#luka doncic

[nottodayjustin]

February 1st 2025 best hockey tweet(s) of the day

Hey Canucks fans remember when I said I promised you’d stop being the main character on here yesterday? Well I lied I’m sorry, I’m only human 😭

[charliewrites99]

[goldfades]

first dates, proposals and injuries | DONCIC

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 3.5k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | a summary of their timeline!

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | majority fluff! mentions of injuries, but nothing else:)

FIRST DATE ┈ AUGUST, 2019

The argument starts before you even sit down, before the waitress can take your drink order, before Luka can flash that signature, lopsided grin that’s already been getting under your skin in ways you are absolutely not ready to admit.

It starts because of course it does. Because you’re you, and he’s him, and whatever cosmic force put the two of you at the same restaurant table in late 2019 had to have known what it was doing.

“You’re insane if you think Jokic is better than LeBron,” you say, resting your forearms on the table as you glare at him across the candlelit setting. “Like, actually unhinged. Are we watching the same league?”

Luka scoffs, leaning back in his chair like he has all the time in the world to deal with your slander. He drags a hand down his face like you’re exhausting him, like he wasn’t the one who brought up basketball in the first place. “You’re just a LeBron fan because you grew up watching him dominate,” he says, shaking his head. “You don’t appreciate real basketball.”

You gasp, placing a dramatic hand over your chest. “Excuse me?”

Luka leans in, eyes alight with that sharp, competitive glint you’ve only ever seen when he’s talking about basketball. “And Jokic sees it five steps ahead. Maybe ten.” He shrugs, easy and infuriating. “Longevity, dominance, IQ. It’s not even close, pčelica.”

You jab a finger at his chest. “Not even close? Luka, Lebron is redefining the center position! You—”

“I what?” He smirks, tilting his head. “I actually play against both of them?”

Your jaw drops. He did not just pull that card.

Luka laughs at your expression, all warm and boyish, like he’s already celebrating the win. The sound would be cute if you weren’t two seconds from throwing your napkin at his head. “That’s wild,” you mutter. “You really just—”

“I really just,” he teases, mimicking your tone. Then, softer, “But I like this. I like you like this.”

The words settle between you like a shift in gravity. You pause, blinking at him, and suddenly it’s not about LeBron or Jokić anymore. It’s about the way he’s looking at you—like he’s discovered his new favorite thing in the world, and it’s you, sitting here, all fired up over basketball takes.

You narrow your eyes at him, but there’s no real malice there. You don’t know it yet—not in this moment, with your heart pounding and your competitive streak flaring up like a supernova—but this is the moment Luka Dončić falls for you. Hard. It’s not the way you clean up so well off the court, though he’s definitely been trying not to stare. It’s not even the way you tilt your head when you challenge him, eyes sharp, lips pursed, like you live for the fight.

No, it’s the way you don’t back down. It’s the way you push right back, toe-to-toe with him, chaos-to-chaos, meeting his fire with your own.

Luka exhales, running a hand down his face like he can’t believe it. Then he grins, slow and sure. “Yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “I’m gonna marry you one day.”

Your breath catches.

And just like that, the argument is forgotten.

--

The early days—before the flashing cameras, the headlines dissecting your every move, and the courtside dramatics that would come to define you two—were sweet. A kind of sweetness neither of you had expected, like finding extra syrup at the bottom of your plate when you thought the pancakes were already perfect.

It was late 2019, the golden stretch of your first season in New York, and Luka was deep into another MVP-caliber run in Dallas. But in between the road games and the time zones, you found each other in moments so soft they barely made a sound—late-night FaceTime calls where he’d prop his phone up while brushing his teeth, lazy Sunday mornings tangled in each other’s hoodies, the quiet thrill of knowing you had something before the world even knew to look.

And then there was Slovenia.

He took you home that first offseason, back to the red rooftops and winding streets of Ljubljana, where the pace of life slowed down and the world shrank to just you, him, and the people who made him who he was. You weren’t prepared for how much it would mean—not just to Luka, but to you.

His mother, Mirjam, was warm and whip-smart, teasing Luka in a way that made your heart squeeze. His grandmother fussed over you in rapid Slovenian, hands on your cheeks, nodding approvingly when Luka translated: She says you eat well, that’s good. You’ll need it to keep up with me.

(You had bumped him with your hip for that one, and his grandmother had cackled like she’d just won a bet.)

You met his childhood friends, walked the streets where he first dribbled a ball, saw the court where he learned to play. And one night, wrapped in a blanket on his childhood home’s balcony, you told him about your own messy road to the WNBA—about the nights you doubted yourself, the injuries, the sacrifices. Luka had listened, eyes steady on you like he was memorizing every word.

“You’re the best player I’ve ever known,” he’d said after a long pause, voice quiet but sure. “Don’t let anyone tell you different. Not coaches, not media. Not even me if I ever say something stupid.”

You’d laughed, then kissed him slow—because for all the trash talk, for all the arguments over LeBron and Jokić, Luka Dončić saw you. And maybe that was when you knew.

Maybe that was when you both did.

The injury came out of nowhere. One wrong step—just one—and your entire world shifted beneath you.

It happened during a game in early 2020, a regular-season matchup that should’ve been just that: regular. You’d driven hard to the basket, planted your foot, and felt something go horribly, sickeningly wrong. The pain was instant, a searing-hot bolt that shot up your leg and dropped you to the hardwood before you even realized what happened.

The arena noise blurred into a dull roar. Your ears were ringing, hands gripping at your knee as trainers rushed in. You swore you could hear your own heartbeat, frantic and uneven.

But the worst part? The moment they helped you up, and you knew.

You weren’t the type to cry. You’d played through sprains, bruises, busted lips—you prided yourself on being the one who never let the pain show. But as they helped you off the court, as you saw your teammates’ faces tight with concern, something inside you cracked.

And when the MRI confirmed what you feared—when the doctors started talking about “recovery timelines” and “patience” and “one step at a time”—you broke.

The moment Luka found out, he was on the next flight to New York. No hesitation, no I’ll see you soon. Just a single text before takeoff: I’m coming. Don’t argue.

You hadn’t planned on crying. You really hadn’t. But when Luka walked through your apartment door, still in the sweats he left Dallas in, eyes scanning you like he wasn’t sure if he should hold you or let you be—you lost it.

Tears welled up fast, thick and hot, and before you could fight them back, Luka was there. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you in like he could physically hold you together. You gripped his hoodie, buried your face into his chest, and sobbed.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” you choked out. “Luka, I don’t know if I—”

“Yes, you can,” he murmured, voice firm, steady. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his hold tightening. “You will. And I’ll be here the whole time.”

You wanted to believe him. But right then, all you could do was shake your head, because the fear was so much louder than his reassurance.

“This was supposed to be my year,” you whispered, voice breaking. “I worked so—” A sharp inhale. “I worked so fucking hard for this, Luka.”

“I know.” His hand found the back of your neck, grounding. “I know you did, pčelica.”

You hated this. Hated how weak you felt. Hated that he had to see you like this—messy and hurting, nothing like the fierce, unstoppable player he fell for.

But Luka didn’t flinch. He just held you tighter, letting you cry, letting you be this version of yourself without shame.

And later, when the tears finally slowed and your breathing evened out, he pulled back just enough to look at you.

“You’re not alone in this,” he said, brushing damp strands of hair from your face. “I need you to hear me. You are not alone.”

You searched his face, and for the first time since the injury, the panic in your chest loosened just a little.

Luka wasn’t going anywhere.

--

The world found out about you two before you were even ready to say it out loud yourselves.

At first, it was just whispers—background noise on social media, the occasional courtside shot of you at Mavericks games, still in your knee brace but animated as ever. Then came the clips. The way you’d leap up after a Luka step-back three, how you’d mouth off at opposing teams like you were the one running the offense, the sideline moments where Luka would glance over at you mid-game and smirk like he had a secret no one else knew.

And, of course, the video.

You hadn’t even realized you were being filmed that night. It was a tight game, a chippy one, and Luka was already one technical deep when he started laying into the refs. You, standing courtside, were simultaneously barking at a six-foot-four forward who’d said something slick—doesn’t even matter what. The footage was grainy, but the energy was unmistakable: two people, completely separate yet perfectly in sync, talking mad shit in stereo.

The caption read, simply: Soulmates. It went viral within hours.

That season, the one you spent on the sidelines in Dallas, was supposed to be the hardest of your career. And in a lot of ways, it was. You weren’t built to sit still. Watching your team fight without you, stuck in street clothes while your knee slowly, painfully healed, made your skin itch. But Luka never let you fall too deep into your own head.

He’d drag you to Mavs practices, challenging you to free-throw contests on one leg (you still won most of them). He’d let you dissect film with him, lying on the couch with your knee propped up while you both debated pick-and-roll coverage. And on the bad days—the days where you felt like a ghost of the player you used to be—he didn’t try to fix it. He’d just pull you close, let you be angry, and remind you that you weren’t alone in this.

You were still you. And you weren’t going anywhere.

Neither was he.

--

Luka had known for a long time. Longer than he probably should have, if you asked anyone else.

Two months into dating—before the headlines, before the injury, before the world knew your name alongside his—he bought the ring.

It had been impulsive, maybe, but not reckless. Luka wasn’t a reckless person, not when it mattered. He just knew. Knew in the same way he knew when to release a step-back three, when to fire a no-look pass. It was instinct, muscle memory, like he’d been waiting for you his whole life without realizing it.

So, he bought the ring. Kept it tucked away, first in a drawer, then in a safe, then in his travel bag because he didn’t like the idea of being too far from it. He never rushed it. He just waited—waited for the right time, for the right moment.

And then, one night in late 2022, standing in the kitchen of your shared home after one of your WNBA games, he realized the moment was already here.

It wasn’t some grand, orchestrated thing. No cameras, no big speeches, no dramatic buildup. Just you, standing at the stove, stirring something in a pan while Luka leaned against the counter, rambling about the game.

“You should’ve seen the way they were doubling you,” he said, his accent thickening the more excited he got. “It was ridiculous. Like, bro, do you not know she wants you to do that? And that steal in the fourth—”

“Luka,” you interrupted, amused. “Are you gonna help, or just talk my ear off?”

He grinned, completely unfazed. “I am helping. I’m being moral support.”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t really mind. You liked this—him, talking basketball while you cooked, the way he was just there in your space like he belonged.

And that’s when it hit him.

This was it.

This was everything.

His chest got tight, his hands a little clammy. He didn’t plan this. Didn’t have a speech prepared. But the ring was in the drawer down the hall, and he wasn’t waiting any longer.

The food was done, plated and set on the counter, when he stepped behind you and tapped your shoulder.

You turned, brows furrowed. “What?”

And then your breath caught.

Because Luka was on his knee, looking up at you with something raw and sure and devastatingly real in his expression.

He hadn’t rehearsed anything, so he did what he always did when he was nervous—he talked.

“I, uh—I bought this forever ago,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “Like… way too early. Probably crazy early. But I knew. I knew when we spent that whole night arguing about LeBron and Jokić. I knew when my grandma said you eat well and that meant you’d keep up with me.” A breath, a small, breathless laugh. “I knew when you got hurt, and all I wanted to do was be where you were.”

Your hands flew to your mouth, eyes burning.

Luka swallowed hard, thumb fidgeting against the box. “I don’t need headlines, or cameras, or some big fancy thing. I just need you. That’s it. That’s all it’s ever been.”

The world knew everything about you two. But this? This moment?

This was just for you.

Luka took a steadying breath. “So, pčelica,” he murmured, voice thick with emotion. “Will you marry me?”

Your whole body locked up.

For once in your life, words failed you.

Your heart was pounding—actually pounding, like you’d just hit a game-winner at the buzzer. The kitchen, the food, the entire damn world faded, and all you could see was Luka, on one knee, looking at you like he had never been more sure of anything in his life.

You weren’t a crier. You never had been. But your throat was tight, and your eyes were stinging, and you knew—you knew—if you so much as blinked too hard, you’d lose it.

Luka was still talking, still rambling because he was nervous.

“I mean, obviously you don’t have to say yes right away,” he rushed out. “Like, I don’t want to pressure you or anything. I know it’s a big thing, a lifetime thing, and we can—”

“Luka.”

He stopped.

You dropped your hands from your mouth, inhaled deeply, and let yourself really see him.

His shoulders were tense, his free hand fidgeting against the ring box. He was always so damn confident—on the court, in life—but this? This was the most vulnerable you had ever seen him.

You let out a shaky exhale, your lips curling into something between a smile and a disbelieving laugh. “You’re a dumbass.”

Luka blinked. “What?”

You grabbed his face.

Your hands framed his cheeks, fingers pressing into the stubble that had grown in after a few days without shaving. His skin was warm, a little flushed, his breath uneven under your touch. His lips parted slightly, his eyes wide, and then—then—you kissed him.

You kissed him hard, like he’d just won something, like he was the only thing that mattered in the world. And maybe, right then, he was.

Luka made a startled sound in the back of his throat before sinking into it, his hands gripping your waist like he needed to ground himself. You could feel his heart hammering against your chest, or maybe that was yours, or maybe it didn’t even matter because you were saying yes—yes—in every way except words.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead rested against his, and you whispered, “You really thought I’d say no?”

Luka let out a shaky laugh. “I mean, I hoped you wouldn’t.”

“You knew I wouldn’t.”

His smile was soft, teasing, and so damn him. “Yeah. I did.”

You huffed, blinking away the tears that threatened to spill. “Then put the damn ring on me already.”

Luka’s whole face lit up, the pure, boyish joy in his expression nearly knocking the breath out of you. He fumbled with the box, hands a little unsteady as he pulled out the ring—the one he’d carried around for years, waiting for this moment.

And when he slid it onto your finger—when it settled there, snug and perfect like it had always belonged—you felt it deep in your bones.

This was it.

This had always been it.

Luka surged up, wrapping his arms around you so tightly he lifted you off the floor. You let out a startled laugh, gripping onto him as he buried his face into your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

“I love you,” he mumbled, voice muffled. “Like, so much.”

Your chest ached with it—with all of it.

“I love you too, Luka.” You carded your fingers through his hair, held him a little tighter. “Now put me down before you drop me and I end up in another knee brace.”

Luka snorted but obeyed, setting you back on your feet. You barely had time to steady yourself before he was kissing you again—softer this time, slower, like he wanted to make the moment last forever.

And maybe, in a way, it would.

The wedding planning process was pure organized chaos—which, honestly, was the only way it could’ve gone.

You got engaged in July, right in the middle of your WNBA season, and by the time the reality of it settled in, you and Luka had exactly two months before he had to report for training camp in October. There was no drawn-out, year-long engagement, no excessive deliberation over venues or flower arrangements.

You both looked at each other one night, sprawled out on the couch after a road trip, and Luka simply said, “Let’s do it before my season starts.”

And that was that.

There were no second thoughts, no overcomplications—just a joint agreement that you didn’t want to wait. You wanted to be married, simple as that.

The next few weeks were a blur.

Luka, in true Luka fashion, was entirely too chill about it all. “We just need a place, right?” he’d say while you were knee-deep in vendor emails, half-listening as he tossed a basketball up and down from the couch. “A place, some food, and someone to say the thing. Easy.”

You’d nearly thrown your laptop at him.

(But, to be fair, he did step up when it counted—securing a stunning venue with just a few calls, thanks to the fact that everyone in Dallas would do anything for Luka Dončić. Still, you made him suffer through at least one flower-sample meeting as payback.)

The guest list was intimate—family, close friends, teammates. No press, no media spectacle. Just the people who truly mattered.

The wedding date was locked in for late September, just weeks before Luka had to report for camp. It was fast, hectic, and the kind of timeline that would make any wedding planner cry, but it was yours.

And that was all that mattered.

For all the chaos leading up to it, the wedding itself was… perfect.

Not in a scripted, fairytale kind of way—no, there were little mishaps, tiny stumbles that made it yours. Luka nearly forgot his shoes at the hotel. Your niece spilled juice on her flower girl dress ten minutes before the ceremony. Someone (probably one of Luka’s teammates) started a drinking game at the reception that got way out of hand.

But none of that mattered.

What mattered was the way Luka looked at you when you walked down the aisle, like he was seeing you for the first time and falling in love all over again.

What mattered was the way his hands shook slightly when he held yours, how his thumb traced absent-minded circles into your skin because even under the brightest lights, you were the thing that kept him steady.

What mattered was the vows—spoken low, just for each other, though you were sure the raw emotion in Luka’s voice could be felt by everyone in the room.

What mattered was the I do, the way he kissed you like he was never letting go, the way your wedding bands felt right—like they’d belonged there all along.

The rest of the night was a blur of laughter, music, and too many shots. Luka spun you around the dance floor, his grin wide and unfiltered as he pulled you close, his forehead pressed against yours.

“You’re stuck with me now,” he murmured against your lips, voice teasing but eyes so damn soft.

You smirked, looping your arms around his neck. “I’ve been stuck with you, Dončić.”

And really, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

[napapamahal]

luka dončić, the biggest babygirl in the league right now.

[darling-flora]

he doesn't do it for everyone but...😮‍💨

[jxck-y]

[goingextinct]

luka will always bury his face into kyrie's neck and kyrie will always put his hand on luka's head

[maxipowell]

feb 25, 2025

[freethrows]

Jan 25, 2025

[zetterbabe]

go home motherfucker, you can't fucking guard me (05.24.24)

[hvnsinureyes]

𝒹𝓇𝒾𝓋𝒾𝓃’ 𝒾𝓃 𝒸𝒶𝓇𝓈 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒷𝑜𝓎𝓈. . . | luka dončić

summary | luka gets a new car and somehow you end up giving him head in it. whoops!

warnings | nsfw!— m. receiving oral, road head (do not do this in real life 😭)

author’s note | inspired by this…also i haven’t written smut in months so, sorry, i tried! practice makes perfect ig?

luka always had an eye for cars. you always forget the exact number of how many he owns, but it’s definitely somewhere in the double digits. lately, he’s been raving about wanting a new one– a bugatti. 

truthfully, you don’t know a thing about cars. but it’s hot when he starts going into detail about the mechanics of a car, the engine and its horsepower, what the brand is known for– all that car guy stuff. his eyes get excited, his accent gets even thicker, and you get to watch his veiny hands wave around as he explains to you. 

it was only a matter of time until he bought it.

“what happened to being responsible with your money?” you ask, teasing as you elbow him. the bugatti sits in the driveway of your shared home, sparkling under the hot californian sun. after all, the only thing stopping him from getting the car in the first place was the price. he only shrugs, a sheepish look on his face. 

“he gave me a good deal,” he says, scratching the back of his neck, “i couldn’t say no.”

“couldn’t? or you didn’t want to?” 

the silence he gives speaks volumes. you’ve come to learn luka can never say no to two things: you and sports cars. 

“luka…”

“anyways,” luka moves on quickly, bringing you closer to the car, tracing his hand against its curves, “i wanna take you out, drive it around for a bit.” 

“but–” 

“please, come on, baby.” he says, eyes pleading for you to say yes. he even bends his knees to get down to your eye level. “i promise i’ll go slow. nothing crazy, 10 minutes and we’ll be back home.”

you sigh, giving in as always. “fine.” luka beams at you, pulling you towards the passenger door and opening it for you. the interior of the car is somehow even better than the outside, with pure colored leather seats and an elegant design. luka quickly slides into the driver’s seat, the car roaring into life as he shifts gears. the whole time, he wears a proud smirk, as if he’s saying, “it’s nice, isn’t it?” 

and you can’t help but agree.

the bugatti drives smoothly on the road, air filled with the small murmur of chatter between you and luka, just talking about random aspects of your day and what you plan to do later. although you try to distract yourself by admiring the surrounding area, the way luka looks right now is starting to get to you. he’s gorgeous, a better sight than the pink and orange hued sunset outside. 

sweatpants hanging dangerously low— showing off a tiny piece of his happy trail in the process— sharp eyes focused on the road, large hands flexing against the steering wheel (when really, they should be on you). maybe its the air he drives with, confident and… manly. 

or you’re just horny. two things can be true at the same time after all. 

you look down at his pants and grin, knowing no matter when or where, he’s always needing you somehow. “luka? sweetheart?” he hums, still looking at the road as he steers. 

“try not to get distracted.” 

he’s quick to arch a brow and ask you what you mean, until he feels your nails creeping closer to his groin. oh. your eyes flick over to him, seeing if he’s against it at all, but there’s no change in his demeanor— except for a light blush on his cheeks. 

taking your seatbelt off, you lean closer to his crotch area, untying his sweatpants so you can finally get to what you’ve been craving for. luka lifts himself up to let you bring down his pants a bit, the tent in his boxers finally exposed. 

the moment you start to palm his boner, luka quickly curses out in slovenian, darkened eyes flickering down to see you and your shit-eating grin. it’s almost laughable how easy it is to get him to fold so quickly. it makes you want to ruin him even more. “c’mon, don’t tease,” he says, frustrated with you. 

“what makes you think you’re in any position to tell me what to do?” 

“i can pull over right now and show you myself.”

fair, you think as you pull down his boxers, aching cock popping out. he’s hard, no surprise. 

with the bat of your eyelashes, you drag your tongue up the shaft of his cock, bringing your mouth down to take him all in. “ah, fuck me,” his breath hitches, overwhelmed by the warm feeling of your mouth. 

on instinct, luka weaves a hand into your hair, grip tight but not painful. you can tell he’s more on edge now, seriously doing his best to make sure the two of you don’t end up on the news for such a reckless act. you feel the car slow down a bit, luka using his hand to guide you up and down his cock. 

the sinful noises of you gagging on his dick echo throughout the car, spit and drool gathering in your mouth, making a white ring around his base. “keep going, just like that, baby,” he says, voice rough. you let him thrust his hips up, fucking your mouth as you gag around him. 

“where do you want it? your mouth?” 

you nod, desperate, pleas muffled by his cock. with a grunt, luka moans out your name, tears forming in the corner of his eye. you feel ropes of cum hit the back of your throat, swallowing every drop until he finally lets you up.

he lets go of your hair as he pants, trying to get his breathing even once again. that was risky— but hot. “you’re…” he trails off, “dangerous. very dangerous.”

“you still liked it though,” 

“hell yes, of course,” you giggle at his silliness. you glance at the front view mirror, gazing at the state of you, mascara ruined, hair messy, spit coating your lips. even when you look a mess, he doesn’t hesitate to bring your lips to his, tongues clashing as he tastes himself on you. 

“you’re going to be the death of me.” he says, breathless. you smile, shrugging shyly. now it’s luka’s turn to look as if he wants to ruin you. the car's speed changes suddenly, luka pressing down on the gas. there’s only one destination on his mind. you whip your head towards luka confused, “what happened to going slow?”

“we need to get home quick. i can’t wait anymore.”

“for what?”

“what else? i need to take care of you too.”

[goldfades]

I think it just makes sense for a little blurb about crash out queen going to the lakers game supporting her hubby

I can def see her going super early to watch him warm up (wearing his new jersey obv) and the cameras follow her the whole time, she talks to jj, LeBron, and the rest of the team bc obv they all love her (LeBron brings up her finals logo 3 ofc) and the whole time luka is playing she’s just smiling so hard and being so supportive (but cursing in Slovenian when luka misses a shot hehe)

anyways ilysm my sweetheart superstar

omg this is such a cute way for the debut!!! here ya go, baby, i hope yall enjoy!!

You get to the arena stupidly early.

Like, beat-the-security-checks, lights-aren’t-even-fully-on-yet early.

But there’s no way in hell you’re missing a second of Luka’s Lakers debut—not the warmups, not the pre-game handshakes, not even the way he walks into this new era of his career.

And judging by the cameras that are already tracking your every move, the rest of the world is just as interested.

It’s been like this all day—your arrival getting broadcasted like you’re the one about to drop a 40-point triple-double. Social media’s having a field day with it. Clips of you stepping into Crypto.com Arena in Luka’s brand-new Lakers jersey (custom-fitted, cropped just enough to sit right on your waist) have already gone viral.

“Crash Out Queen in the building.”

“She’s rocking the 77 like she’s about to check in.”

“Nah, she came earlier than the entire Lakers roster, she is SO real for that.”

And honestly?

They’re right.

You step onto the court before most of the team even arrives, your sneakers squeaking against the polished hardwood. The arena is still quiet—just the faint thump of a ball hitting the floor, the occasional echo of voices carrying from the tunnels.

And in the middle of it, getting shots up like he’s the only person in the world, is Luka.

You slow for a second, watching.

He looks good in purple and gold—still unfamiliar, still something you’ll have to get used to, but good. His movements are sharp, effortless, the kind of locked-in you’ve seen a million times before. But there’s something else tonight, something extra in the way he follows through on his shots, in the way his jaw stays tight even when he swishes three after three.

You know that look.

He’s ready—but he’s antsy.

So, naturally, you fix that.

You walk straight onto the court—ignoring the cameras that immediately start flashing, the Lakers staff who pause mid-conversation, the social media team that’s definitely about to clip this—and step right into Luka’s space.

He barely gets the next shot off before you tug at the bottom of his jersey.

“Damn,” you tease, looking up at him. “They actually got you in Lakers colors. Thought you’d combust before putting that on.”

Luka huffs out a laugh, finally breaking focus. His eyes sweep over you, from the cropped version of his jersey to the smug grin you’re throwing at him.

“You really came this early?”

You scoff. “Don’t act like you don’t love it.”

He smirks, reaching out to hook a finger in your waistband, tugging you just a little closer.

The cameras are eating this up.

Before you can fire back, a familiar voice cuts through.

“Man, she really beat us here?”

You turn just in time to see JJ jogging onto the court, shaking his head in amusement.

You grin. “What can I say? I like to be punctual.”

“Punctual,” JJ repeats, giving Luka a pointed look. “You mean obsessed.”

Luka just shrugs like he doesn’t mind at all, like he’s actually very fine with you showing up before half the damn team.

And speaking of—

“Well, well, well,” a deep voice drawls from the tunnel.

You don’t even have to turn around.

“Here we go,” you mutter under your breath, just as LeBron himself strolls onto the court.

He’s already shaking his head, grinning, like he’s been waiting for this moment. “New York’s finest in the house.”

You cross your arms, smirking. “Gotta check out the new scenery. Make sure my man’s in good hands.”

LeBron laughs. “I know you’re not worried about that.”

You roll your eyes, but before you can respond, he leans in slightly, voice dipping just low enough for the cameras not to catch it.

“So,” he says, a knowing glint in his eyes. “We gonna talk about that finals logo three or what?”

A groan rips out of you before you can stop it. “You too?”

JJ and Luka are already laughing.

LeBron grins. “I mean, I got my fair share of wild shots, but that one?” He shakes his head. “Crazy.”

You point a warning finger at him. “I swear, if you bring that up in a press conference—”

He holds his hands up, all innocence. “Hey, I’m just sayin’. Big time players make big time shots.”

You narrow your eyes. “I will start slandering your free throw percentage.”

LeBron loses it.

JJ has to walk away to keep from doubling over.

And Luka?

Luka’s just watching you—like he’s seeing all of this, the way you move so easily through his world, the way you fit into it like you’ve always been here, the way his teammates are your teammates—and like it’s doing something to him.

Like it’s settling something in him.

Like maybe, just maybe, all of this change doesn’t feel so scary when you’re here.

And yeah, the cameras are catching every second of it.

--

From the moment the game tips off, you are in your element.

Sitting courtside, front and center in your custom Luka Dončić Lakers jersey—the one that’s cropped just right, snug at the waist, with your own number stitched in tiny embroidery on the sleeve—you are a menace.

And not the quiet kind.

Luka’s locked in from the start, but so are you.

Every shot he takes? You’re on your feet before the ball even swishes through the net. Every time he gets downhill, carving through defenders like they’re nothing, you’re clapping, nodding, talking your talk because of course he’s doing this—of course he’s out here dominating in his Lakers debut like he was built for this.

And when he hits his first step-back three in that gold and purple uniform?

Oh, it’s over.

You’re out of your seat, yelling “That’s my man!” so damn loud that even the bench turns to look at you. The cameras catch everything—you pointing at Luka like you just hit the shot, like you knew it was cash the second he released it.

JJ is dying on the bench.

LeBron, walking back up the court, is shaking his head and laughing because he knew exactly what kind of energy you were bringing tonight.

And Luka?

Luka hears all of it.

His grin is instant, dimples deep, and he can’t help himself—he looks right at you as he backpedals on defense, giving you that smug, knowing look.

Like he loves this.

Like he loves you.

The whole game, you’re in it.

Every whistle, every foul—especially when Luka gets knocked around a little too hard—you’re making your feelings very clear.

At one point, he takes some contact on a drive, hits the floor hard, and you’re already up before the whistle even blows.

“Where’s the call?!” You throw your hands up, eyes locked on the ref like you might actually fight him.

And listen—some people might call it over the top, but you don’t care.

Not when Luka’s out there, playing his ass off.

Not when this is his first game in a new jersey, in a city that’s expecting everything from him.

And when the game gets tight in the fourth quarter, when every possession starts mattering a little more, you’re right there, standing, clapping, yelling encouragement between plays, telling Luka to take over—and he does.

Of course he does.

He lives for this.

And when that final buzzer sounds?

The Lakers win.

Luka’s brilliant—because of course he is.

And you?

You’re beaming.

You’re still clapping when Luka makes his way over, chest heaving from the last few minutes of high-intensity play, sweat dripping, eyes locked on you like you’re the only person in the arena.

Before you can say anything, he reaches out, grabs your face—big hands cradling your jaw—and kisses you, hard.

The crowd goes nuts.

The cameras catch every second.

And you?

You just smile against his lips, because yeah, this is the perfect way to end his first night in LA.

--

Hand-in-hand, you and Luka make your way through the tunnels, still riding that post-win high.

Everywhere you go, people are dapping him up, clapping him on the back, congratulating him. The energy is electric, and you can feel it in him—the way his fingers squeeze yours a little tighter, the way his whole body is buzzing with adrenaline.

He looks so damn good like this—sweaty, still in his game gear, the jersey a little untucked, his chain glinting under the bright hallway lights.

“You killed it tonight,” you say, bumping into his side as you walk.

He smirks, glancing down at you. “You think?”

You scoff. “Please. Like I wasn’t screaming about it all game.”

Luka grins, shaking his head. “You were crazy.”

“You love it.”

He doesn’t even try to deny it.

As you step outside, the LA night air hits you, warm and thick with energy, fans still gathered outside, cameras flashing.

Luka tugs you in, arm wrapping around your shoulders, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple before muttering, just for you—

“Best part of tonight was having you there.”

And damn, if that doesn’t make your whole heart melt.

You get to the arena stupidly early.

[takethatball]

Lakers @ Clippers | Feb 4, 2025

[puckpocketed]

actually wake up,

[lukai-7711]

[goingextinct]

77 x 11 x 31