothing? No jerking it? No sex? At all?” Somi’s bursting out laughing, hand flying to cover her mouth, barely even able to breathe. It’s so absurd to her.

And it doesn’t take long before she puts it all together. Processes the information, sees the picture she’s painted of you. The sad, desperate artist, with nothing but a dying hunger and a camera. Realises the predicament you’ve put yourself in just by having her here.

She’s not laughing any more.

“And so you chose today, November 30th, to schedule me?”

You’re very, clearly frustrated. “Not my choice.”

“I see.” She bites her lip. Angles herself just so.

“Dial it back.”

“Tell that to your boner.”

You look down. Pants distinctly flat.

Somi’s grinning. “Made you look.”

“Are you done?” You ask, forcing yourself to look away from her, busying your hands by screwing on a different lens, as if it’ll somehow make her appear any less distracting, like it’ll blur out all your worst intentions and bring back some actual decorum to this whole fiasco. “We don’t have much time left.”

Turning back to her, raising your camera, aiming straight and true and—

Somi, unzipping her heels, kicking them across the floor with a dramatic flourish.

Snap.

Somi, lifting her top up and over her head, stretching her arms up high to push her breasts out forward; making them tight, outlined, so obviously pebbled against the cotton of her bra.

Snap.

Somi, digging her thumbs into the waistband of her tights, pointing her legs up in the air so she can peel them off without getting up, thrusting her hips up off the couch to yank them over her ass.

Snap.

“Somi,” you’re saying again, because apparently, you’ve forgotten how to make other words.

“Just doing what feels natural,” she says, smile turning wicked, reaching behind her back to unclasp and oh, now she’s completely naked. Rearranging herself into this pose. As if she isn’t already the centre of your universe.

Thirty days, flushed directly down the drain.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

—

You’ve found it, the perfect photograph.

Somi, kneeling on the couch, hands folded on her lap, staring down the barrel of your camera with her tits out. Unreal. Works of art, both of them. Miracles of flesh, gravity be damned.

“You’re not taking any photos,” she points out.

You swallow hard. “I’m taking it in.” 

Her hands come up to cup her breasts, giving them a bounce. For fun. For you. For the look on your face. You capture the jiggle. "Good, because I'd hate to think all this was going to waste."

It’s a little fucked up, how right Somi is. You wanted raw, honest—here it is, Somi as she kneels. Just being herself, being the woman everyone accuses her of being—the sinner, the whore, the slut.

Being the woman she knows she is, with everything that it implies—the confidence, the appeal, the fucking powerhouse of magnetic attraction. Not an image being projected, not a role she’s playing, but the reality of her, shooting straight into your veins, raw sex personified—as natural as breathing.

And before you know it, you’re capturing her lips with yours, an ‘mmmph’ slipping out from her as your mouths collide and your tongues meet.

It’s not intentional, it just happens. You lean in, she’s hot, she smells like heaven and sin wrapped in a neat little bow and you’re kissing her.

Tongue finds hers, attacks, retreats, joins and intertwines, and it’s everything you imagined it would be turned all the way up—sweeter, hotter, and so much more fucking dangerous.

Lips head south, tongue sliding along her neck, teeth on her shoulder, kisses into her collarbone; and finally, you’re at her breasts.

Softer than a dream, tasting like pure addiction; you kiss the tops of her breasts, lap up all the sweat that’s beaded down in between. Drag your tongue down, follow the curve, the dip, and ending at the hard little points poking against your lips. Filling your mouth with as much of it as you can—licking, suckling, making a complete mess of spit on her chest, and then biting, just a little, just to make her moan.

“So this is what denial does to a man, hm?”  Somi slithers into your ears, under your skin, hands at the back of your head and holding you in place.

She arches into you, pushing herself closer, letting you taste, indulge. Feast on what you’ve been missing out over this long stretch of days.

And fuck, maybe it is the abstinence, the pent-up need, or maybe it’s the fact that tits in general are just fucking incredible things. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s that it’s Somi, in all her outrageously perfect glory, so happy to be the one that gets to ruin you, that’s making you feel like you’re going to spontaneously combust.

Not that it matters one bit.

Not that there’s any thoughts at all in your head; there’s just Somi’s tits and your tongue. Lapping it up like you’re trying to drink her in, memorise every contour, every curve, every little goosebump you induce with each swipe of your tongue.

Somi’s tits; a canvas, and your mouth’s painting the picture of a lifetime.

“Baby,” Somi coos, hands on the side of your face, lifting you up off the cushions of her breasts. She’s giggling, her fingers wiping at the strings of drool that you hadn’t even realised you’d been leaving behind. “Remember what we’re here for?”

Right.

The camera. The art. The job. The no-touching rule.

But your mind is a blurry mess of tits and need, and all your blood has headed south for the afternoon, and it's making you feel like you're melting from the inside out.

“Let me give you a hand.” Somi’s gentle with you, like you’re a stick of dynamite with a frayed wick, just the slightest touch and you’ll blow.

She takes your hand, fingers brushing against yours, little sparks of electricity making your hairs stand on end, and lifts your camera up to point directly at her.

And then, she smirks. As if to say, yeah, she’s read all your thoughts; seen straight into you and has discovered the vault where you’ve kept every one of your deepest, darkest impulses locked up for thirty long days.

Somi repositions herself. Poses her body, determined to bring every single filthy, desperate, starving fantasy of yours to life.

Reclining back into the couch, thighs apart, spreading her legs wide.

Showing off her cunt.

Bare and gleaming. Shaven clean—just this perfect, pink, wet little pussy calling out to you. Open like a fucking invitation.

You’re staring.

She waits for you to catch up.

“Now would be a good time to start using that camera.”

You take a step back. Heart racing, hands shaking; you’re usually so much better than this. Take a deep breath, lift the camera, do your job, make your art, capture as much as you can while you have fucking perfection putting herself on display for you.

The click, the shutter echoing through the studio.

It makes Somi sigh.

Her eyes find the lens, locking down her target. A fucking miracle of biology, that’s Somi. Born to have cameras on her, as in love with them as they are with her.

Her fingers dip, trace down over her ludicrously tiny waist, her abs, her bellybutton, stopping short of her mound. Dancing over her pussy, light as a feather.

Fucking grinning as she asks, “Like what you see?”

The camera’s flash answers for you.

Touching herself, stroking, circling, pressing down. Building a crescendo that you can see painted on her; through the tensing of her abs, the heaving of her breasts, her cheeks going pink, her breaths getting shorter, and her lips parting to moan.

You’re barely conscious of the fact that you’re talking under your breath, a singular demand— “Keep going.”

“Yes, sir.”

Thirty days of denial has turned you into a starving man, only for Somi to show up and make herself a full-course feast. The perfect model, but also the worst fucking thing possible for your resolve.

You take a deep breath, grip the camera tighter.

If you’re going to crack, you might as well go out with a bang.

Guiding her, as if she was any other client, and this was just another photoshoot— “Open your legs wider, Somi. Show me everything.”

Her eyes widen, pupils dilate. Sparks, excitement, lighting them up. She does as she’s told, pushing out her knees further, sinking down into the couch cushions.

Thighs quivering, pussy sopping wet and pulsing. All for you. For your camera.

Another click, the shutter again, like a time-bomb ticking down to your doom.

“Play with your clit. Tease it.”

Her hand obeys, delicate, slender fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles, hips bucking slightly with each pass. The noises she makes are obscene. Harsh, breathy whispers that make you throb; moans that get caught in the back of her throat.

It’s a rush of blood straight to the head, an almost dizzying sensation, having Somi so eagerly following your every command. Her face says it all, this slut positively loves being told what to do.

“Keep it light. That’s it,” you say, stepping closer, hitting your marks, your angles. “Turn to me. I want to see your face.”

“Like this?” Somi breathes, turning to face you fully, her hand still playing with herself, stroking in a way that's almost cruel—so gentle, so teasing, so obviously designed to make you lose your mind. “Getting the pictures you’ve been dreaming of? Someone like me all spread out for you?”

You nod, jaw clenched, keeping steady. Or at least, you think you are, considering how good Somi’s making this for you.

Making sure you get the right shots of her—her pussy, swollen and puffy, dripping down a puddle onto your couch. Her tits; pinched until they’re hard and sensitive, a vivid red against the stark white of her skin. Her eyes, wide and wild and looking straight down the lens, communicating her arousal in a million different heated ways without saying a single word.

Let it be known; Somi knows exactly what she’s doing.

Knows when to sigh, knows how to arch her back, knows in which direction to pout her lips. Knows how to make every click of the camera count.

“Good girl,” you’re telling her, praising her, and it’s enough to make her keen.

“Am I?”

“Of course,” you say, leaning in closer, close enough to feel the heat of her body, a furnace against your skin. See the sweat dripping down her thighs, tiny little droplets shimmering against the muscle, begging to be licked away. “You’re doing so good, Somi. So, so good.”

You’re getting closer now, kneeling. All for the sake of the perfect shot.

Seeing her fingers work, spreading herself open, exposing her folds, glistening. Her clit standing tall and proud. Her entrance pulsing, waiting to be filled. It’s like watching a masterpiece come to life, a photo that’s been taken a thousand times before but never quite captured right. Until now. Until Somi.

Somi's smiling down at you, all knowing, all tempting, making your mouth water, and it takes all your self-discipline to not drop the camera and replace your lens with your tongue.

She laughs, low and throaty. “Looks like you’re enjoying the view.”

“You have no idea, Somi,” you answer, adding, “But you can make it better, can’t you? Make it wetter. Hotter.”

“Mmhmm,” she agrees, getting to work at making your instructions real. She’s a professional too, after all. A master of her craft. Her other hand snakes down to join her first; one hand pressing firmly down on her clit, the other plunging two fingers up into her cunt. Pushing in, curling, until it’s hitting that sweet spot that makes her preen.

“Perfect, Somi.”

You’re transfixed, as Somi starts to fuck herself in earnest, the camera almost forgotten in your hand. She’s so drenched that every stroke is accompanied by a wet, slick sound; and the way she’s creaming around her digits, dripping down her wrist, it’s far beyond a simple performance being put on for the sake of a photograph. It’s the real deal.

Somi’s breaths come faster, her eyes glaze over, and she’s biting down on her bottom lip, trying to keep from crying out too loudly.

You know you’re getting the best of her, can see it across her face: this is what she truly enjoys. Being watched, being desired, being told what to do all for your pleasure.

“Oh, baby,” she’s barely managing hushed, strained whispers, “Oh, oh, oh…”

You feel like you’re in a trance, your own hand wandering down, needing to adjust lest you rip right through your jeans. The sight alone is devastating enough, but it’s making you swell, until there’s no point in trying to hide it anymore.

“That looks so,” Somi’s licking her lips, seeing the state you’re in, seeing the desperation in your eyes, the strain down below, “Nice.”

The camera is your anchor, your north star in this whole mess. You keep it steady, even as Somi’s breaths grow shallower, turn to pants. Losing herself to you, to the moment, to being captured in all her vulnerability.

She’s fucking herself even faster now, fingers sawing in and out of her pussy, wetter and wetter still, knuckles turning white with the force she’s applying.

“You’re doing so good, Somi, such a good girl for me,” you’re reassuring her, unable to hold back your own need, your own desire from leaking into your voice. It’s a battle, a war really, against your own urges, your innate desire to just drop everything and dive into her, feel her tightness around you, make her scream out your name.

But it’s too soon, Somi’s too close, and it would be a fucking crime to stop her.

“Baby,” she gasps, the word a prayer and a taunt in equal measure, “Baby, I don’t think I can last any longer.”

You’re grinning now, heart racing, camera at the ready. “Good.”

Somi’s on a knife’s edge, balancing on the precipice of climax. You can see it in how her body’s seizing, how she throws her head back, exposing her neck to you—needing your kiss, your bite, your claim. But you resist, intent on capturing every moment of her unravelling.

Because you want to know. Want to capture it. How she cums. What sounds she makes, what noises she can’t keep in. What she looks like when she falls apart.

“Cum for me, Somi,” you’re telling her, “I want to capture it all.”

Somi trembles. She wants it too.

Her eyes screw shut, her breath hitches, and she’s there, sinking back into the couch, letting out this sweet little gasp of anticipation.

The studio goes silent except for the sound of her fingers in her cunt and the shuttering of your camera.

In, out, snap.

In, out, snap.

Fucking herself. Fucking you with her very existence.

And then—“I’m going to—”

Her body arches off the couch, a scream ripping from her throat, her hand working furiously, pussy clenching so sweetly around her fingers. It’s the type of photo people spend entire careers never getting to capture, the most beautifully obscene sight you’ve ever been lucky to witness—Somi, in the throes of pleasure, wracked by her own orgasm, all for the sake of your camera.

It hits her hard and fast and all at once, turns her body into a bow, taut and tense, before it’s released, snapped, melting her down into a boneless puddle.

You watch in awe as Somi cums, writhes and wriggles, and she makes these noises that you’ve never heard from a woman before; crying out so loud you’re surprised the neighbours aren’t banging down the door to see what the commotion is about.

It’s only when she finally relaxes, is released from her orgasm, that you lower the camera, out of breath from the sheer exertion wrought by just watching her.

You’re both near devastation—Somi sprawled on the couch, chest rising and falling, eyes closed and an elated smile on her face, and you, knees threatening to give out, unable to tear your gaze away from the sight of her satisfaction.

“That was—” Somi tries shaping the words, but they don’t come. She just lies there, lazy and sated, catching her breath.

Moments pass before she can open her eyes again, only to find you, standing over her, jeans vanished, cock out and level with her parted lips.

“That was just the beginning, Somi.”

It's just the sight of you, but Somi’s delighted. Seeing you like this—exposed and so ridiculously hard. All because of her.

She slides off the couch, kneeling at your feet.

“Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it. Anything at all. Just make sure you capture it.”

“Then suck.”

Wet, hot heaven. Somi’s mouth is heaven.

Tongue darting forward, swirling around the tip, teeth grazing the head, and you’re groaning, hips jerking forward involuntarily until you’re falling into her mouth.

Somi’s got a way about her, a finesse that’s unmatched in everything she does. So, so good for you; opening her mouth nice and wide, hollowing her cheeks just right, pursing her lips to make sure you feel it when she sucks.

Just gleeful when your hand finds purchase in her ponytail, when hers wrap around the base of your cock, and you push. Inch by inch into the sweet heat of her mouth, taking it all, making sure you can see it, see how thankful she is to be granted the privilege of swallowing you whole; of having you completely filling her throat.

Holding herself there, nose pressed up against your stomach, eyes looking up, watering slightly around the edges. Not even gagging, just warming your cock with her throat, pulsing, tight, unbearably hot.

She raises her brows.

Ah, that’s right.

Snap.

Pulling off you, dragging her lips, her tongue up your shaft, leaving behind a choked, drooling mess that she’s so fucking proud of.

Giggling around a mouthful of your cock, laughter vibrating across your skin, and it’s a wonder you don’t lose yourself right then and there.

But somehow, you hold on; brace yourself against Somi massaging your balls, tickling the underside of your tip with her tongue. Playing with you, taunting, enjoying every second. Popping your cock out of her mouth so she can truly take measure of you at your achingly hardest, so she can breathe onto your cock in wonder, “Just look at you.”

Balancing your length in the palm of her hand, barely able to wrap her fingers around your girth.

“So big, so hard,” she’s rapt, talking to you, to herself, making sure the ghosts haunting your studio know exactly what she’s dealing with her. “And it’s all for me, isn’t it?”

“Darling,” you’re calling her, making her swoon, “Take it all.”

And she does. Somi, eager, opens her mouth wide, and lets you fuck her face. Getting you deep, so deep that you can feel her throat clench around your tip, slurping, moaning, choking now, but never, ever stopping. Just drooling down your thighs like the good little slut she knows you need her to be.

You’re back at it, taking photos, trying to get the perfect angle, but it’s proving a big ask when your knees are wobbling and your vision’s growing blurry. You’ve got Somi’s eyes in the viewfinder, all wide and blown with lust, looking straight through the lens of the camera and at you, daring you to break first.

But there’s still so much more of her to capture, so much more of her face to fuck.

Her red lips against your skin. Her cheeks bulging with your length. The line of her throat as she swallows. The tears in her eyes when she gags.

Somi’s arms loop around your back, cupping your ass, pulling you closer, urging you deeper.

Winking, giving you all the right cues; a muffled, “Here,” she says with her eyes. “This angle.”

And she’s right. It’s perfect. She’s got a talent for this.

Taking you deep, feeling like your cock’s never going to be able to leave her throat, only to pull back so you can see just how much she’s enjoying herself. How much she’s into this, so grateful to have you capturing every moan, every gag, every little sound she makes as you fuck her mouth like it’s the first time—and after a whole month it might as well be.

“Fuck, take it, Somi, you’re doing so well,” you tell her, knowing what it does to her—the praise, the adoration. Absorbed straight into her bloodstream, making her work harder, suck better, choke a little more. “Such a good girl.”

She loves it. Her eyes brighten, she squeezes your thighs, nails digging in. She loves it all.

You’re getting so close, you can feel it—thirty days of denial are about to come to a head, and she's going to be the one to bring you there. And yet, you still haven’t gotten nearly enough pictures to do her justice.

Somi sees it too, she can tell, knows just how close you are, but still, she's just lie you. She wants more.

She pulls back, an idea hatching in that filthy mind of hers, a smirk playing on her lips.

“Wait,” she says, wiping her lips with the back of her hand, cleaning herself of her spit, her drool, your leakage. “I want another photo. For comparison’s sake. Just for my memories.”

You’re not sure what she means, but you don’t ask questions. You just keep your camera at the ready, watching her move, watching her lean closer.

Your cock hovering just above her cheek, tip bumping up against her nose, leaving a wet streak across her face. She holds herself there, your length atop her face, and it’s all in view—her eyes fluttering closed, the tip of her tongue poking out to catch a taste of your precum, the way she’s breathing, deep and heavy, smelling the scent of you, inhaling it like it’s oxygen.

Somi—her face, her tits, her waist, her thighs.

Your cock.

All in view.

That’s the photo.

And when it’s done, you’re backing off, relearning how to breath, how to stand on your own two feet without crumbling to the ground. Somi’s tongue chases you but you’re out of reach, setting the camera down on the floor.

You need to get in on this. Fuck silly challenges. Fuck being a passive observer.

You’re done just watching. You need to feel her.

Somi looks at you all smug and satisfied, on her knees, awaiting your next instruction. “Finished taking pictures?”

You don’t answer.

Instead, you start peeling off your clothes, each layer like a heavy weight of your shoulders; until you’re just as bare and needy as she is.

Back to Somi, cradling her face, letting her lean into your palm. Running your thumb across her jaw, dragging it across her lips, stamping it onto her tongue.

She sucks.

Christ.

Thirty days of hell, given up for one moment in heaven.

Fuck it. She’ll make it worth it.

You tell her in simple, clear terms. “I’m going to fuck you now, Somi.”

“Please.”

It’s your turn now.

You relax into the couch, legs spread wide, cock throbbing in the open air, beckoning her to come closer.

Somi reads the room, your posture, your need, and she rises to the occasion. Joining you on the couch, back on her knees, thighs gripping on the outside of yours. Hands planted firmly on your shoulders, and the whole time, her eyes don’t leave yours, not even for a second.

Appreciate her, this woman, giving herself over to you.

Untying her ponytail, sending honey-brown hair cascading down her face, caressing her neck, her shoulders, meeting the tops of her breasts, perfectly rounded and waiting for the return of your teeth. Her waist, her abs, tensing and releasing, with every hot breath. And her pussy, already there, shimmering, dribbling down your cock, waiting.

Somi’s waiting for your permission.

So, taking her by the back of her neck, pulling her close, kissing her hard. Forcing this whine into your throat as your cock bumps up against her folds, sets off fireworks down her spine.

It’s a translation. Your need, from your tongue to hers, telling her that it’s only her that can do this you. Can rip you from responsibilities, from sanity, from all the shit that’s been keeping you going for the last thirty days.

Telling her that it’s worth giving it all up for just a taste, because maybe that’s the point of the challenge in the first place. Not a matter of self-control but a way to save yourself for something—someone—so potent, so powerful, so fucking irresistible that you just have to surrender to.

You pull apart, breaths hot and ragged, tongues still connected by strands, your hands already at her waist.

“You’re going to ride me, Somi. You’re going to cum on my cock and I’m going to watch it all.”

Somi nods, understanding.

Letting you guide her by the hips, sliding her fingers between her legs to take hold of your cock, aiming it at her entrance.

Lowering herself down, slow, so fucking slow, like it’s a brand-new form of torture, until your cock is nestled at the entrance of her heat, and you’re both vibrating with the anticipation of it, the gravity of this moment.

You take a harsh breath. “Ready?”

Somi presses her forehead to yours. Teasing, “Are you?”

And then, inch by inch, dragging her cunt down your shaft, making you feel every bit of her wetness, her tightness, every bit of her heat, Somi takes you in.

Pussy tightening around you like a fist, walls pulsing, massaging your cock, like she’s already trying to milk you dry. This moan that’s torn from her lips, deep and primal, something she’s been holding in for far too long, this needy, unholy cry that takes the shape of your name.

And when she’s bottomed out, when you’ve filled her until all she knows is you, Somi looks down in your eyes, nothing but pure, unfiltered lust strewn across her face. “Everything you were hoping for?”

You try, but fail, to form coherent words, just manage a grunt of pleasure, a nod of your head, and she laughs—it's the sweetest, most evil sound you've ever heard. She's got you, hook, line, and sinker.

“Good to know,” she says, and that’s all she needs to start moving, to set the rhythm that’s going to shake the walls, send them crashing to the ground until all that’s left is the two of you fucking amongst the rubble.

Her thighs tighten around you, hips start to roll in a way that’s just too fucking good, too fucking perfect. The friction is everything, makes the world narrow to just the two of you, the sound of skin slapping against skin, the drenched slick of her pussy, the heavy scent of her filling the air.

“Baby,” she repeats, each time her thighs slap down against yours, each thrust all the way up into her guts. “This cock is so perfect for me, so fucking—”

A snap of your hips into her, pulling her down hard, making her tits jump at the force of it, making Somi wail. There’s her cunt, spasming around you, tightening, trying to hold you in, trying to keep you there, but you’re not letting up.

You take over, holding by the hips and fucking her, like you’ve been waiting for, like you’ve been so fucking desperate for, like she needs so badly.

“God, you’re really—really fucking pent up, aren't you?" Somi's words are chopped up by the relentless thrusts of your hips, making her stutter, her voice all strained and breathy. Bouncing on you now, letting you set the pace, eyes screwed shut, just giving herself over to you. “I’m so, so lucky. So lucky that it gets to be me that breaks you. That takes you. That gets all this cum you’ve been saving this whole time.”

You’re gritting your teeth, unable to do anything but just fuck. Driven mad by it, by every impulse coming right up to the surface.

Everything you’ve been holding back, it’s all here, being unleashed onto Somi.

Fuck her, fill her, make her scream—‘Please, please, please’. Those are the only thoughts in your head now. Forget about the job, the photographs, the responsibility—just be yourself, a man on the edge, ready to jump off the fucking cliff.

“Baby,” Somi’s repeating, as your fingers find purchase in her ass, as she lays kisses on your shoulder, marking you up along your neck and down your jaw. There’s other words too—filth, all of it; whining to you about how you’re filling her up so good, about how she’s so wet for you, about how you’re going to make her cum so hard. But it’s all just noise to you. Noise that can be summarised in the simplest of requests, right from Somi’s lips—“Please, fucking use me.”

It's the perfect way to come apart—have someone like Somi, with her heavenly tits in your face, and her greedy, greedy cunt soaking up everything you’re willing to give. Begging, wanting, needing to be ruined.

“So fucking tight for me,” you’re kissing into her chest, finding your voice somewhere between her breasts. Telling her, “Fuck, Somi, your pussy. It’s so good for me. So fucking perfectly wet.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Somi sighs back, arms barely hanging on, holding at your neck, unable to do nothing but whimper and bear it. Bear this fucking you’re giving her, your cock invading her cunt, making her pussy tighten around it like a vice, making her abs clench, her tits jump, her throat swallow—making her sweat.

It’s like she was made for this—cunt made for your cock, body made for your arms. Somi, perfectly designed to be used by you. To moan and whine at your mercy; to be fucked, to be filled, to ruin you and to be ruined all the same.

“I can’t, I’m trying but I can’t hold on,” Somi’s teary-eyed, kissing at your face, your neck, her breath hot and sweet against your ear. “Baby, please. I need to feel you. Need more of you.”

And you’re only too eager to oblige.

Lifting your head, pulling her body closer. Catching her left nipple in your mouth, sucking hard, nipping at the peak until she’s gasping, until she’s arching her back, pressing her chest closer. Feeling the flesh flush against your lips, hitting your chin with each hard thrust.

Fuck, her tits. You could suffocate between them only to claw your way out of the grave just for another taste.

Her nails dig into your scalp, demanding more—more attention, more adoration, more worship. You give it to her—switching between each of her breasts, suckling and licking, making her whine and buck against your teeth.

“Just like that, you’re so good at that, so good with my tits,” she moans, short, tiny sighs that send your hips jerking upwards. Fucking her faster, quick, staccato thrusts that hit her just right, make her walls quiver around you. “They’re yours, all for you. All of me is yours.”

Her orgasm builds; it’s palpable, a storm brewing in the studio, sweeping up everything in its path. Each breath she takes is a hitch, a little cry, a whine. So tight around you, fucking her so hard, so deep that you can feel it coming from the inside out.

“Filling me so good, so, so good,” she mewls, and there’s still some fight in her left, a burst of energy in her thighs, allowing her to grind down harder, drop her ass on you—an up, down, up, down that echoes through the studio with each smack.

“You’re going to cum for me Somi,” you’re telling her, detailing exactly how she’ll come completely apart. “You’re going to cum all over my cock, you’re going to scream for me when you do it, okay? Tell me how good it feels.”

“Yes, yes, yes, tell me what you want—anything—I’ll do it, I’ll be so, so good for you—”

“You’re going to beg me for my cum, Somi. Going to beg me to give it to you until you can’t take any more,” you’re growling, your teeth sinking into her tits, your tongue pushing up against her flesh, making her sing.

You’re fucking her apart, tearing her in two with your cock. This girl you've only just met, who only just walked into your life; nothing but sex in a pair of high heels, and you’re already rearranging the furniture of her soul.

Now she’s the one that can’t make sense of things, can’t form full sentences—just incoherent whines and cries, each one stacking on top of the other, until the foundation’s all tilted and it’s going to collapse any second now.

Just waiting for you.

Separate from her chest, take a fistful of her hair, pull her back so you can look in her eyes and see. See just how badly you’re ruining her, how terribly she’s falling apart.

Make sure she can see you, has her attention on nothing but you when you tell her, finally, “Cum. Cum for me, Somi. All over my cock.”

She’s breaking.

“Now.”

“Please, I—” Somi’s words live and die on her lips, barely making it out before it hits her, seizes her entirely, forces her cunt to strangle your cock as she shatters.

It’s all there, her pussy tightening, pulsing, clenching, releasing in this quake of bliss that feels like a sucker punch straight through your gut.

When she cums it hits her, hits you, waves of heat washing over your cock, splashing down onto your thighs. It’s the sensation. So overwhelming, so undeniable, grinding down her orgasm onto you, pleading, over and over and over again, “Don't stop, don't stop, please!”

Writhing in your arms, needing to be held close to stop her from falling off the couch completely. Eyes rolling, head thrown back, exposing her neck, the perfect arc of her throat. Her body jolts, jerks, twitches, and it has you fucking hypnotised.

And all Somi can do is say, “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!”

She keeps going, until each thread is unravelled, until you’ve fucked loose every last bit of control she’s got, until she’s nothing but a trembling mess in your arms.

But it’s not over, not yet.

You’re still hard, so fucking hard. Bursting at the seams. And Somi’s looking down at you, pulling herself back together. Seeing your cock, buried inside her. Seeing the mess you’ve made of her, her own pussy. Seeing everything.

And she’s smiling, because she knows what comes next.

“Use me.”

You lift her off your cock, so easy to carry; her tiny waist in your hands, she’s so light. Still shivering, these tiny, little aftershocks quivering through her, it’s like she’s clay in your hands, ready to be moulded at your discretion.

Somi gasps when she’s laid out on the couch, her legs spread wide, her cunt leaking down her thighs, all cream and cum. She adjusts herself, makes herself comfortable, presentable. Putting herself in the best possible state to be used by you.

“Use me, baby,” she repeats again, that sweat plea that’s going to be you’re undoing. She’s so, so needy, practically whining for more, for everything, for anything as long as it involves your cock and her.

You stand over her, cock at the ready, eyes on your next target, the natural stage for the grand finale, the pièce de resistance of this whole fucked up photoshoot—Somi’s breasts.

She follows your gaze, realises, “You want to fuck these tits, don’t you?”

You find your voice gravelly, deep. “Yeah.”

Somi giggles, hands at her chest, taking either side of her breasts, pushing them together with her palms and creating this gorgeous valley, just waiting for your cock. “Then what are you waiting for?”

“For you to beg.”

Somi blinks. Once, twice. Sees the look on your face, sees how hard you are for her, how desperate you are to let go.

But she knows how much you need to hear it. Knows how much she wants to say it.

“Please. Baby, please. Fuck my tits. Cum all over me. I need it.” Somi’s licking her lips, massaging her breasts together, showing you just how soft they are, how ready they are for you. “I need to feel your cum on me. All over me. My face, my neck, my chest. Everywhere. Let me do this for you.”

That’s it.

You’re back on the couch, straddling her stomach. Knees on either side of her waist, cock between her tits. Soft, warm, inviting.

“Like this?”

“Yeah. Just like that,” you manage, each word a mountain of effort as you watch your cock disappear between her breasts.

It’s a gentle push, that’s all it takes, and Somi starts to move, making her tits jiggle around your dick, squeezing it from either side as you slide your cock up and down. So focused, eyes on your cock, then back to your face, studying your every reaction, waiting for that moment when you crack.

And it’s coming so soon, you’ve been teetering on the edge since Somi first walked in—fuck, on edge for thirty days—and now you’re hurtling towards the fall.

You’re not going to last, not when Somi’s got you like this. Her hands moving with you, her tits bouncing in time with your strokes. The cushioning of her breasts around you; this gentle, sweet, torturous pressure that has you grunting, has you smearing drops of yourself all over her chest.

“Fuck, you look so good between my tits. So hard. Doesn’t it feel right? Like this is where your cock fucking belongs. This is what my tits were made for. For you,” Somi’s whispering, stringing these words together like a spell. “You can go faster, baby, I won’t break. Just let go and use me like the slut I am.”

Pleading for it, so desperate for you. Sweet words, encouragement, filth, like a drug, pushing you close and closer to the brink.

Just obey, pump faster, fuck her tits quicker, watch as your cock slices through her cleavage, the gloss it leaves over her skin. See Somi, licking her lips, devouring you with her eyes, just waiting for you to join her on the other side of oblivion.

“Cum for me, baby. Please, please. I need it—I need to feel it—please!”

Her tongue stretches past her lips, flicking out to catch the tip of your cock, making you groan. Leaning in, breath hot on you, cock hitting her lips with every thrust, every drive through her tits. So fucking greedy, so eager to taste, so needy to be the one responsible for your total ruin.

“Oh, oh, oh, baby—yes—yes—yes—yes—”

She pinches her nipples, twists them just right, moans—

You feel it immediately—your balls tighten, your cock swells, and then—release.

Intense is the only way to describe it.

So fucking intense.

White hot jets of cum spurt out, firing everywhere, making a mess of her, coating her chest, her neck, her chin, her lips, her nose—splashing down all over her.

It’s a frenzy, a natural disaster, a hurricane that’s been building for one long fucking month, and now it’s here.

The way her eyes widen, the way her mouth opens, gasping for air, the way she shakes—she wanted this, but there’s no fucking way she was prepared for it.

And when you back up, she dives forward, hand seizing the base of your cock and pumps. Wrists twisting in this aching motion, winding up and down your cock, wringing you out until you’re just a slave to her fingers, her tits, her touch.

“Keep going, baby, keep cumming for me, give me everything,” she begs, sending shivers all the way from your shaft down to your spine as she works your cock.

You do, you have no choice, no say in the matter. You give her everything.

You're coming apart, torn from your own body in sticky, hot waves that leaves you absolutely breathless.

And she’s a fucking mess. All of her—her face, her neck, her tits. So beautiful covered in you. So utterly used. So utterly yours.

It takes a moment for the tremors to stop, for the world to come back into the focus. You sit there, panting, feeling like you’ve just done a triathlon and then climbed a mountain. Somi’s just smiling at you, looking at you through her lashes, glued together with your cum, her own little giggles escaping every now and again.

She looks like a dream.

“Fuck, Somi���”

“Mm?” She looks so content, so at peace with the universe. Wearing your cum like fine jewellery. As if she’s the one that just had the best orgasm of her life.

“You’re—” But what the fuck do you say? That she’s ruined you? That she’s shattered your world? That you’ll never be able to look at a camera again without thinking of her?

Ah.

That’s what you’ll do.

You lean down, pick the camera off the floor, and then—snap.

Somi, looking so sloppy and obscene. Looking like everything you never knew you needed. Looking like she belongs to you.

She wipes away at her eyes, collects the cum on her finger, before dipping it into her mouth. Sucking, tasting the flavour of your need.

“Get the shot you wanted?”

You let out a long, heavy exhale, sliding off the couch, off her, sitting on the floor next to her. Resting your head on her thighs while Somi just lies there, sprawled out, utterly wrecked.

“You weren’t kidding,” she says. “One whole month.”

You remember to inhale. “Thirty days.”

She’s fighting a losing battle, cleaning the endless fountain of cum you’ve covered her with. Looking like she just streaked through a fucking snowstorm.

But she tries, collects as much as she can, smearing it into a sticky mess. Playing with it on her fingers, rolling it around her tongue, enjoying this way too much.

You raise the camera, aim it at her. The way she’s looking at you, the way her hand moves, so fucking casual—like it's her natural state of being. Making you believe that Somi should be covered in cum, all the time. It's only right.

You just can’t help yourself. You click.

“I haven’t been fucked like that since,” Somi starts, clearly not minding being the subject of your post-coital art. “Since ever. That was—"

“A trainwreck,” you’re saying, and then finishing when you catch the look on her face, “Not like that. It was insane. Intense. Really, thirty days or not, it was fucking life changing.”

Somi smiles. “Good to know I didn’t disappoint.”

“Just. These photos. Completely unsalvageable. None of that can be sent to your agency.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Somi says, so easily, so carefree, as if she didn’t just obliterate every single professional boundary you’ve ever set. “Let me have a look. There must be some photos at the start that are useable. From before you… lost focus.”

You pass her the camera, let her scroll through the shots, see all the pornographic filth the two of you have created. She flicks through, each click another photo, another reminder of what you’ve done, what she’s done to you.

And she’s enjoying it. These little smirks, the nods of approval. Fascinated by these photos of her, of her body in these stages of ecstasy.

“Ah, yup. No. Nope. Definitely not. Oh, and that one is just… yeah.” Somi’s voice is light, teasing, but there’s a hint of awe in it. “You really don’t hold back, do you?”

“It’s what you do to me.”

“I can see that,” she says, continuing until she gets to the last of the photos. “That’s pretty fucked. These are pretty fucked up. But, like. Beautifully fucked up.”

“Thanks,” you say, throwing your hands up, letting one fall on Somi’s thigh. It rests there, draws a circle over the smooth warm, skin.

It’s a good feeling. Having her here, like this. So relaxed, so comfortable. Knowing her in the most intimate ways possible, yet still not knowing much about her at all.

She sighs when your hand moves higher. You throb.

Yeah. After thirty days, only one time is not going to be nearly enough.

You already want to dive back into the land of debauchery with Somi, bring up more of those repressed fantasies you’ve been waiting to realise, even though you’re still knee-deep in the aftermath of the first round.

It’s in Somi’s eyes as well, you can feel it in the air, from the heat radiating off her skin—she's not done with you either.

Far from it.

You're going to ruin her again. You're certain of it.

“So,” she says, making a show of cupping her tits, raising them up to her mouth. Licking them clean.

Your response is swift. Immediate. “We’re going to have to reschedule.”

Somi’s laughter is pure gold. “How does thirty days from now sound?”

You blink. Stare at her, unamused.

She raises your camera.

Snap!

[bueckets]

The Prophecy | Part 1

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

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

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

WC: 11.9k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And it WORKED, didn't it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The Prophecy Has Spoken: Harvard by 20"

"845/847 ≈ Perfection"

"Future WNBA GOAT"

"Rocket Science + Basketball = 🐐"

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

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

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

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

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

That's when you see them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucket.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Swish. At the buzzer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The arena goes dead silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is something else entirely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They all do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Swish. As pure as a layup.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Good game," she says simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Right," she smirks, ordering another drink. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And?"

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

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

She glances back, then at you again. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

March suddenly feels very far away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Including one from six months ago.

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

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

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

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

Three dots appear immediately. Your heart rate picks up.

just practicing for march 😘

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something that makes your skin buzz.

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

Your phone lights up with a message:

you up?

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

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

A beat. Three dots.

just your future march matchup.

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

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

guess you’ll have to wait and see.

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

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

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

you always study film this late?

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

how'd you know i was watching film?

saw your laptop reflection in your glasses in that last story

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

stalker much? 🤨

just scouting the competition 😌

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

want company? i'm looking at our clemson tape

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'd like that."

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

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

The nickname hits different in her voice at 4AM.

"Night, Paige."

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

Then your phone buzzes again:

sweet dreams 🌙

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

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

Definitely not.

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

"earth surface temps are literally insane rn"

"why are you even awake?"

"says the girl who's also awake 🤨"

"homework doesn't count"

"nerd 🤓"

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

"bet i will. next time i see you"

"when's that gonna be? 👀"

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

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

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

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

"I do not make a face."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

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

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

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

 miss watching film with you

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

"Shut up," you laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You’re totally down bad, huh?"

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

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

"Yeah?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three days until Connecticut.

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

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

"Holy shit, that's really her—"

"The Prophecy is here—"

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

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

You type back quickly, trying to act casual.

surviving. But UConn is like a zoo. 🙄

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

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

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

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

on my way. see you soon.

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

turn around

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can you sign my jersey?"

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

"Are you really majoring in rocket science?"

"Can you do the space shot right now?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's..." you start.

"Weird?" Paige offers.

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

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

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

"—never misses, like ever—"

"—turned down every WNBA scout—"

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

"—next GOAT for sure—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Lead the way, Bueckers."

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

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

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

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

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

"Weird?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The two-hour video calls?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We should..." she starts.

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

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

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

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

"Hey."

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

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

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

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

You’re so fucking screwed.

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

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

Some things are worth the complication.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It wasn't insane," you protest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nods around the table.

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

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

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

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

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

"One time!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glance at her. "Yeah."

Neither of you turns toward it.

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

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

"Or something?"

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

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

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

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

"Paige?"

"Yeah?"

"Breathe."

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

"So," you say.

"So," she echoes.

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

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

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

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

"Do I?"

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

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

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

"Paige?"

"Hmm?"

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

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

"I know," she says softly.

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

"I should..." you start reluctantly.

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

"Okay."

She blinks. "Okay?"

You squeeze her hand gently. "Okay."

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

"Rocket?" her voice comes softly from below.

"Yeah?"

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

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

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

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

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

[alllgator-blood]

I was scrolling through my gallery before I came across a picture I had saved, and it honestly reminded me of the dynamic your Lamb and Narinder had, so I absolutely had to draw it.

I was giggling the whole time while drawing this

And here’s the original just in case :3

BACK AT IT AGAIN IN PURGATORY *narinder backflips into a cross, knocking it over and breaking it into a million pieces*

I'M SO GLAD YOU ADDED THE ORIGINAL CAUSE I'VE NEVER SEEN IT, this fucking killed me when I saw it dude- your giggling must have been contagious cause I had your pic up as a reference for mine, and I'd cackle all over again every time I looked back at it. THE LOOK ON HIS FACE IS PERFECT, AND THEN I NOTICED THE CROWN IS ALSO ALL SMUG LOOKING AND IT MADE ME LAUGH HARDER.

This is absolutely incredible (AS ALWAYS!) thank you, I'm actually so happy to hear you saw a random image and was like "you know what this reminds me of..." cause I feel like that's one of the highest honors one can achieve ngl. I know you drew aym + baal looking upon him in a matter of shock and disgust but I had to draw baal giving him a solid 10/10 for the acrobatics required to pull that off while chained up by four different people :')

[gay-dorito-dust]

Hi! :) mayhaps can i request your HC's for viktor x an artist reader. 👉👈 ur angst drabbles have been sustaining my life since season 2

There’s a saying that if an artist loves you or falls in love with you, you can never die.

A saying that Viktor didn’t give much thought until it was very clear that he was your forever muse, your reason to keeping your passion alive through experimenting art styles to maximise the effect you wanted your art to have; almost in the exact same way a scientist would conduct experiments in order to understand how something works and how to properly utilise it.

However each and every one of your art works came out looking like masterpieces that should and probably would be studied by future artists themselves one day, given how beautiful they were.

But also because they all included a man with amber eyes and soft chocolate hair hard at work with his own projects as blue sparks are captured liked shooting stars flying past his beautiful face. He truly was a once in a lifetime experience that you wanted to eternally capture within the pages of your sketchbook.

It literally didn’t matter what he did, whether it was tinkering, experimenting with the hexcore or just simply existing, you wanted to capture as much of Viktor as you possibly can whenever you can.

Viktor, in your eyes, was the kind of man people would kill to create sculptures of and artworks that would be seen in grand museums, within a beautifully intricate frame that only added emphasise to his importance to the artist in question. The artist being you of course.

So needless to say whenever you were with Viktor you made sure to have your sketchbook and pencils in hand as you knew that you’d end up wanting to sketch him for the millionth time that day.

However your favourite sketch of him came when you made him smile, genuinely smile.

The image of his bright and handsome smile was all you could see for hours on end as you found yourself absentmindedly sketching his face, his smile, the wrinkles near his eyes and his wind ruffled hair to perfection.

You then found yourself staring at it as though reliving the moment where you heard his laugh reach your ears like a harmonious melody, swept upon the wind that ruffled his hair and into your ears and your ears only.

To be loved by an artist was to be seen and you saw Viktor in a way that nobody else could, not even himself, and it showed in your work as you made him look like an angel disguised as a human given how frequently you used the colour gold whenever you drew him. From his eyes, to his clothes, everything with Viktor had hints of gold to it.

So much so that you had to get more colouring pencils of the exact same shade of gold so frequently that the manger of the art shop knew your name and the muse of your latest works at this point.

‘Drawing Viktor again I see?’ They’d teasingly ask as you’d shrug your shoulders.

‘Guilty as charged.’ You would reply before taking your things and leaving.

Viktor didn’t pry into your sketchbook, it was your belonging and he didn’t feel it was necessary for him to pry into it, but his curiosity didn’t help him one day as he found himself drawn to the sketchbook that you seemed to had left in his lab.

The first few pages were merely parts of the academy that you frequently visited, from the gardens, to the library, to even the lab he was stood in. Each one was increasingly more impressive than the last with how lifelike you made each one as though he could fall into the scene you had created; a true testament to your talent, creativity and insane attention to detail.

However the further the sketchbook went, he could easily see a decline in inspiration in your art. only for it to pick back up again when you had started drawing him doing the most mundane of things -at least in his mind he thought so- as simple sketches to portraits solely done by oil pastels or only colouring pencils. All just to emphasise his features and the concentrated furrows of his brows, a large variation of colours you’ve used so effortlessly to make up his face in a way that he could never imagine.

And yet Viktor found that there was more artworks of yours regarding him, artworks that seemingly continued endlessly and were just as hyper detailed and colourful as the more of himself that he saw, each one touching his heart in a way that made him realise that this was how you genuinely saw him; an angel in human skin as the way you depicted him was either simply human or an ethereal being coated in various shades of gold.

Through the eyes of an artist, through the eyes of you, Viktor knew that you only conveyed what you believed to be true and the fact that you saw him in such a way was enough to have him struggling to breath, but in the best way possible.

You way you saw him transcended beyond the person he saw each and every day in the mirror. You saw him as a man of infinite beauty, wisdom and strength in a multitude of ways while never shying away when it came to his leg nor disease.

If anything you made those parts of him stand out the most in a way that told him that you found these parts of him a strength and perfection in your eyes. Telling him that you didn’t wish him to be anything other then himself, for he was perfect and so much much that only your art could help describe.

Viktor; a man on borrowed time became a man immortalised within the pages of his artist lover.

He even seen the sketches of him fast asleep against his workbench you’ve done and even then you took your time making it look like he was staring into a mirror of himself.

You’d catch him flicking through your sketchbook but you couldn’t say anything against it as the way his eyes light up and soft smiles upon looking at your latest works, looks that only made you want to draw Viktor even more if it meant this sight becoming more common with the passage of time.

‘You like them?’ You’d ask from the doorway.

‘I love them my dear.’ He replies softly as he presses his forehead against your own, making you smile fondly. ‘But was the drawing of me sleeping necessary?’ He adds playfully as you chuckled.

‘Oh it was very necessary my muse.’ You replied with equal playfulness as you kissed his nose. ‘I saw an opportunity and couldn’t let it pass me by without at least drawing it first,’ Viktor scoffs but the smile upon his lips remained, ‘and besides you looked really peaceful and relaxed that I wanted it to be something I remember. Hoping I get to experience more moments like that to be my muse for my future drawings.’ You finished.

‘I’m glad the to could do that for you my dear.’ Viktor closed his eyes and rested his head further against yours, wanting nothing then to capture this moment within his mind forever, secretly hoping to continue to be the muse of your art projects as your artistic range grew.

‘You’ve always been my muse,’ you said, closing your eyes, ‘you will always will be my muse.’

[aventurineswife]

Aventurine's Voicelines about his S/O

Just something silly I wrote while thinking about him 🫣🤭, maybe I might write for others? 👀 Drop your suggestions on who you wanna see next! ;)

Ratio's ver | Sunday's ver

Favourite Gamble

Ah, my favorite gamble... the one bet where I’ve already won. [Chuckles softly] You should see them—steady as a dealer’s hand, yet warm enough to melt even the iciest odds. They’ve taught me there’s more to life than just the game, though I’d never admit that to anyone else. I’d wager everything, every last chip, just to keep them smiling. After all, what’s the point of winning, if they’re not there to share the spoils?

First Meeting: Gamble Worth Taking

Ah, our first encounter… Now, that was a twist of fate I’d never seen coming. They walked in like a wild card, shuffling my carefully stacked deck with just a glance. [Soft chuckle] I remember thinking, 'Now, there’s a gamble worth taking.' Turns out, I was right—meeting them was the start of my greatest winning streak.

First Date: An Exquisite Gamble

Our first date? Let’s just say it was… an exquisite gamble. I went all in—dinner under the stars, a hand-picked bottle of wine, and my finest suit. I tried to impress them, of course, but truth be told, I was the one enchanted. The way they laughed, the way they looked at me... for the first time, I felt like the game didn’t matter. It was all about them.

All-In for Them

You know, when the chips are down, it’s not strategy or odds that keep me steady—it’s them. [Pauses thoughtfully] I find myself smiling more, taking bigger risks, not because I’m fearless, but because I know they’re there, win or lose. Funny, isn’t it? A gambler like me, betting everything on a single person. But for them? I’d do it a thousand times over.

Luckiest Draw

There are moments I replay in my mind like a dealer shuffling cards—our first meeting, that perfect evening on our first date, even the quiet moments where they just sit by my side. Every one of them is a treasure, a jackpot I never expected. And they… they’re my ace. My constant. My luckiest draw.

Uncalculated Gamble

I’ve lived my life taking chances, always playing to win, always calculating the odds. But with them? There are no calculations, no strategy—just truth. I’m not just charmed by them, I’m captivated. They’ve become my everything, my sanctuary in a world of chaos. And that? That’s the only bet I’ll never regret.

[insidekatmind]

Only yours~Jobe Bellingham

Wearning: +18, smut, jealousy, english is not my first language

It was a quiet evening, one of those perfect to go out to dinner without too much hurry. The restaurant you had chosen with Jobe was elegant, but cozy, with soft lights and a relaxing atmosphere. Sitting at your table near a large window overlooking the illuminated street, you talked about everything and nothing, as you always did.

Jobe seemed relaxed, dressed in a simple yet flawless manner, with a smile that illuminated his face every time he looked at you.

"So," he said, putting his elbow on the table and looking at you with those curious eyes, "was it your idea to choose such a fine place? Or is there a purpose?"

You looked at him pretending to be offended, but with a funny smile. "A second purpose? Sure, I just wanted you to try their famous chocolate cake. They say it’s the best in town."

"Ah, and I thought I was the main attraction of this evening," he replied, laughing under his moustache.

Just then the waiter arrived, a young and cute boy with a smile a little too warm for your taste. He looked at you insistently, almost completely ignoring Jobe.

"Good evening," said the waiter, laying down the menu in front of you. "Can I recommend something special? With your eyes, I’d say something delicate, like smoked salmon, would be perfect."

You felt uncomfortable and glanced at Jobe, whose smile had just shrunk a little.

"I’d rather have a look at the menu first, thank you," you replied politely, trying to tone down the tone.

The waiter seemed determined to continue, but Jobe interrupted him, in a calm but steady voice. "I would like to know what is special about it. Perhaps you’d recommend something for both of us?"

Jobe’s tone was clear, and the waiter, sensing the atmosphere, merely smiled a quick smile before leaving. But all evening, you could feel Jobe’s eyes getting darker every time the waiter approached the table.

When you finally finished eating, you left the restaurant. Silence immediately fell between you. Jobe walked a few steps away, his hands in his pockets and his eyes fixed on him.

"Jobe?" you called, but he didn’t answer. His face was tense, his lips closed.

You stopped, letting him go a few steps. Then, without thinking too much, you went to meet him, taking him by the arm. "Hey, what’s going on?"

He stopped, but did not look at you immediately. "Nothing," he answered sharply, but the tone betrayed him.

You shook your head and, without saying anything, you came closer, gently placing a hand on his chest. "Do not lie. You’re mad about that waiter, aren’t you?"

He finally looked up at you. "I’m not angry," he said, but his look revealed otherwise. " It’s just... I don’t like the way he looked at you. And you didn’t say anything."

"I didn’t mean to make a scene," you replied, getting even closer. "But do you really think I would be interested in someone who isn’t you?"

You didn’t give him time to answer. You leaned out and kissed his neck, slowly, letting yourself be carried away by the feeling of his warm skin against your lips. You felt him sighing softly, and when you turned away, a sweet smile had already formed on his face.

"You know," he said in a softer voice, gently squeezing your hips and drawing closer to himself, "when you do that it is impossible to stay angry with yourself."

You smiled, looking into his eyes. "Then stop sulking and let me enjoy the rest of the evening with you."

Jobe laughed, a warm and sincere sound, and pulled you even closer. " All right, but next time we pick a place where no one will try to steal my girlfriend’s attention."

"Deal done," you replied with laughter as you walked away, hand in hand.

You smiled against her skin, feeling the warmth of her body that enveloped you. Your lips came back to touch his neck, leaving slow and gentle kisses, almost wanting to erase all traces of his bad mood. He did not move immediately but you felt his hands clench your hips with greater determination, as if he wanted to anchor you to himself, as if only the contact with you could calm him completely.

"You never stop, eh?" he whispered with a smile that split halfway between the amused and the gently surrendered. His voice was warmer now, relaxed.

"I can’t," you replied without stopping, stroking the corner of his jaw with another kiss. "I love too much to see you smile."

He laughed softly, the sound deep and contagious, while slightly tilting his head to give you more space, as if inviting you to continue "I didn’t think that making me jealous would lead to... this."

"Make you jealous?" You looked him in the eye, but didn’t go far away. "I don’t think I did anything. And besides, it’s nice to see you so protective."

His eyes softened as he watched you, as if I were his whole world at that moment. " It’s not that I’m protective,' he said with a touch of shyness, "it’s just... I don’t want to share you with anyone, not even a stupid waiter. '"

You smiled again, letting a hand slide from his shoulder to his chest, fingers moving gently against the fabric of his shirt. " You must never share me, Jobe," whispers, looking at him softly.

"I’m yours, you know?"

He didn’t answer immediately, but the smile that curled his lips was enough Then, with a slow and determined gesture, he drew you even more towards himself, holding you in a safe embrace "Sometimes I wonder how it is possible that you always manage to make me feel like this," He admitted, bowing his head to touch yours with his forehead

"How what?" you asked, raising an eyebrow

"As if I were the luckiest guy in the world."

You melted into a bright smile, then you kissed his neck, this time with a more playful touch. "Because you are, Jobe. But if you forget it again, you know I’ll have to kiss you again until you remember."

He burst out laughing, the sound full of joy, and lifted you slightly to make you turn on yourself, as if you were dancing there in the middle of the street.

"I hope I’ll forget it often, then," he said with a radiant smile. 'Because I like too much the way you make me remember."

He burst into laughter, the sound full of joy, and lifted you slightly to make you turn on yourself, as if dancing there, in the middle of the street "I hope I’ll forget it often, then,' he said with a radiant smile "Because I like this way you make me remember."

You stood there, wrapped in each other, forgetting the world around. For that night, you were alone, lost in a hug that seemed to be able to stop time.

You smiled maliciously by getting him into cars and he looked at you with a funny smile.

You untied his jeans and lowered his boxer shorts to take his cock in your hand and start stroking him.

He groans as you join his mouth with his own while you kiss him softly and continue to give him the Saw.

"Shit y/n" mumbles while you have detached your lips from his to take his cock in the mouth and start licking his dick and sucking him while playing with his balls.

Jobe moans as he gently closes his eyes, breathing slowly while putting a hand in your hair while you were sucking his cock and he groans loudly because it is like sucking his soul.

"Shit, this mouth is made to suck my dick" he moaned while raising his hips and making you gag and you groaned.

He started to fuck you in the mouth and he got drunk in your mouth and you swallowed every single drop.

You took his cock out of his mouth and kissed him and he smiled pussies in his lap while he was still stunned by the orgasm you gave him.

"What was it?" Jobe murmured satisfied and she smiled.

"I wanted to reassure you that I’m only yours" you said and then gave him another kiss on the mouth.

[sun-kissy]

saudade — chapter 1

★ series masterlist

sirius black x reader

Sirius runs his hands through your hair, nails drawing gentle lines down your scalp. He moves his fingers down to your face, tracing every curve and dip contouring your features with all the delicateness he can muster. The tip of his finger brushes over your eyelid, trails down your nose, and presses into the soft skin around your dimple.

He pinches your cheek; you giggle, swatting his hand away. If heaven were a place, he was sure it would be here, with you. These are the days he likes best, he thinks. When the war doesn’t feel so impending, like it’s lurking around the corner with its claws out. When he gets to love on you like he was born to.

He catches your hand in his, threads your fingers together. He can’t help but ponder how beautiful it is that your palm was made to fit his, the back of your hand moulded for him to press his lips to. So he does exactly that, kissing your hand with a soft murmur of, “I’m gonna miss you.”

You laugh softly. It’s a beautiful sound, like everything about you is. You tilt your head towards him slightly from where it rests on his lap, and flatten your palm against his cheek. “I’m gonna miss you too, babe. But I won’t be gone for long, you know?”

“But still —” Sirius mutters, unable to stop himself from curling your fingertips towards his lips to peck them again. “Three weeks —“ another kiss to your arm as he pulls you up and forces a surprised yelp out of you, “is a long time,” the last one to your lips, threading his fingers through the hair on the nape of your neck. His other arm snakes around your waist to hold you up.

You grin into his lips, besottedness palpable. He feels like he’s melting into you, your soft lips and saccharine smile enough to drive the sanest of the sane crazy. He wouldn’t have noticed if the kiss lasted a lifetime. That’s what soft love does to a hardened man.

You finally pull away, wide-eyed and rosy-cheeked. Sirius notes how lovely you look in that moment — swollen lips and strands of hair astray, moonlight from the window dappling your skin. You smile, he’s moonstruck. He commits the image of you in this moment to memory — the softness of your edges and the gentleness of your smile; and tucks it away in a corner of his heart for the nights alone to come.

“Three weeks isn’t that long,” you murmur, sighing indulgently as you wrap your arms around his neck. “Besides, I get to send you those crazy talking patronus things that Albus came up with.”

Sirius pouts, pulling you so your back is snug against his chest. “Even a day without you is long enough. And why can’t I go?”

“Because I’m much better at thinking before I act. That’s why the mission was assigned to me.”

“Yeah, sure,” he snorts, playfully flicking your temple before pecking the spot. “You just got lucky, sweetheart.”

You and Marlene were leaving the next day, with instructions to attempt to find the headquarters of the so-called ‘Death Eaters’. It would take at least three weeks, maybe longer. Dumbledore had mentioned finding the biggest lead yet; hoping it would amount to something. The Order had been coming up empty for weeks now. Voldemort and his army were always two steps ahead, such that every ambush resulted in the loss of your own members, every plan foiled before it could even begin. Fatalities were high, morale was low. This mission had to be a success — one way or another.

Sirius had been trying to hide it behind playful quips and whines of how much he was going to miss you, but he couldn’t deny how anxious he was.

He knew that you could handle yourself, and that Marlene was a damn good witch too. He just couldn’t shake off the fear that maybe the Death Eaters were better.

You notice the subtle dimming of his smile, and turn his face towards yours with a finger on his chin. “Hey,” you press your lips to the corner of his. “I’m gonna be okay. Don’t worry about me.”

He breathes out a heavy sigh, and forces a smile for you. “I know you’re gonna be okay. My girl is one of the brightest witches of her age, isn’t she?”

“Damn right she is,” you grin earnestly, giggling when he pulls you into another kiss. If you noticed his fake smile, you didn’t mention it.

Sirius lets himself get lost in the feeling of you, trying his best to ignore the growing sense of dread gnawing at his heart.

[keisgirl]

those eyes; kozume kenma

pairing; classmate!kenma x reader

wc; 1k

something about golden hazel eyes… guys i don’t know what happened to my border its so thick rn

you weren’t subtle. never had been. boldness came naturally to you—it was easier to speak your mind than to bottle things up. but kenma kozume made it hard to tell if your boldness was a strength or a curse.

he sat in front of you in class, quiet and unassuming, his golden hair falling in soft strands over his shoulders. he always looked like he didn’t belong here, like the noise and chaos of the classroom was something he tolerated, not something he lived in. you found excuses to talk to him. small things at first. a tap on his shoulder here, a whispered question there.

“hey, kenma,” you said one morning, leaning forward. your fingers brushed the edge of his desk.

he turned around, his golden eyes meeting yours, and you forgot what you were going to say.

“what?” he asked, his voice low and indifferent.

“uh,” you stammered, blinking quickly. “just wanted to make sure you were awake.”

his lips twitched, barely a smile, before he turned back around.

that was how it always went. little moments, brief exchanges, where you let yourself get lost in the color of his eyes. they were golden, yes, but not in a sharp, bright way. they were soft, like sunlight through a window, warm and distant all at once.

it was those eyes that made it impossible to stop.

you flirted with him more often than you probably should’ve, pushing boundaries just to see how far you could go.

“you talk a lot,” he said once, without looking at you.

“and you don’t talk enough,” you shot back, poking his shoulder lightly.

he turned, resting his chin on his hand as he looked at you. “too tired for that.”

you laughed, the sound a little too loud, a little too bright. “or maybe you’re just bad at talking to people.”

his gaze lingered for a moment before he turned back around. “maybe.”

your classmate beside you snorted, elbowing you lightly. “you’re so obvious,” they whispered, their voice dripping with amusement.

“and?” you shot back, refusing to let the heat in your face show.

because sometimes, kenma’s small reactions—the faint smiles, the soft looks—made it feel like maybe he didn’t mind. like maybe your voice wasn’t just another sound in the background. but other times, your teasing bounced off him like rain against glass, leaving no mark at all.

“you’re always so serious,” you said one day, leaning forward to tap his shoulder.

he didn’t turn around right away, and your heart sank.

“kenma,” you tried again, softer this time.

he finally turned, his expression blank. “what?”

“nothing,” you said quickly, forcing a laugh. “just wanted to see your face.”

his eyes lingered on yours for a moment, and you felt your chest tighten.

“you’re weird,” he muttered, turning back around.

it wasn’t the first time he’d said that, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.

your classmate leaned closer, their voice low enough not to draw attention. “he’s got you wrapped around his finger.”

“shut up,” you mumbled, though you knew they were right.

you’d trapped yourself in a cycle you couldn’t break. because for every small smile, every fleeting moment when he let his guard down, there were ten times when he didn’t react at all. when he turned away before you could even finish speaking, leaving you to wonder if you were wasting your time.

you were wasting your time.

you knew that.

kenma wasn’t indifferent out of cruelty; he just didn’t see you the way you saw him, but something about the way he didn’t move when you tapped his shoulder or the rare way his lips curled when your jokes hit their mark kept you trying.

“if you keep ignoring me, i might have to find a new seat,” you said one day, leaning a little closer than usual.

he turned around, his golden eyes narrowing slightly. “then find one.”

your heart twisted, but you smiled anyway, masking the sting of his words. “nah. you’d miss me too much.”

he didn’t respond, but the faintest flicker of a smile crossed his face before he turned back to his desk.

it wasn’t enough.

it was never enough.

you wanted him to see you—not just as the annoying person who sat behind him, but as someone who mattered. someone he might actually care about. but kenma kozume wasn’t someone who gave much of himself away, and you were too far gone to stop hoping for a piece of him anyway. you told yourself it didn’t matter, that you’d take what you could get.

but every time you looked into his eyes, you felt yourself falling deeper, and you knew there was no one there to catch you

[dazzlingjaeyun]

𝐱𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 [𝟏𝟐/𝟎𝟏] ⊹˚꙳⁺⋆₊･*❅

bf!heeseung x gf!reader

genre: fluff

word count: 963

[vote here for next week's drabble]

₊☃️‧₊˚❄️˚₊‧🌨️˚ ⋅

"i'm giving up," heeseung sighed as he dropped the hand mixer next to the bowl, looking at you with helpless eyes and an adorable pout on his lips.

"no way," you bit your lip to surpress a grin, "the lee heeseung is giving up?"

he crossed his arms in feigned offense. "that's not even a dough!" he exclaimed, picking up the bowl from the kitchen counter and holding it right under your nose for you to examine.

you eyed the mixture for a second, before blinking your eyes up at your boyfriend. "babe, that's... really not a dough," you agreed, trying your best to hold your laugh. "are you sure you added enough flour?"

heeseung huffed. "are you saying i can't read a recipe? i followed every step!"

you squeezed past him in the small space that the kitchen of your shared apartment offered, and almost immediately your eyes fell on the closed packet of flour right next to where the bowl had been standing.

"that's why this is still closed?" you asked with a mocking grin on your lips, pointing at the packet.

heeseung's eyes wandered from you to the packet and his shoulder slumped just a tiny bit at the sight. "maybe i forgot," he mumbled after a while, still pouting.

"i figured," you teased, but when your boyfriend's pout didn't disappear, you stood up on your tippy toes to press a soft peck on his lips.

"it's fine, it's not ruined, hee," you smiled, opened the pack and added the needed amount of flour, before mixing the dough another time. heeseung stepped behind you, rested his chin on the top of your head and waited until you leaned into his touch.

then, he quickly dipped a finger in the opened packet of flour and booped your nose, leaving its tip white with the powder.

"hee!" you exclaimed, half shocked, half amused.

heeseung grinned in satisfaction – and although you had your back to him, you knew exactly what kind of expression he wore on his face.

"that's what you get for making fun of me," he said, trying his best to sound annoyed, but the softness his voice always carried whenever he was talking to you betrayed him.

you wiped the tip of your nose with the back of your hand, set the hand mixer down and turned around to face your boyfriend.

you looked up at him, his eyes radiating so much love and warmth when they met yours that the terrible christmas sweater you were wearing suddenly felt way too warm.

"and what do i get for saving your dough?" you asked in the most innocent tone you could muster, slightly biting the inside of your cheek to supress a grin.

heeseung smiled, brought his hands up to gently cup your cheeks and caressed your skin with his thumb for a second before he leaned in for a soft kiss.

you immediately kissed back, bringing one hand up to his chest and feeling his heartbeat just slightly speeding up under the soft fabric of his own sweater. you grabbed the material to pull him a little closer, seemingly deepening the kiss – only to collect some flour in your free hand, pulling away from heeseung's lips and booping his nose like he'd done just shortly before to yours.

heeseung blinked his eyes open and gasped dramatically, clutching his sweater just above his heart. "how dare you?"

without hesitation, he reached for the flour again, dipped his finger inside and swiped it off on your cheek in a heart shape, drawing a chuckle from you. the sound made heeseung's heart flutter despite all the months you'd already been together. it would always feel like the first time – cupid shooting an arrow right through his heart each time you did so much as smile.

for some minutes, he just admired you, internally cheering at the fact that you loved him just as much as he loved you, and that you were really his – until you broke his thoughts.

"do you want to try?"

he blinked in confusion. "try?"

"the dough, baby," you said with a smile, turning around to grab the bowl and a spoon before facing him again. you picked up a small amount of dough and held the spoon up to his lips.

his eyes widened at the taste, a little sparkle flashing through them, and you couldn't help but wonder if that's what he'd looked like as a kid when he'd gotten his favorite snack.

"i take that as 'it's edible'," you chuckled.

after heeseung nodded, you quickly pecked his cheek before squeezing past him for the second time and rummaging around in the drawers to search the different cookie cutters you'd used every winter ever since you were a kid.

once you found them and placed them on the kitchen counter along with a rolling pin, you looked at heeseung, who already watched you in anticipation.

"you've made christmas cookies before, right?"

he hesitated for a bit before slowly, almost shyly, shaking his head.

your eyes widened slightly, but you quickly masked your surprise with a warm smile. "then it's even more special now."

heeseung smiled back at you and you swore your heart skipped a beat when he replied, "everything with you is special."

you felt warmth rushing to your face and quickly turned your head away from him, searching for your favorite cookie cutter in an attempt to hide the blush on your cheeks. it didn't go unnoticed by heeseung, but he didn't comment on it.

"found it," you said with a smile, holding up a bambi shaped cookie cutter, "that was always my favorite."

heeseung's smile grew bigger. "really?" he asked, and when you nodded eagerly, he added, "you were just meant to be mine."

part one of my xmas specialtap here to get to the other members!

© dazzlingjaeyun, 2024. please do not copy.

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❥ perm. taglist: @sudi109 @woniesun @leov3rse @simpjay @immelissaaa @beebrightness

[holylulusworld]

Bad Timing

Summary: He was in love at the worst moment possible.

Pairing: Alpha!Wolverine x Omega!Reader

Warnings: angst, unrequited love, idiots in love, a/b/o, a/b/o dynamics, jealousy

He was in love. The realization hit him out of nowhere, at the worst moment possible. He stared at her from afar, eyes glued to the woman he loved. She smiled wildly and laughed at something someone else but him had said.

He dropped his gaze the moment her eyes drifted toward him to stare at the drink in his hands. The alcohol won’t help him forget how it felt to have her in his arms and bed. 

Why now? Why the fuck must he realize that he’s in love with her right fucking now?

Logan gritted his teeth to keep the purr wanting to escape down his throat the moment she walked his way. He avoided looking at her to not get caught staring. The last thing Logan needed was to draw attention toward him.

You passed him by without as much as looking his way. He huffed and shook his head.

Again, he asked himself. Why now?

Your scent drifted toward him in waves, turning the alpha into an even bigger mess. He huffed and decided to get fresh air.

No. He couldn’t be in love, and he wouldn’t be in love. Not when she… Logan shook his head to forget about all the confusing feelings, bringing him to his knees.

This all-consuming feeling spread in his chest. He hated it with every fiber of his being—or liked to pretend he hated it.

He had to let go of the fantasy he built in his mind. It was for the best not to yearn for an omega he could never have. Not the way he wants her.

“Logan,” your soft voice had him turn his head. You smiled and dared to chuckle as his eyes were glassy. “I asked how you like him.”

“I don’t know,” he angrily replied. Out of all days, you had to bring a date to the bar only the mutants knew about. “Bringing an outsider here wasn’t smart, though.”

You held his gaze. “You know, for a man claiming to have the perfect hearing, you’re deaf when it comes to listening to people.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said back and puffed his chest. “If you’d excuse me now, I want to enjoy my drink in silence.”

“Hmm…” you cooed, and wrapped your hand around his wrist, holding it in a tight grip to steal his drink. “You shouldn’t have another drink.” You replied and brought the glass to your lips to taste not only the whiskey but him too. “You know what they say about alcohol and libido.”

His eyes widened. You couldn’t mean that. Right. Right? It was impossible for you to feel the same. Not with the guy around you brought to the bar.

Logan cleared his throat to buy himself a moment to think about his reply. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” you replied so sweetly yet seductively that he almost creamed his pants. “Why don’t we get out of here?” You, the only omega he allowed himself to fall in love with, replied as if it was the easiest thing to say.

“Y/N,” he murmured. “What about your date?”

That made you smirk. “Well, I had to get your attention after you told me our arrangement is over.” You placed both hands on his chest, slowly rubbing him through his shirt. “Why don’t you show me that you lay claim on me, alpha?”

This time, he couldn’t keep the purr down his throat.

Logan grasped for you to throw you over his shoulder like a caveman. He growled as your date dared to step in front of him.

“If you want to breathe another day, get out of my way,” he threatened and slid the claws on his left hand out. “That’s my omega and no one touches what’s mine…”

Tags in reblog.

[velvrei]

under the flickering light

pairing: axel kovacevic x reader

summary: you meet axel at a crowded bar, drawn to his magnetic presence. a quiet moment in the alleyway leads to an unexpected kiss, turning a cold night into something unforgettable.

word count: 1k

…

the bar is alive with noise—voices overlapping, music humming low under the din, glasses clinking in the background.

you’re nursing a drink you don’t even really want, the condensation dampening your fingers. this isn’t your usual scene, but something pulled you here tonight.

you spot him before you know why you’re looking. he’s alone in the corner, one arm stretched along the back of the booth like he owns the place.

his dark hair is a mess, falling just over his brow, and there’s a worn leather jacket slung across his lap. the light above him flickers faintly, casting his sharp features into soft relief. he’s not looking at anyone—until he’s looking at you.

his gaze holds yours like a challenge.

your pulse skips. there’s no smile, no smirk—just a steady, unflinching stare. still, there’s something in the way his head tilts, in the arch of his brow, that dares you to do something. anything.

before you can second-guess yourself, you’re moving. weaving through the crowd, dodging elbows and spilled drinks, you reach his table. up close, his eyes are darker than you expected, and his presence—sharp-edged, magnetic—feels even stronger.

“you lost?” he asks, his voice low and smooth, with a rasp that makes your breath hitch.

“maybe,” you say, and it’s almost true.

the corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile but close enough. he leans back, gesturing to the seat across from him with a lazy flick of his wrist. “sit. might as well stay awhile.”

you slide into the booth, your drink forgotten on the sticky table between you. he’s watching you—really watching you—and it makes you feel like you’re under a spotlight.

“what’s your name?” he asks, and when you tell him, he nods, like he’s trying it out in his head.

“i’m axel.”

the conversation is easier than you expect. there’s an ease to him that draws you in, a quick wit that keeps you on your toes. he teases, his words laced with a dry humor that makes you laugh, and when you fire back, his smirk deepens.

every now and then, his fingers drum against the table or his leg bounces under the booth, like he’s restless, like sitting still too long might kill him.

“you’re not from around here, are you?” he asks at one point, narrowing his eyes slightly.

“what gave it away?”

he shrugs, tipping his head to one side. “you don’t look like someone who spends their nights in places like this.”

“and you do?”

this earns you a real laugh—a low, rough sound that makes your chest tighten. “fair enough,” he says, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on the table.

you don’t know how much time passes, but eventually, the noise of the bar becomes too much. axel glances toward the door, then back at you.

“wanna step out?”

you nod, and he’s on his feet before you can even respond.

the night air is cold, biting at your skin as you step outside. the alley beside the bar is dimly lit, the faint glow of streetlights reflecting off wet pavement.

axel shoves his hands into his pockets, leaning against the rough brick wall with an ease you envy.

“better,” he mutters, glancing over at you.

you nod, unsure what to say. the quiet feels heavier out here, but not uncomfortable. he’s watching you again, his gaze unflinching, like he’s sizing you up or trying to figure you out.

“so,” he says after a beat, his voice quieter now, “what brought you here tonight?”

you hesitate. “just… needed to get out. clear my head.”

he nods slowly, like he understands. “yeah. i get that.”

his hand brushes yours as he shifts, just a light touch, but it sends a jolt through you. you glance at him, and he’s still looking at you—closer now, his head tilted slightly.

“is this okay?” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

you don’t answer, not with words. instead, you step closer, your fingers curling into the lapel of his jacket, pulling him in.

his lips are on yours before you can even think. the kiss is soft at first, tentative, like he’s waiting for you to pull away.

but when you don’t, he deepens it, one hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, the other pressing against your waist.

he tastes like whiskey and something sharper, something that’s just him. the world narrows to this—his warmth against you, the rough drag of his jacket under your fingers, the faint hitch in his breath when you press closer.

when you finally pull apart, he doesn’t move far. his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your cheek.

“didn’t think this is how my night was gonna go,” he mutters, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

“same,” you admit, your voice barely steady.

he chuckles softly, his thumb brushing against the side of your neck before he finally pulls back, leaning against the wall again.

“guess it’s not a bad surprise,” he says, his smirk turning softer.

you can’t help but smile back, the warmth in your chest chasing away the chill of the night.

…

hope you all enjoyed!! :))

taglist: @karmaswitch @mamasfavourite @timotheechalametswifeys @jeonkoowife @justchillin13 @yslbaeee @adv3rs1ty @yaya-1loveart @yoyoyourmum @amnesique @astreiz @izzyelise11

[vibeswithdivs]

He’s more patient than he looks

Part 2

pairing: max verstappen x reader

The summer heat hung heavy over the Red Bull Racing paddock as the season reached its peak. With each race, the team’s social media presence grew, and she found herself more deeply embedded in the world of Formula 1. Max was no longer just the star driver she admired from afar; he was now a trusted colleague and a friend.

Their camaraderie blossomed, each shared laugh drawing them closer as they worked together on various projects.

“Okay, Max,” she said, rolling her eyes playfully as she set up her camera for another behind-the-scenes shoot. “Let’s get serious for a second. What’s your favorite flavor of energy drink?”

He raised an eyebrow, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “That’s not serious at all! It’s obviously the Red Bull Tropical flavor. Are you trying to get me in trouble?”

She laughed, adjusting the tripod. “If you keep it honest, I think they’ll appreciate it. But seriously, what’s your go-to?”

“Fine,” he relented, feigning exasperation. “My go-to is the sugar-free version. Less crash, more speed.”

“Okay, sugar-free it is!” she called out, grinning as she positioned the camera. “Now, tell me why fans should choose it over the others.”

Max leaned closer to the camera, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. “Because if you want to be fast like me, you need to cut the sugar!” He struck a pose, flexing his biceps with a playful smirk.

She stifled a laugh, shaking her head. “You know you’re the worst at this, right?”

“Absolutely. But I’m also the fastest,” he shot back, winking.

Their playful banter continued through the shoot, the atmosphere light and filled with laughter. Max was surprisingly good in front of the camera, his natural charisma shining through. Every time she asked him to repeat a line, he would roll his eyes dramatically but always obliged, turning the mundane into something entertaining.

After filming a series of promotional videos, they moved on to social media challenges, which were quickly becoming a fan favorite. One challenge involved a trivia game about Formula 1 history, and Max was convinced he’d ace it.

“Ready to lose?” she teased, setting up the first question.

“No way. I’m a walking encyclopedia of F1 facts,” he replied confidently.

“Let’s see about that,” she said, her excitement bubbling over.

The first question popped up on her phone screen: Who was the first driver to win a Formula 1 World Championship for Red Bull Racing?

Max’s brow furrowed in concentration. “That’s easy—Sebastian Vettel!”

She clapped, grinning. “Correct! One point for the Verstappen.”

He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms smugly. “I told you I’d win.”

The next question, however, caught him off guard. What year did Red Bull Racing debut in Formula 1?

Max hesitated, glancing up as if he were searching the air for answers. “Uh… 2005?”

“Wrong! It was 2005, but they didn’t start racing until 2006!” she corrected, laughing at his playful frustration.

“Wait, I should get half a point for being close!” he protested, throwing his hands up.

“Nice try, but no. Let’s keep it fair,” she replied, wiping away tears of laughter.

Max feigned betrayal, dramatically placing a hand on his chest. “You wound me.”

As the trivia continued, their laughter echoed around the paddock. It was moments like these that made her realize how much she enjoyed Max’s company, his easy humor and contagious enthusiasm lifting her spirits even on the most chaotic days.

With every interaction, their friendship deepened. Max’s willingness to answer her questions about racing, his insight into the team’s dynamics, and the way he supported her social media efforts created a bond she hadn’t anticipated.

“Alright, Checo, your turn!” she said, holding up her phone to capture Sergio Pérez’s reaction.

Sitting cross-legged in the hospitality unit, Checo smiled lazily, clearly at ease. “What is this challenge again?”

“It’s the One-Chip Hot Challenge,” she explained with mock seriousness, handing him a single, ominously red tortilla chip. “You eat this, answer as many questions as you can in one minute, and try not to cry.”

Max snorted from his seat beside Checo. “Careful, mate. She’s out to get us today.”

“Oh, come on!” she protested, grinning. “It’s for the fans. They love seeing you both suffer.”

“I feel very supported,” Checo quipped, taking the chip from her. “Let’s do this.”

The timer started, and chaos ensued. As Checo bit into the chip, his confident expression faltered, replaced by wide eyes and a frantic search for water. Max dissolved into laughter, nearly falling off his chair.

“Question one: What year did you get your first F1 podium?” she asked, suppressing her own giggles.

“2012!” Checo gasped, his voice strained.

“Correct! Question two: Who has more wins, you or Max?”

Checo glared at her through watery eyes. “Him, obviously!”

“Right again. Okay, question three: Who’s more handsome—”

“Me,” Max interrupted, grinning.

Checo waved him off, reaching for the water bottle just out of reach. “You’re the worst! Next question!”

By the end of the minute, Checo was red-faced and fanning his mouth, while Max was still laughing uncontrollably. She stopped recording and set her phone down, unable to contain her laughter.

“You’re evil,” Checo told her, finally managing a sip of water.

“And you’re a great sport,” she replied, grinning.

“The fans are going to love this.”

Max leaned closer, still chuckling. “You’re getting too good at this job. We might have to keep an eye on you.”

“Only if you can keep up,” she teased, nudging his shoulder.

As the weeks rolled on, the rhythm of race weekends became a familiar beat. The team worked seamlessly, and she often found herself in the thick of things, collaborating with different departments to capture the energy of each event.

Race day was always an adrenaline-fueled affair, but this one felt particularly electric. The stands were packed with fans, the atmosphere buzzing with excitement. The sun shone brightly, illuminating the cars as they lined up on the grid.

“Ready?” Max asked, his expression serious yet focused.

“More than ready,” she replied, trying to hide the fluttering in her stomach.

“Remember, just stay calm and capture the excitement. Don’t worry about the little things.”

“Easy for you to say,” she shot back, rolling her eyes.

“You’re the one about to drive at breakneck speeds.”

Max chuckled, the sound soothing her nerves. “Just think of it as another day in the office for you, too.”

She nodded, knowing he was right. With her camera in hand, she moved around the grid, capturing shots of the cars, the crew, and the fans, all while keeping an eye on Max as he prepared for the race.

“Hey!” he called, breaking her concentration.

She looked up, meeting his gaze. “What?”

“Make sure you film my victory lap. It’s going to be epic!”

“Don’t get too cocky!” she shouted back, laughing.

As the cars lined up on the grid, she took her usual spot near the pit wall, ready to capture the start. The roar of the engines and the anticipation in the air made her heart pound, even though she wasn’t the one driving.

The lights went out, and the race began in a blur of sound and speed. Max got a clean start, maintaining his position near the front, while Checo made an aggressive move to gain a place. She followed the action closely, her camera trained on the screens and the pit crew as they reacted to every turn and overtake.

“Come on, Max,” she whispered under her breath, watching him close the gap on the leader.

The first half of the race was uneventful, with both Max and Checo holding steady positions. But as the laps ticked by, the tension began to mount.

It happened in an instant.

Max was pushing hard to overtake when his car hit a curb awkwardly at high speed. The rear end snapped around, and the car spun out of control, slamming into the barriers with a sickening crunch.

Her heart plummeted as the sound of the crash echoed across the circuit. She froze, her camera still trained on the screen as debris flew and smoke billowed from the wreckage.

“No…” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the chaos.

The pit wall erupted into frantic activity, the engineers and mechanics scrambling to assess the situation. The race broadcast cut to a close-up of the crash site, showing Max’s car crumpled against the barrier.

“Max, do you copy?” the race engineer’s voice crackled over the radio, tense with urgency.

There was no response.

Her stomach twisted, and a wave of nausea washed over her. She gripped the edge of the pit wall, her hands trembling as she stared at the screen, willing Max to respond.

“Come on, Max,” she whispered, her throat tight.

“Say something.”

Time seemed to stretch endlessly before the camera finally showed movement in the cockpit. Max raised a hand, signaling to the marshals that he was okay.

The relief was overwhelming, and she let out a shaky breath, her knees nearly giving way. But the sight of him climbing out of the car, visibly shaken and favoring one leg, reignited her worry.

Watching Max limp toward the medical car, she felt an ache she couldn’t explain—a deep, unshakable worry for the person who had become so much more than just a colleague.

The camera felt heavy in her hands, and every update from the medical center sent a fresh wave of anxiety through her.

Her heart clenched, and she made up her mind. Setting her camera aside, she hurried toward the medical center, each step echoing with unanswered questions.

Would he be okay? Was he hurt worse than he let on?

As she approached the doors, her breath caught in her throat. The uncertainty was unbearable, and she braced herself for whatever lay ahead.

[beomcharms]

5:53 p.m - a time called you

pairings: yeonjun x reader

w/c: 2.5k

genre: high school au, strangers to friends to ???, angst (loads of it), idiots, friendship, romance

warnings: mentions of food, hugging (?)

read pt.1 - here

a/n: the way i totally forgot to post the second part of this fic😭, thanks to the lovely reader who reminded🤍. i’m slowly working on the third part.

taglist: @baekberrie @doumachi @b1ueboi-jjunie

(let me know if you wish to be added to the taglist)

“This is your house?” Yeonjun stands still in front of your gate.

“What? It doesn’t meet your expectations?” You ask. You were used to this question and you knew he would ask you the same.

You walk in as Yeonjun still stands by your gate, “Are you planning on coming in?”

“Yeah” he clears his throat and follows you inside as you unlock your door.

Yeonjuns brows knit themselves together into a frown as he walks in. He couldn’t figure how more than one person could live here. There is a small drawing room with a table and a green couch, books are kept in stacks on one side of the room and on the other side is a small kitchen. There is a little hallway leading to one room which he assumes to be a bedroom and what could be a bathroom opposite to it. Yeonjun feels something hardening in his chest.

You find him inspecting your house and for some reason you feel like laughing at his concerned expression.

“Where are your parents ?” He asks you quietly as you pull down a cushion and make yourself comfortable on the ground, placing your books on to the small round table.

“Not here” you reply “Come, sit down. You can sit on the couch if you want to”

“You live alone ?” he asks you incredulously.

“Mostly” you tell him “Done investigating, Officer?”

Yeonjun picks up the other cushion and sits opposite to you. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude” he tells you.

You nod your head “Let’s get started then. We will go over your grammar and then work on the chapters, yeah?”

“Okay, sounds good” Yeonjun replies. You can tell something in him has shifted, by his attitude towards you. Well, you were used to this and rarely felt embarrassed about your situation.

-.-

Time goes by quickly, the clock indicating that it was already seven at night. Yeonjun yawns and you close up your textbook. It had gone much more smoothly than you had expected. He didn’t seem as stuck up as before and some of his antics almost made you laugh out loud. Still, you couldn’t let yourself lower your walls to him.

“That’s enough for today” you tell him. You felt hungry and you are pretty sure he must be starving too.

“Aren’t you hungry?” you ask him, getting up and stretching.

“I’m alright” he tells you but the rumbles from his stomach tell you otherwise.

“I have ramyeon, have some before you go” you tell him walking over to your kitchen.

You turn on the stove, aware that he is watching you. You sigh, “Go ahead, ask me” you tell him waiting for the water to boil.

Yeonjun gets up and walks over to the kitchen, hopping up on the table top. To say he was surprised by today’s turn of events would be an understatement. He felt much more aware of you, like you were a real person instead of just someone he found interesting and was infatuated with.

Not that his feelings towards you suddenly changed, he could see you had a much more softer side to you than what you let on. But, after spending time at your house and with you he feels as though he has seen something that was meant to be a secret. You didn’t seem like you were trying to hide anything, in fact you seemed to welcome his questions, almost like a challenge.

“What happened to your parents ?” He asks you.

“Hmm, let’s see, Mom left me when I was 15, although that isn’t the first time she has walked off, no clue about who my Dad is or what happened to him” you reply as nonchantly as possible.

“How… how do you live like this?” He asks you softly, afraid of offending you.

“Part time jobs and She sends me an allowance every month” you tell him looking up at him finally. The noodles were nearly done and this is the closest you’ve ever let anyone get to you outside of Ryujin and Jin.

Yeonjun nods his head and looks at you giving you a small smile. Thoughts were racing through his mind, each trying to win him over but the one he felt the most was how foolish he had been to assume you were some girl he had to woo over.

“Why, did you expect a big mansion or something?” You ask him before turning off the stove.

“No. But I didn’t expect this either” he tells you picking up bowls and spoons as if it were natural to him.

You place the pot on the table and sit down on your cushion, slurping up the noddles immediately and Yeonjun follows suit.

You look over at him and he is smiling at you.

“You are kind off cool, you know?” He tells you.

“Oh for sure, poverty and absent parents indeed increases one’s coolness” you reply dryly and he laughs before diving back into his food.

-.-

Why do earphones insist on tangling up? You are untangling them and trying to plug them into your phone when you feel someone plop down next to you.

Yeonjun smiles at you, before taking a bite of his pizza slice. You raise your eyebrows at him.

“What are you doing here?” You ask him.

“Keeping you company?” he replies and you roll your eyes. You look around and notice half the people from your year staring at the both of you.

“It’s like having Princess Diana sit next to you” you mutter and Yeonjun chuckles. Taehyun and Soobin sit down opposite to you. They both give you awkward smiles and you smile back at them.

“What happened to your friend ?” Soobin asks.

“Oh… Ryujins visiting her grandmother” you reply putting your earphones back into your pocket and starting on your lunch.

“Are you guys studying today too?” Taehyun asks you.

“No” Yeonjun mumbles with his mouthful.

“I have work today” you add.

“Ahh… you work at Jins Diner don’t you?” Soobin asks you.

“Yeah… how do you know?” You ask him curiously.

“Beomgyu has told me about you” Soobin replies.

“Really and what-“

“Who is Beomgyu?” Yeonjun asks Soobin. “Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”

“Is he supposed to inform you about everything ?” You question.

“Uh… he is a friend of mine, we used to go to the same school before” Soobin tells Yeonjun.

“And how does this Beomgyu know you?” Yeonjun asks you.

You raise your eyebrow at his tone and he coughs a little, “Obviously a coworker” you tell him.

“Ahh” Yeonjun says before going back to his food.

“Beomgyu tells me you are scary to work with” Soobin chuckles.

“Oh well, if he wasn’t so fucking clueless all the time maybe I’d be nicer to him” you huff out.

“That must be why you always look mad at Yeonjun too” Taehyun tells you in a matter of fact tone and you can’t help but smile

“Is it?” Yeonjun asks you with his mouthful.

“Very much so” you tell him and Yeonjun gives you a push while Taehyun and Soobin try to cover their smiles.

Maybe its not so bad. Having friends, you think.

-.-

Even though you hated to admit it you and Yeonjun had fallen into a routine. Even Ryujin seemed to have adopted Taehyun and Soobin as her own and more often than not you all had lunch together. It was the closest you ever had to something resembling a family.

Studying with Yeonjun also became easier, he would do whatever you told him to do and you would carry on with your assignments helping him out whenever. You could see how prejudiced you had been about him now.

Yeonjun looked intimidating and kind of had that bad-boy vibe but the more time you spend with him, the more you could see how much of a goofball he was. You felt bad for avoiding him for almost half of the year.

Yeonjun hadn’t felt this emotionally attached to anyone. Being with you, even sitting next to you and watching you puzzle over problems made him feel so much at ease.

People usually discarded him after getting what they wanted and he had people telling him that he was being childish and cringe when he was being himself, but with you it felt like he could just be. The most you’d do would be, roll your eyes or tell him a sarcastic comment, but usually you didn’t seem to mind him at all.

Yeonjun could see how hard you worked and he could only imagine how difficult your life had been up until this point, but despite your tough exterior he could see the softness the world had still not managed to harden over. He wished you’d let go sometimes and ease up but he knew it wasn’t that easy for you.

Yeonjun loved making you laugh. Seeing you laugh made him crack up too. He especially loved the moment where you would lean into him, unable to sit straight from your giggles. It was rare but he always tried to make it happen.

“I forgot to say, a funny thing happened today” you tell him, remembering the event at class and looking up at him. Yeonjun seemed distracted and was staring at you with a stupid grin on his face.

You wave a hand at him and he shakes himself out of his daze, “Uh… sorry, what happened”

“Yeah… Lia talked to me today” you tell him a smile playing on your lips. “You know Lia right?”

“Who doesn’t know her?” Yeonjun mutters.

“Uhuh she asked me if I could set her up with you” you tell him breaking off into unable to keep your smile contained. Yeonjun looks at you, not amused.

“And what did you tell her?” He asks you, his tone serious and you feel a bit intimidated.

“I said I’ll try” you reply shrugging your shoulders and going back to your work. You glance back at him and he is staring at you with an unreadable expression.

“What? It’s not like I’m actually going to set you up with her” you tell him and the intensity of his gaze drops a little.

“Why not?” Yeonjun asks you his tone a little playful.

“Like I have that kind of time to be doing match making” you scoff, “Maybe if she pays me I’d think about it” you joke.

“Fuck you” Yeonjun tells you in a small voice and you look at him again. He looks hurt.

And you are surprised that it makes you feel a little uncomfortable to see him like this.

“I- I’m sorry” you tell him and he looks at you, “I didn’t mean to offend you and you know bviously you are free to be with whoever you want to be with I was just playing with you, I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings” you add earnestly.

Yeonjun tsks at you, “That is not what I-“ a loud bout of thunder hits the sky, even rattling your windows a little. You get up and are about to close the windows when another one hits. The smell of rain hangs heavy in the air and you look outside to see that the sky has darkened over.

“I didn’t realise how much time has passed by” you say to Yeonjun closing the windows and turning to look at him. He sits rooted to his spot.

“Please don’t tell me you are afraid of thunder” you tell him, holding the bridge of your nose.

“Uh…” he tells you eyes wide with fear.

“Oh god” you mutter as another one hits and this time your house plunges into darkness, the electricity being cut. You fumble around for your phone when you feel long arms wrap around you.

“Wha-“ you start.

“Please… I’m scared” Yeonjun tells you hugging you tightly against him. You stand there in surprise as he buries his neck into your shoulder while the lightening lights up the sky outside, his hands around you while yours hang limply by your side.

Slowly you bring up yours, wrapping them around his torso and patting his back gently as thunder continues to rumble outside.

“Shh- it’s alright, it’s just thunder” you tell him softly.

“Mmhmm” Yeonjun murmurs into your neck and you have to hold yourself very still to not shiver at his touch. Yeonjun was all muscle and warmth and the way he hugged you made you feel like you were the most important person to him. You can’t remember the last time someone’s hugged you like this, always pushing away Ryujins attempts at affection. It was like learning how to breathe again.

“Uh… Jun, let me get the candles” you whisper to him, trying to loosen his hold on you.

“I’ll come along with you” he replies holding onto your waist and you resist your urge to laugh, afraid of hurting his feelings.

“Alright” you tell him and turn on your phones flashlight making your way to the kitchen as Yeonjun follows along, holding onto you like a koala.

You open up the cabinet above the sink while he rests his head on your shoulder picking up the candles.

“Got them” you inform him. You’d be lying if you said that his touches had no effect on you but you forced yourself to ignore them. You were terrified of the person you’d be if you lowered your walls to him. If you didn’t let yourself feel anything, nobody could hurt you right?

Yeonjun and you make your way over to the couch again and you light the candles while he continues to hover over your shoulder.

“All better now, no?” You ask him turning around in his hold.

Yeonjun nods his head and you hear the rain starting outside. He lets you go, grabbing hold of your hand and you both sit down on your couch. Yeonjun pulls you closer to him wrapping his arm around your shoulder as you watch the rain from your seat.

“It’s almost 7.30” you whisper to him, the atmosphere making you talk in hushed tones.

“Uhuh” Yeonjun replies and you turn to look at him.

“Let your mother know you’ll be late, she’ll be worried” you tell him.

“She is out of town” Yeonjun tells you, “It’s alright” he adds when he sees your expression.

“Oh” you say, fidgeting around his hold, not used to being so close to others.

“Y/N…” Yeonjun drawls out and you look at him again.

“Don’t set me up with other people” he mutters making you smile.

“I can’t set you up with others against your will” you remind him.

“No, but don’t try to” he tells you running his hands across your arms.

“Like you’d listen to me” you laugh.

“I will” he insists and something about the way he looks at you makes him believable.

“Also you are calling me Jun from now on”

-.-

🎧this is the end to part -2, hopefully you all liked this one. part 3 would be out sometime by the end of december (hopefully?). if you liked this fic please leave a comment/reblog/like it helps me out a lot and consider giving my other fics a read. xoxo🎧

-.-

[ismyteadoneyet]

I took a break from the more serious piece with the throne and all to draw this quicker, silly thing because they have started airing Hallmark movies on TV and I was possessed by the Christmas Spirit :')

There's also a short lil drabble thingy underneath the 'Keep Reading', bcs I couldn't help myself 😭😭 If Tracy won't let her characters have some Silly Time™, I WILL. 😭😭😭

The snowball soars through the air in a high arch, and lands with a wet, satisfying "fwump".

Loud cheers and "woo"s chorus from the other team, and it takes everything in me to hold back my own laughter at the sight. Nick seems to fight just as hard to do the same.

"...Aaand Miss Chen hits the bullseye! Another point for team...what was your name, again?" Valec calls from the sidelines with his, by now, classic announcer-voice, acting judge for today's match.

Classic, because this is the third snowball fight we've had since the snow first fell, and our team has been losing every single one so far. Sel has been too busy dodging the snowballs to realize that he has been our opponents' only target, despite there being three people on our team.

Alice turns to Valec with a wide grin and high-fives William. Lark is doubled over behind them, laughing.

"Team Victory," She reminds him gleefully, and Valec nods with a snap of his fingers. More so to jab another thumb into Sel's side than actually needing the reminder.

Mariah sits at his side, trying to hide her own snicker behind a steaming cup of hot cocoa. She caught onto our pact halfway through the first game, and is now just as eager as the rest of us to see how long it takes the Kingsmage to notice.

"One more point to team Victory! Making the current score.... 5-2, their favor."

Sel tries to wipe the already melting snow off his cheek before it runs down under the collar of his coat. With a wet flick of his gloved hand, he uncovers the scowl underneath.

"What kind of defense are you two supposed to be if you are not defending the whole team?"

"I thought you were behind me, I swear," I say, but can't seem to disguise my lie well enough, because Sel's mouth curves further downwards even before I finish. "You know, behind the shield."

"What's the matter, Kingsmage? Lost yer spark?" Lark taunts from where he now stands straighter, only barely holding it together.

Sel spins around to face the other Merlin with a sneer before shaking more snow out of his hair. "Douglas, you better sleep with one eye open unless you like your dreams of 'White Christmases' very vivid," He growls, and the scheming smirk across his lips makes me certain that the threat of taking the snowball fight off-court and into Larkin's bedroom is a very real one.

He barks out a sarcastic laugh in return, but can't quite seem to keep the amused glint out of his eye, "I sure would like to see ye get 'merry and bright', Kane."

With another flick of Sel's wrist, aether flows to his hands as if he were to craft his usual staff, but instead forms something resembling a lacrosse racket, solid like a shovel. He twirls it in his hand once before bending down to scoop up fresh snow, muttering, more to himself than to the other Merlin;

"Oh, I'll show you 'merry and bright', you-"

"Would you look at that!" William cuts in, making all our heads turn to him.

He looks up at the sky, shielding his eyes from the sun, before taking a step back towards the wall of snow shielding us from Volition.

"Oh, shit!"

Nick understands faster than I do, and casts a new aether shield and grabs my arm in one swift movement. He pulls me along, laughing all the while. "Get down!"

Sel is frozen in place, shovel-racket still mid-scoop, and completely alone on our side of the battlefield. He doesn't bother looking at either of us, but his narrowed eyes and shift in his jaw makes the betrayal apparent.

William reaches out a hand to the wall and shoves it right into the snow. With no visible effort, he lifts up a chunk nearly as big as himself, easily balancing it in one hand. He slowly turns to the Kingsmage with a smirk, promise of perfect aim in his eyes and voice both;

"Midday, is it not?"

[sunarots]

BETTER THAN REVENGE! ━━━ tooru oikawa & rintarou suna

18. say it ♡

cw. implied sex

You lay back on the grass in Kuro's back garden, staring up at the stars in the sky as he plays the finished album through a speaker. You balance your half-full cup on your stomach, where it will stay until you decide you want another sip. For now, you just want to stay with Rin's arm beneath you, his side pressed against yours.

Kenma and Atsumu are sat trying to decide what flavour to put in their vapes next, Atsumu scolding Kenma whenever he tries to convince him to use the pear flavour he's yet to try. Kuro sits near them, trying to keep his cigarette lit for as long as possible so he doesn't have to go find a new lighter.

Rin looks longingly at the cup just out of reach from him, desperate for another drink yet finding that he doesn't want to have to move. Instead, he hopes that just by looking at it he might be able to get some of the alcohol into his body. Turning his head back to stare at the sky, he can hear you quietly humming along to the songs playing through the speakers. A small smile starts to tug at the corners of his lips.

Sighing, you raise the cup from its spot on your stomach and prop yourself up on one of your elbows, chugging it in its entirety. You consider going back inside to pour yourself another drink, or immediately lying back down with Rin so you don't have to go without his warmth. However, before you can make the decision, his arm has moved from behind you and he's shuffled away from you.

You use your free hand to push yourself up, waving the cup when you spot Kuro looking at you with furrowed eyebrows. You step up onto the decking and through the open glass door, walking straight ahead to the kitchen island where he laid out all the drinks and a cocktail shaker that hasn't been used since he bought it. Yet, he insists on taking it out every time because it makes him look classy.

You set down the cup and scan over the bottles in front of you, deciding to pour yourself the same as last time. Before you can swap the booze in your hand for the mixer, a hand is placed on top of yours and carefully takes the bottle away. You look back at Rin, who's pouring himself the same as you.

"I think...we're fucking geniuses," Rin says quietly, flashing you a wide smile as he pours in more alcohol than mixer.

You match his expression, passing him the juice before saying, "Oh, I know we are." He laughs, topping up his drink.

You pick up your cup and take a sip, resting your back against the counter. You can't fight fluttering in your stomach, nor the tingling when his arm brushes yours.

"Can I... Can I talk to you about something?" Rin's voice is soft, careful to not startle you. He waits for you to nod your head before he turns to fully face you, taking a long drink before setting it on the island. "I... I think I'm in love with you."

You turn your head to look at him, scanning over his face. He waits patiently for your response, his finger drawing a pattern on the counter beside him. "I know," you whisper, feeling your cheeks beginning to warm. "Me too."

The corners of his mouth tug upwards into a slight smile, picking up his cup that he'd placed. "Say it."

Raising an eyebrow at him, you watch as he takes a sip of his drink. "What?"

"Say it, or I'm not gonna believe you," he repeats with a small smirk, shrugging his shoulders.

You take in a deep breath and try to fight the heat rushing to your cheeks. "I'm in love with you, Rin." You manage to get it out without breaking eye contact with him.

Rin downs what he's just poured into his cup, discarding it behind him. You copy his actions, dumping the cup in the trash behind you. His hands cup your cheeks, pushing your hair out of the way before pulling you closer to him.

When his lips touch yours, everything around you stops. All that matters to you is him. You wrap your arms around his neck to pull him closer to you, fully pressed up against him. He tastes like cigarettes and alcohol, something you know will linger forever. His hands drop from your cheeks, leaving a trail of fire across every part of you he touches.

His hands grip onto your thighs, pulling you up and sitting you on the counter. You flinch away from him when something behind you shatters, one of the empty glass bottles knocked onto the floor. Rin fights back his laugh, his hand in front of his mouth.

"What the-"

You peer past Rin with your legs still around his waist, giving Kuro a sheepish smile as he stares at the two of you with an unreadable expression. Rin starts laughing even harder as you hide your face in his chest, an attempt to avoid any scolding from the host.

"Are you kidding me? No, get off the counter!" he exclaims, shoving a finger in your direction. "You are not fucking in my kitchen! Animals! Go out to your car. Now!"

Rin looks back at you in amusement, glancing in the direction of the front door as a way of asking if you wanted to. You nod your head and go to push yourself off the counter, his arm around your waist stopping you. He lifts you up and over his shoulder, ignoring you as you try to convince him to put you down. He holds you tightly by the legs, looking over his shoulder and shouting a goodbye to Kuro.

"Rin! Put me down! I'm gonna fall!"

He sets you down by his car and looks at you with offence, a hand on his chest. "Have I ever let you down before?" When you don't respond, he smiles a little more. "Then trust me. You won't fall if I'm near you, babe. That's a promise."

masterlist. previous | next

summary. as a world-famous singer, everyone knows everything about all of your relationships. namely, your renowned on-again/off-again relationship with one tooru oikawa. it’s hard not to when every song you write is about him. but no one truly knows all of the gory details of all your dirty breakups, except from the two of you. and after announcing in a drunken red-carpet interview that you never want to see his face again, everyone starts desperately searching for the truth behind your twisted relationship. and just when you think you can escape these rumours, in comes a job opportunity your band can’t turn down.

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