#Pre-Competition Routine | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bueckets · 8 months ago

Text

The Prophecy | Part 1

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

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

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

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

WC: 11.9k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And it WORKED, didn't it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The Prophecy Has Spoken: Harvard by 20"

"845/847 ≈ Perfection"

"Future WNBA GOAT"

"Rocket Science + Basketball = 🐐"

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

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

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

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

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

That's when you see them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucket.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Swish. At the buzzer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The arena goes dead silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is something else entirely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They all do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Swish. As pure as a layup.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Good game," she says simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Right," she smirks, ordering another drink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And?"

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

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

She glances back, then at you again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

March suddenly feels very far away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Including one from six months ago.

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

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

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

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

Three dots appear immediately. Your heart rate picks up.

just practicing for march 😘

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something that makes your skin buzz.

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

Your phone lights up with a message:

you up?

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

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

A beat. Three dots.

just your future march matchup.

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

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

guess you’ll have to wait and see.

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

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

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

you always study film this late?

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

how'd you know i was watching film?

saw your laptop reflection in your glasses in that last story

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

stalker much? 🤨

just scouting the competition 😌

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

want company? i'm looking at our clemson tape

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'd like that."

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

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

The nickname hits different in her voice at 4AM.

"Night, Paige."

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

Then your phone buzzes again:

sweet dreams 🌙

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

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

Definitely not.

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

"earth surface temps are literally insane rn"

"why are you even awake?"

"says the girl who's also awake 🤨"

"homework doesn't count"

"nerd 🤓"

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

"bet i will. next time i see you"

"when's that gonna be? 👀"

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

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

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

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

"I do not make a face."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

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

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

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

miss watching film with you

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

"Shut up," you laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You’re totally down bad, huh?"

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

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

"Yeah?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three days until Connecticut.

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

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

"Holy shit, that's really her—"

"The Prophecy is here—"

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

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

You type back quickly, trying to act casual.

surviving. But UConn is like a zoo. 🙄

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

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

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

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

on my way. see you soon.

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

turn around

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can you sign my jersey?"

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

"Are you really majoring in rocket science?"

"Can you do the space shot right now?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's..." you start.

"Weird?" Paige offers.

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

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

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

"—never misses, like ever—"

"—turned down every WNBA scout—"

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

"—next GOAT for sure—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Lead the way, Bueckers."

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

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

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

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

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

"Weird?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The two-hour video calls?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We should..." she starts.

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

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

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

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

"Hey."

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

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

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

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

You’re so fucking screwed.

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

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

Some things are worth the complication.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It wasn't insane," you protest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nods around the table.

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

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

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

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

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

"One time!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glance at her. "Yeah."

Neither of you turns toward it.

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

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

"Or something?"

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

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

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

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

"Paige?"

"Yeah?"

"Breathe."

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

"So," you say.

"So," she echoes.

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

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

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

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

"Do I?"

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

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

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

"Paige?"

"Hmm?"

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

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

"I know," she says softly.

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

"I should..." you start reluctantly.

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

"Okay."

She blinks. "Okay?"

You squeeze her hand gently. "Okay."

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

"Rocket?" her voice comes softly from below.

"Yeah?"

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

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

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

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

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

Continue to part two.

1K notes · View notes

mercvry-glow · 3 months ago

Text

Friendly competition

parings. frank langdon x wife!reader

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

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

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

wc. 1400+

Frank Langdon was a simple man.

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

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

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

FRANKY

How many brains have you terrorized already?

BABY

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

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

And God, you were the most competitive human alive.

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

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

You kissed like you argued—passionately and deep.

All teeth and laughter and stubborn pride.

And yet, somehow, you made it work.

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

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

FRANKY

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

BABY

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frank blinked. “Is that… my mug?”

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

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

“Is this your way of declaring war?”

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

“That was four years ago.”

“And you were wrong.”

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

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

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

You were a smug, brilliant menace.

Especially because of that.

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

He tapped out a message before heading out.

FRANKY

Bet I beat you on the case board today.

Your reply came five seconds later.

BABY

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

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

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

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

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

“Took you long enough.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The door creaked behind you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You raised a brow. “Why?”

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

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

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

You softened a little at that. Just a little.

“You’re sweaty,” you muttered.

“You smell like iron,” he said fondly.

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

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

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

mercrvy-glow 2025

#the pitt #the pitt max #the pitt x reader #Frank Lagdon x reader #Dr. Frank Langdon x reader #Frank Langdon #Dr. Frank Langdon #the pitt x you #Frank Langdon x you #Dr. Frank Langdon x you #patrick ball #Frank Langdon.<3

753 notes · View notes

landoughnut · 4 months ago

Text

Green Light, Red Flag

♡ masterlist - request

♡ pairing - max verstappen x fem!reader

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

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

♡ w/c & a/n - 1.1k | du du du du

"To Super Max!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Someone has to keep your ego in check."

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

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

"I didn't say anything!"

"You were thinking it very loudly."

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

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

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

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

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

"She's busy," Max says flatly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart stutters. "Why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

His breath catches. "No?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Possessive much?"

"You like it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

911 notes · View notes

harrysfolklore · 1 year ago

Text

home hero - charles x reader

gif by @princemick <33

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He did it. He actually did it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1K notes · View notes

gaia-prime · 1 year ago

Text

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

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

source

#olympics #paris 2024 #women’s athletics #Manizha Talash #feminism

714 notes · View notes

kuronarnze · 1 month ago

Note

hihii, its me again! love your works and i ADORE your writing the way you can explain the situations with such accurate words!! can i req figure skater reader x bllk boys? tysm!

a/n: THANK YOU SM FOR REQUESTING AGAIN ANONNN!! This idea is absolutely cute OHMYGOSH, I remember taking figure skating lessons and IT WAS SO HARD I literally gave up and just went back to ballet lessons HAAHHAH, TYSM FOR LOVING MY WORKSS 🫶 GSISHSOSI you're so sweet 😭💗 enjoy the headcannons!!

‧₊˚🧊✩ ₊˚⛸️⊹♡

Figure Skater!Reader x Blue Lock Boys

‧₊˚🧊✩ ₊˚⛸️⊹♡

Isagi Yoichi

- He’s SO amazed every single time you skate—can’t take his eyes off you.

- He knows how hard it is to dedicate yourself to a sport, so he’s your biggest supporter.

- Will show up to competitions with a handmade sign (he’s a bit embarrassed about it tho).

- You’re so graceful... and strong too... and the spins?? He’s 100% in love.

- If you fall during practice, he rushes over worried, even if you brush it off.

- Loves to hold your cold hands after skating and warm them up.

- “Honestly... you’re cooler than any striker.”

‧₊˚🧊✩ ₊˚⛸️⊹♡

Itoshi Sae

- You wouldn’t think Sae would be impressed easily... but you skating?

- His sharp eyes notice the tiny details: your form, the control, the technique.

- He’s in awe. He respects people who master their craft.

- You two often have quiet late-night convos about competition life, pressure, and ambition.

- When he watches you perform, no one can break his focus. He analyzes your routine like a match.

- Rare soft words after your skate:

- “...That was beautiful.” (and you know he means it deeply)

‧₊˚🧊✩ ₊˚⛸️⊹♡

Itoshi Rin

- He’d secretly come to your practice rink at first—too shy to tell you.

- Watches through the glass, eyes wide whenever you land a perfect jump.

- Your dedication reminds him of his own—he understands that drive.

- Always brings you warm drinks after skating.

- If you’re upset about a routine or missed landing, he’s quietly supportive:

- “You’ll nail it next time. I believe in you.”

- He’s actually very protective of your knees/ankles—if you get even a small injury he’s full on worried boyfriend mode.

‧₊˚🧊✩ ₊˚⛸️⊹♡

Shidou Ryusei

- “BABE, YOU’RE LIKE A FREAKIN’ ICE QUEEN!!”

- Super loud and hyped up when you skate. Cheering at competitions like a maniac.

- Genuinely fascinated by how you can look so graceful yet so strong.

- Will totally beg you to teach him how to skate (chaotic disaster on ice).

- Flirts shamelessly while you skate—“Damn, my S/O’s hotter than the whole rink!”

- If anyone criticizes your performance, he’s the first to defend you (loudly).

- Lowkey obsessed. He watches your routines on loop when you’re not there.

‧₊˚🧊✩ ₊˚⛸️⊹♡

Michael Kaiser

- Oh, he is smitten by the elegance and power you show on ice.

- You’re like a star—he fully treats you like one.

- Constantly brags to everyone about you:

- “My partner’s a world-class skater. No big deal.”

- He gifts you extravagant costumes or accessories because “you deserve to sparkle more than anyone.”

- Shows up to your competitions in VIP seats, smug and proud.

- Sometimes stands at rink-side just to blow you kisses during warm-up.

- He adores the contrast between your elegance on ice and your relaxed off-ice personality.

‧₊˚🧊✩ ₊˚⛸️⊹♡

Mikage Reo

- He is completely enchanted. Watches you skate with heart-eyes every time.

- “Babe, you’re like a goddess on ice!!”

- He genuinely researches figure skating so he can talk with you about jumps, spins, scores.

- Will fund your costumes, travel, equipment—whatever you need, without hesitation.

- Loves taking videos of your practice and rewatching them with you.

- If you get nervous pre-performance, he holds your hands:

- “You’ve got this. No one can take their eyes off you.”

- Plans dates at ice rinks, just so you can show off to him in private. He loves it.

‧₊˚🧊✩ ₊˚⛸️⊹♡

TYSM FOR READINGG, I hope you have a nice day, and feel free to request more too ꒰⁠⑅⁠ᵕ⁠༚⁠ᵕ⁠꒱⁠˖⁠♡

157 notes · View notes

vanillefawnn · 2 months ago

Text

Like real people do

ᯓᡣ𐭩

Dean winchester x reader

Warnings: Slightly suggestive content, fluff, language, angst(?)

Song 𖹭.ᐟ

Authors note: this man deserved his happy ending holy shittt (also didn't proof read thissss because im too fcking lazy so have fun)

Dean winchester is not what you'd call "civilized."

He eats with his hands, curses at the television, and thinks throw pillows are some kind of cruel joke. He's got scars on top of scars, trauma buried under charm, and the emotional range of a brick wall wrapped in flannel.

But he's yours.

And God, he's trying.

It starts with a house.

A real one. With walls that don't smell like mildew or gun oil. A porch with actual flowers you planted. A backyard big enough for a dog and a busted up grill Dean found on the side of the road and claimed like it was some precious artifact.

"You sure it's okay?" He'd asked you when you showed him the place. "Like... I don't wanna ruin it."

You kissed him slow. "You can't ruin something you belong in, Dean"

Mornings are his new battlefield.

The enemy; a sleepy, pre-coffee version of himself and a mischievous labrador retriever named bruno who refuses to go potty unless Dean stands outside with him like a canine security escort.

“Seriously?” Dean grumbles at 6:15 a.m., standing barefoot in the dewy grass in pajama pants and a robe he swears he didn’t steal from a motel in Kansas.

Bruno stares at him.

Dean stares back.

“Do your business, man. I got eggs on the stove.”

Bruno takes a majestic dump. Dean mutters a reverent, “Atta boy,” and heads back inside, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

You’re waiting in the kitchen in one of his old tees, leaning on the counter with that slow smile he’d kill for.

“Coffee’s hot,” you say, handing him a mug. “Eggs probably aren’t.”

He sips and grunts appreciatively. “You know I’m still not convinced people actually do this every day.”

“What, make breakfast?”

“Wake up. Be normal. Function before noon.”

You snort. “Welcome to real life, Winchester.”

He kisses your cheek, pulls you close. “Real life with you doesn’t suck.”

Dean's idea of breakfast was chaotic.

Eggs? Sure. Bacon? Absolutely. But the toaster is his nemesis, and one time he put syrup on scrambled eggs because he got distracted by your legs.

"Don't look at me like that," he said, mouth full of syrupy egg. "You walk into my kitchen like a damn dream and expect me to focus?"

"I walked in for juice."

"And I saw God."

He doesn't always win against the kitchen. But he always feeds you. Even if it burnt. Even if the smoke alarm screams like a banshee. You once caught him using a spatula as a fly swatter and then still flipped pancakes with it.

"They're crispy, baby." He said with a wink.

"They're biohazards."

But you ate them. Because they were made with so much love, it was practically oozing out of the batter.

He's still learning the rhythm of normal.

He does laundry, but he forgets to separate the whites. He mows the lawn shirtless because he says, "It feels better," and then accuses you of ogling him when you watch from the porch with an iced tea and zero shame.

He gets home from his job at the auto shop every day at 5:30 p.m. on the dot. You swear it's muscle memory–like the hunter in him still treats routine like armor.

You hear the impala pull up, and your heart skips every time. Still. Always.

He walks in, a little greasy, a little tired, smelling like motor oil and sun. He drops his keys in the bowl by the door and finds you instantly, like he's magnetized.

"Hey, sweetheart."

Then it's arms around your waist, nose in your neck, lips grazing yours like he's never known anything softer.

The evenings are slower now.

You used to think Dean would always live fast–bleed fast, love fast, die fast. That he'd never learn how to slow down.

But he has. For you.

Now, he eats dinner at the table. Rubs your feet on the couch. Watches reruns of jeopardy with an intense competitiveness that is both alarming and endearing.

"You'd make a great contestant," you say one night.

"Hell yeah," he grins. "As long as none of the categories are French food or 18th century poetry."

"Or basic geography."

"Low blow."

And the nights?

Dean makes love like it's the first and last time every time.

Slow. Reverent. Like you're something holy and he's the last sinner on earth.

He's not rough anymore–he doesn't have to be. The urgency is gone. He knows he has time. Knows you're not running. Knows he's safe here, in your arms.

He undresses you like a man learning a new language. Touches you like you're the first soft thing he's ever been allowed to hold.

"I didn't know it could feel like this," he whispers one night, your bodies tangled in sheets and moonlight. "Like I'm not pretending. Like, I'm just... me."

You cradle his face. "You are. You're exactly who you're supposed to be."

He kisses you like a thank‐you.

Like a prayer.

But it's not all serious.

He tries to act like the tough guy still, but you've caught him slow dancing with bruno in the living room to some scratchy Fleetwood Mac vinyl. You said nothing. Just watched.

He secretly likes candle stores. Like, really likes them.

You once found a yankee candle receipt in his jacket. He blamed a coworker, but now your house smells like cedarwood and vanilla, and someone is definitely lighting them when you're not looking.

And don't get started on the "Honey Do list."

"I fixed the leaky sink," he announces one Saturday.

"It's still dripping."

He pauses. "I distracted it."

"By duct taping it?"

"Its emotional stable now."

And every now and then.

He still wakes up from nightmares.

Sometimes shaking. Sometimes quiet and still as death.

You never ask. You just pull him into you. Let him bury his face in your chest. Stroke his hair until he exhales.

"You okay?" You whisper.

He always nods. "Yeah. Just... glad I'm here. With you. Not anywhere else."

Dean winchester isn't normal.

He's a mess of instincts and damage, of snarky jokes and quiet tenderness. He's clumsy with his feelings and forgets trash day and once got stung by a bee because he tried to smell a rose just to see what the hype was about.

But he loves you with everything he has.

And for you? He tries.

He lets the dog out every morning. Kisses you like a promise. Works a normal job and comes home to the only kind of heaven he ever believed; you.

He builds crooked bookshelves and burns the pancakes, but he holds your hand through all of it, and tries

Tries to be soft.

Tries to be real.

Like real people do.

166 notes · View notes

mostlysignssomeportents · 6 months ago

Text

The cod-Marxism of personalized pricing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is Wilhoit's Law in action:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In other words, your boss is right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#pluralistic #personalized pricing #surveillance pricing #ad-tech #realtime bidding #rtb #404media #price discrimination #economics #neoclassical economics #efficiency #predatory pricing #surveillance #privacy #wage theft #algorithmic wage discrimination #veena dubal #privacy first

288 notes · View notes

immortalmrwavell · 2 months ago

Text

A Worthy Replacement - Epilogue

(Original story posted… hold on… this one is brand new!)

Written for @bodyswappingandshit/@bodyswappingandshit-1

This epilogue has been a looooong time coming. I intended to write it way back after the original three parts were posted but I never got around to it. So with these uploads I thought what better time to do it now that the story was fresh in my mind! Not to mention I haven’t written a new story from scratch since around August 2024 so it was a nice little project. Hope everyone that enjoyed the rest of the story will continue to enjoy this final piece of the story to wrap everything up in a bow ❤️

Read Part 1 Here! Read Part 2 Here! Read Part 3 here!

Martin was backstage, pacing back and forth while wearing nothing but a pair of tight black posing briefs that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. The entirety of his enormous frame was on full display. He’d already been sprayed up and down with bronzer that left his muscles looking even shinier and more defined than ever. He was a living Adonis of a man. He knew that. It was the reality he’d come to love over these last 6 months since having been lucky enough to receive this gorgeous body and life. Yet despite that he couldn’t help but feel the nerves creeping in.

The last couple of days had been a whirlwind. Thanks to his previous champion titles as Mr Olympia, Martin was automatically qualified to participate. Before that though he made sure to trim his beard down to the iconic mustache Chris had worn every year since his first win, a tradition Martin planned to uphold. He’d been through the official height/weight check ins for the competition and had met all the other participating athletes along the way. All of them eager to meet the one and only Chris Bumstead. Martin was just as thrilled to meet all these other handsome hunky men while effortlessly exuding the kind gentle giant attitude Chris naturally wore. From there he took plenty of photos for his socials and received his number for the show. He’d been through the prejudging show where he and other competitors hit all the mandatory poses for the judges so that they could be ranked. Only the top 6 got to compete in the finals. Of course Martin made it through and now the finals competition was only minutes away.

He could already hear the crowd of people outside chattering away. All of them were eager to watch a bunch of hunks get up on stage and show just how god-like they are. And the very hunks those people were excited to see were standing around him now, all backstage and preparing themselves for the competition ahead. All of them look like man-made perfection. And yet despite that, most of them were stealing glances at Martin! Some out of admiration, some out of jealousy and others out of intimidation. Then again it was no surprise these men felt threatened by him. After all Martin was none other than the three time Classic Physique Mr Olympia, Chris Bumstead!

“Come on… I can do this.” Martin muttered to himself. “I know all the moves. Practiced them a hundred times.” He took a deep breath, placing his hands on his hips as he looked up towards the ceiling. His meaty pecs rose and fell with each anxious breath as he went over the routine again in his head. In all honesty this was probably the first time Martin had felt nervous about anything since he became Chris. Of course there had been small things, especially in the early days when he was still adjusting to his new life as a famous stud, but overall he’s had a sense of natural confidence that’s kept him steady. Until now.

“You alright brother?” A familiar voice came from behind. Martin turned to see none other than his brother in law Iain. “Pre-show nerves kicking in at last?” He asked half jokingly as he strolled up.

Martin flashed Iain a shaky smile. “That obvious?”

Iain had been a pillar for Martin over these last few weeks. Sure Martin might’ve absorbed the essence of Chris Bumstead but the strain this prep for the Olympia had put on him both physically and mentally had been one of the biggest challenges of his life. If it hadn’t been for Iain encouraging him along every step of the way, Martin didn’t think he would’ve got this far. It was only because of him that Martin now had the chance to really prove to himself that he was a worthy replacement.

Iain did a good job at calming Martin down and reminding him of all the hard work he’d put in to get here. Reassuring Martin that he looked even more insane than he did last year and that he was gonna blow everyone away just like he had every time before. It helped of course but Martin still couldn’t shake the nerves completely. Who the hell could? He could tell from his memories that even the original Chris had felt this way almost every time. Only for Martin there was the added layer that this would be his first real olympia that wasn’t just an absorbed memory.

“Just breathe.” Iain said. “Everyone out there is going to love you. And they love you because you’re the best. Not just as a bodybuilder and a champion, but as a man.” It was almost strange for Martin to hear Iain sound so sentimental. He was usually the rough manly man type who’d rather shout his words of encouragement but if anything gentleness of Iain’s managed to hit even harder. “You’ll do amazing brother.”

Martin didn’t think he’d ever been more attracted to Iain than he was in that moment. He wanted nothing more than to cup Iain’s gorgeous face in his hands and press their lips together. Martin had fantasised about it many times but right now the longing to take the man before him in a loving embrace was more powerful than it had ever been. His hands shook slightly at his sides as he imagined it so vividly… but like always Martin held himself back. He knew it couldn’t be. Iain was his straight brother in law, married to Chris’ sister. So instead Martin smiled towards Iain like he always did, burying his feelings yet again…

———

The crowd exploded into a roar of cheers and excitement when Martin walked on stage alongside the other men. Already he could hear some people chanting his nickname “Cbum”. He grinned large and wide as he waved to the crowd, portraying a vision of unwavering confidence despite his inner doubts.

And just like that, the finals were underway.

The hot glimmering lighting shone down on Martin as he hit each and every of the mandatory poses. He began with the iconic front double biceps followed by a strong side chest that emphasised just how god-like his physique was. Martin then turned on his heel, facing away from the audience and judges as he hit the back double biceps where he made sure to show off the incredible definition in his glutes, hamstrings and his back itself. After which he turned to face front again before hitting an effortless vacuum by contracting his abdominals while spreading his legs and putting his gigantic quads on full display. And finally he was able to hit a pose of his choice and Martin had long since decided what it would be. He shifted his stance a little before tossing his left arm up into a strong flex while lifting his right arm and placing that hand behind his head to make for a breathtaking display.

Despite the anxiety thumping in his chest, Martin couldn't help but feel exhilarated at the same time. Seeing all those adoring eyes watching him and scanning his body. It left Martin with a complex mix of emotions that were difficult to even put into words. Yet he smiled on as the judges closely analysed his body during the act. Scanning his form, its proportions and symmetry while noting his perfect execution of every pose. He’d left an impression he knew that much but that was a given considering who he was. And as soon as his act finished, Martin placed his hands together and bowed slightly as the crowd gave him a thunderous applause.

The rest of the finalists each had their turns to go through the mandatory poses and a pose of their choice. Each athlete gave it their all but as usual ‘Chris Bumstead’ was a hard act to follow. Martin watched on as he caught his breath, proud of the performance he’d put in so far but he knew there was more to come yet.

It wasn’t long before all 6 finalists were called back on stage for the Pose-Down. They all stood equal parts away from each other with Martin being near the centre of the stage before music erupted from the speakers. Now was the time for each athlete to go completely freestyle. They had about a minute and half where they were allowed to move across the stage and hit any pose they wanted! Martin had already for this and the second that music came on his body practically kicked into auto pilot as he cycled through some of his best poses. Making sure to hide his weaker points while emphasising his strengths. All the while trying his best to exude as much confidence and charisma as possible on stage in an effort to outshine all his fellow competitors. They were all great guys but at the end of the day Martin was here to prove his worthiness of the title he’d inherited.

The Pose-Down felt as though it lasted an eternity but eventually the music began to fade as the last act came to a close. Martin and the other competitors were asked to stand in a tight line up together as the judges came to their decisions. Martin tried his best to portray a look of pure stoicism but a creeping sense of nervousness couldn’t help shining through. This was the moment of truth. Either he’d leave this stage with a gold medal or he’d have to face the fact that perhaps Mr Wavell was wrong about him. It was a high bar but Martin was holding himself to it. He had to win.

And so after some discussion with the judges, the announcer began to call each placing along. First was of course 5th place and 4th place after that. Each name that was called received a hefty round of applause no matter which place they were in along with congrats from each of the other bodybuilders. But the name “Chris Bumstead” had yet to be called. 3rd place was then announced and once again it wasn’t Martin, leaving him in the final two. He made sure to clap for 3rd place just as he had for the others before, knowing just how hard they’d all worked to get this far. At the same time it felt as though his heart was going to explode under the tension of what was to come next.

There was a long pause after that. Martin rocked on the spot a little, struggling to stay still as he tried to take slow and steady breaths to calm himself. And that’s when it happened. The announcer's voice filled the room as he spoke the name of the man in 2nd place and… it wasn’t him. Martin’s eyes widened with the realisation as his hands moved to cover his face in shock.

“…Which can only mean that this years four time Classic Physique Mr Olympia Champion is CHRIS BUMSTEAD!!!” The announcer boomed and the crowd exploded with the most life it’d had all day. People stood up from their seats to clap and cheer as cameras began flashing wildly to capture the moment.

Martin was still trying to process it all as they handed him the trophy. He was grinning ear to ear with joy and relief, so much so that he could cry. Before long he was bending forwards as the gold 1st place medal was draped around his neck and just like that it was official. He won. Camera began flashing again as Martin absorbed the scene around him, committing each and every detail to memory. He never wanted to forget this for as long as he lived. He took a deep breath and smiled as he raised four fingers to symbolise the fourth win of what was now truly his career.

After the initial applause, Martin was handed a microphone by the announcer. It was time for his winning speech.

Martin took the moment to do what any humble champion would do. He thanked his friends and family for helping him get all this way. He thanked everyone across the world who has supported him up to this point. He thanked his teams that’d helped him along the journey of crafting his body and even made sure to give a special thanks to the man himself Iain Valliere who was in the front row of the crowd. He talked about all the hardship he endured to get to this point and the struggles he’s had along the way before complimenting his fellow athletes on the incredible competition they brought today. And he could’ve ended it there. But there was one last thing Martin knew he had to announce. He’d kept it to himself until now but where better to announce it to the world than right here on stage.

“There was also one last thing I wanted to say while I’m up here.” Martin began, heart still racing. “It’s something I’ve wrestled with for a long time and until now I’d struggled to pluck up the courage to say it out loud. But now… I think it’s finally time.” There was a pause where Martin took a long breath before continuing. “I… am gay. And I have been my whole life.” With that the crowd fell completely silent for a moment at the revelation. “I’ve wanted to come out for so long but I was afraid of not being accepted. But I’m not afraid anymore. I, Chris Bumstead, stand here today as a proud gay man!” The crowd remained quiet for another moment but it didn’t take long for a few to begin clapping. Then more and more until the entire audience was cheering him on. Martin couldn’t help but give them all a giddy smile before flexing his free arm in a powerful pose. He could see the headline already.

Moments after Martin passed the microphone back to the announcer however, everything around him seemed to cease. The people in the crowd and on stage all froze in place as all sound seemed to disappear. The colour seemed to drain from the world around him until everything was black and white. His head swung around in every direction, not knowing what the hell was going on. It was as though the world around him had just… stopped. Like time itself had come to a grinding halt and he was the only one who could perceive it.

And then came the sound of footsteps. Martin’s gaze darted all around to find the source until his eyes settled on a single man who came strolling in from the backstage.

Mr Wavell.

“Bravo. Bravo.” Wavell said with a faint smile as he ascended the steps to join Martin up on stage. He was the only thing in the room besides Martin that still had colour. That fact only seemed to make the deep emerald hue of the warlock’s jacket stand out all the more, further elevating the man’s effortless elegance.

“Y-you’re him. That wizard Mr Wavell! W-what did you do to them??” Martin questioned rather frantically as the well dressed man continued to approach.

“Don’t worry about them. I just froze time around us, that’s all. I wanted a moment to congratulate you myself on this wondrous achievement.” Wavell moved slow and casual until he stood right before Martin. Of course Martin’s massive body towered over Wavell and yet the sheer pressure this suited man gave off was so overwhelming that it made Martin feel minuscule in his presence. “You proved not only to me but the entire world that my magic was right to choose you to be the successor to the original Chris Bumstead.” Wavell reached up and removed his sunglasses, folding them before slipping them into his jacket pocket. “You’ve taken his life and made it your own. And with this win, you really can call yourself Mr Olympia.”

“I… I don’t know what to say.” Martin stuttered. “Thank you. Thank you so much. Getting to be Chris these past 6 months has been the greatest time of my life. I’ve never felt so happy or accomplished. So fulfilled. Not to mention adored. And I never would’ve had any of this if it weren’t for you.”

Wavell raised a hand. “No need for thanks. This gift was just as much for my pleasure as it was yours. Getting to see you transform on that first day was a treat in itself. Seeing you explode with muscle and fill out those clothes right after getting high on those musky sneakers you stole. What a naughty boy.” Wavell tutted with a devious grin that caused Martin to blush.

“You uhhh… you saw that?” Martin asked with a nervous chuckle.

“I’ve seen everything.” Wavell answered, causing Martin to go even redder than before. “But there’s no need to be embarrassed. After all, I'm not exactly a good boy half the time either. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t visited your house once or twice while you weren’t home. Maybe had a dig through your sweaty laundry a couple times… among other things. And I can’t promise I won’t do it again. After all… those smelly sneakers of yours really are addictive.” Wavell said with a wink.

Martin’s mouth ran dry, not knowing how to respond. All he knew was that he was turned on like hell right now and that his cock was pressing hard against his posing briefs.

“But that’s not what I’m here to talk about. Instead I wanted to offer you another gift. Think of it as another reward for winning the Olympia.” Wavell said, eyes wandering up and down Martin’s glorious form.

“A-a gift?! What else could you give me?? You’ve practically given me everything I could’ve ever wished for!” Martin gestured down at the very body Wavell was currently eye fucking before grabbing the heavy gold medal draped over his chest and shaking it.

Wavell lifted an eyebrow. “Well. There is still one thing you’ve been wishing for… isn’t there? I’ve been watching you remember. I’ve seen the way you’ve taken charge of this life. I’ve watched as you forced the original Chris into mindless servitude as your underwear…” Wavell paused, allowing for the gears to turn in Martin’s head. Wavell then turned in the heel of his shoe to face the audience. Or rather one audience member in particular. “And I’ve also seen the way you gwauk at him every chance you get, always knowing you can’t have him.” Wavell continued, staring directly at none other than Iain Valliere as he stood frozen and monotone in the crowd like everyone else. “But what if you could…”

“Wait… what’re you saying?” Martin asked as his brain began to process what Wavell was offering him.

“I’m saying I could make him yours.” Wavell answered bluntly. “A little reality warping so that he was never in a relationship with your new sister. Altering the fabric of his soul along with his brain chemistry to make him so unequivocally gay that he’ll almost always have cock on his mind. And of course I’ll make him completely and utterly love stricken by you.” The warlock turned to look at Martin again. “If that’s what you’d like anyway.”

“Yes! I want it!” Martin’s mouth moved before he had a chance to think. The thought of what Wavell was proposing was just too incredible to miss! However the warlock’s blank expression quickly reminded Martin of his manners. “I-I mean… please. Mr Wavell sir. I would give anything to have Iain.”

Wavell’s expression softened once more. “Then it shall be.” And without another word a purple aura of sparkling magic flared up around Wavell’s body just like it had all those months ago when he changed reality to make ‘Chris Bumstead’ a single man. And like before a powerful pulse of magical energy surged outwards from his body and swiftly stretched across the planet. “There. Iain Valliere is no longer your brother in law. Now he’s just a single man who you met many years ago and ended up becoming close gym bros with. Best friends even.” Wavell licked his lips slightly as he outstretched a hand in Iain’s direction. “Now for part two.” A stream of pure purple magic flowed from Wavell’s palm and wrapped itself around Iain’s head. The magic began reaching inside Iain’s mind and soul before plucking out any straight thoughts of women. Instead replacing them with deeply homosexual desires for other men and a crippling obsession with cock. And after a couple memory alterations, it was done. “All finished.” Wavell quipped as the purple magic retreated back inside his body.

Martin blinked with amazement. “Really? You mean Iain I can actually-”

“Fuck each other raw? Yes.” Wavell said before Martin could even finish.

“Well I was just ‘be together’ but that works too.”

The warlock couldn’t help but hum with amusement. He turned back fully to Martin, taking a few extra steps to close what little distance there was left between them until he was inches away from Martin’s melon sized pecs. “In all seriousness though, keep enjoying this life. Savour every moment of it. Because I truly do believe that you were always destined to have this body. To be Chris Bumstead. So never doubt the man that you’ve become.”

“I won’t.” Martin said honestly. “And thank you again.”

“You can thank me by having some hot sweaty sex with that other handsome hunk over there.” Wavell smirked, gesturing towards Iain. “Trust me, I’ll be watching.” With that he raised his fingers up, ready to snap. “And don’t worry, you’ll be seeing me again Chris Bumstead. And when you do I expect to be caught in a steamy threesome between you and your soon to be lover.”

And then he snapped.

In an instant, life returned to the world around Martin. Colour and sound filled his senses once more as the crowd continued to move and cheer as if nothing had happened. The other athletes continued clapping for Martin in his victory as the camaras started flashing once more. And Mr Wavell was nowhere to be seen.

“CHRIS BUMSTEAD EVERYBODYYYYY!!!” The announcer shouted into the microphone causing everyone in the crowd to roar even louder. Well everyone except one. Iain who suddenly seemed rather dazed as he shook his head a little.

Martin couldn’t help but give the people a few final victory poses. Flexing his perfect body yet again and getting those muscles to bulge into action once more. Powerful veins snaking up and down his arms as his biceps peaked. At long last his nerves over this year’s competition had vanished, replaced by nothing but euphoria. And that feeling only grew when his eyes caught Iain’s and immediately he saw something in the other man that hadn’t been there before. Lust.

Eventually Martin finds himself walking off stage along with the other athletes as the camera men and women all scramble to get extra few pictures of the hunks as they leave. Pushing his way through them all however was none other than the hulking Iain Valliere. Staff had initially moved to stop him until they saw the lanyard around his neck showing that he was allowed backstage with the competitors. He made his way through them all and managed to reach Martin just before he disappeared out of sight.

“Chris!” Iain shouted desperately. “There’s something I have to tell you. I’ve been meaning to tell you for a long time but I haven’t had the courage to say it until now.” He confessed, thick hands grabbing Martin by the biceps.

Martin already had an idea as to what this was but he couldn’t help sweating a little as he glanced around at all the cameras watching them. “O-okay… but can’t it wait until we’re backstage?” Martin asked.

“No. I want the world to see this.” Iain stated boldly before taking Martin’s hand in his own. “Chris. I’ve been in love with you for years. I can’t remember how or when it happened but I just know that I’ve fallen for you so fuckin deeply that it hurts. But I didn’t think you’d ever look at me the same. I thought you were… straight. But after what you said up there I don’t think I could’ve held it back any longer.” He paused for a moment, shuffling on the spot before planting his feet firmly and looking Martin square in the eyes. “Chris. I love you.”

“Iain I…” Martin stuttered. The people around them that’d heard what Iain said looked on in complete shock. Even the cameras around them seemed to lower for a second as the people behind tried to process what was happening right now. But Martin didn’t care about them. He hadn’t planned on doing this so quickly, he’d hardly had a chance to get off stage yet, but it seemed Wavell’s miracle was a potent one. So why the hell not. “Iain. I love you too.” And every word was true.

With that Iain’s whole face seemed to light up as moments before Martin cupped it in his hands and closed the distance between them with a passionate kiss. The very kiss Martin had been fantasising about since the very moment he'd set eyes on Iain. And it was every bit as magical as he’d imagined. Their mouths remained interlocked as the cameras tilted back up and began shooting in a race to capture the best angle for this moment. Not to mention the crew who’d been filming the live stream of the event were still rolling and now had their sights fully trained on Martin and Iain, broadcasting the kiss to the world.

Everyone watching was stunned. Most fans of Chris Bumstead, at least in this altered reality, had known him and Iain to have been best friends for the longest time. Always posting on social media and appearing at events together. Nobody would have guessed that this was where it was all heading though! Besides maybe a few horny fans who’d wished upon it but even they were surprised to see their dreams come true! Iain and Chris were in love!

After making such a spectacle of it, the pair finally separated from their kiss. Iain looked up at Martin with a flushed expression that looked adorable on his rugged manly face. Iain wrapped his arms around Martin in a strong hug before the latter could say a word, not caring about the bronzer that would inevitably rub off Martin’s body and onto Iain’s clothes. With a content smile Martin reciprocated the hug. At last he could say that he had absolutely everything he could have wished for. A perfect body, an incredible life and a gorgeous new boyfriend he was already planning to marry someday.

———

Before long Iain and Martin were backstage together, hardly separable as Martin sipped on a bottle of water. Iain had checked his phone to see the news stories were already popping up. Both about Martin’s win and the kiss the two of them had shared. No doubt that was going to stir up a frenzy for a while.

“I still can’t believe you did that in front of all those cameras. You know that’s going to be one of the only things people are going to have on their minds at the interviews and press conference later right?” Martin chuckled.

Iain laughed heartily at the thought. “Of course. That was the point. I needed everyone to know.”

Martin raised an eyebrow. “And what if I’d turned you down back there?”

“I knew that wouldn’t happen.” Iain claimed, budging his thick muscled body even closer to Martin’s own colossal frame. “It was like I had this… epiphany after your speech. I can’t explain it. I just knew it was the right thing to do.”

Martin leaned in and gave Iain another peck on the lips. “Well I’m glad.”

Iain snuggled closer to Martin, holding him in another embrace. “And if our little moment does end up overshadowing you win later…” He began before slowing his voice to whisper against Martin’s ear. “… I’ll make it up to you tonight by sucking that champion cock and swallowing your winning load.”

Martin’s breath hitched at that, a tingle running up his spin. His dick twitched rather strongly at the thought. With that on his mind he already knew it was going to be harder than ever to keep his dick under control. Moments after he found himself using Iain as a shield so nobody else around the backstage could see the growing bulge in his briefs. He blamed Iain for it of course but the other man didn’t seem all too regretful.

But with that, Martin’s story was complete. Thanks to Mr Wavell he got everything he ever wanted and more. But that didn’t mean it was over. Not at all. This was only the first of many fruits his new existence would grant him. He couldn’t wait to explore everything else this new life had to offer him. Just as much as he couldn’t wait to explore Iain’s muscle ass with his dick. Something he knew he’d have the opportunity to do again and again and again. And he was going to love every damn second.

142 notes · View notes

theshadowsden · 13 days ago

Text

Part 5

The crowds around the stadium where almost deafening with the constant screaming of chanting fans, with light sticks glowing at the top ends in the iconic 'h' design at the top of them. Posters, signs and anything you could think of that the fans had created, they were there in the stadium. The only ones that weren't there, where the three girls themselves.

Rumi, Mira, and Zoey where high up in the plane, doing their routine pre show snacking. The three where then contacted by Bobby with a panicking tone asking where they where. The three where pissed to say the least, as they got interrupted on the snacking they wanted to complete.

With narrowed eyes from the three, they turned their heads to face the fake airplane staff. The airplane staff where quickly found out that they were in fact demons, that where trying to stop them from performing tonight to not seal the honmoon for a bit.

Meanwhile, you on the other hand the greatest idea ever. You were gonna crash the stage with your next biggest hit song that you came up with, friendly competition of course. Being an idol now, you of course met them (and freaked out a little bit on seeing them) but quickly became friends with the girl group. But kept your distance.

You knew what they were after all, demon hunters. You saw the weapons that they used, and summoned, if you stepped a foot out of line, you'd probably be dead, or six foot underneath the honmoon.

A little while later, you managed to climb into the rafters of the stage, waiting for the best opportunity. You watched as the girls performed in perfect synchronization, and with all three of them sending demons back to hell in pink smoke with the pink glowing weapons they used.

You watched over the crowd, seeing them all cheer as the song was nearing its end. The three girls ended the song with striking a pose and the crowd went wild. The fans yelling in excitement.

With a faint snap of your fingers, you used a faint bit of demon magic you managed to control over the short term of starting as a new idol. The lights on the stage went out, with the stadium being plunged into pitch darkness.

You smirked at the confusion of the crowd, and the three girls as the lights came back on with the soundtrack of your new song. With the backdrop logo being changed to your label. The crowd went wild seeing you appear so casually as you began to sing.

"You know who it is, Coming 'round again

You want a dose of this right now, It's K/DA, uh!"

You started, as the crowd went absolutely wild seeing you. "I'm a goddess with a blade

소리쳐봐 내 이름 잊지 못하게 loud, loud, loud, loud

I could take it to the top 절대 멈추지 못해

내가 끝내주는 bad gal, gal, gal." You sang while doing the dancing in perfect timing, your tone shifted as the music turned slower and more melodic. "Oh, when I start to talk like that (like that) Oh, you won't know how to react, I'm a picture perfect face, With that wild in my veins You can hear it in my growl, growl, growl, growl."

You paused, doing some more dancing as the stage and the crowd all but disappeared as you went into your world, losing yourself in the music. Seeing the shocked look on Mira, Rumi, and Zoey's faces made you laugh slightly to yourself. Even though you are technically rivals, it wasn't anything but friendly competition.

"So keep your eyes on me now 무엇을 보든 좋아할 거야 닿을 수 없는 level, 나와 대결 원한 널 확신해, We gotta it all in our hands now, So can you handle what we're all about, We're so tough (tough) not scared to show you up (up), Can you feel the rush now?"

You sang slowly, then started bringing up the pace as the beat dropped.

"Ain't nobody bringing us Down, down, down, down, down, down, They could try, but we're gonna wear the crown You could go another round Round, round, round, round, round, round Wish you luck, but you're not bringing us down~

We go hard 'til we get it, get it, We go hard, we so in it, in it, We pop stars (pop stars) Only winning, winning now~ Ain't nobody bringing us Down, down, down, down."

You took a breath as the next part was the most intense of the song, "Hey! You ready for this (Let's go!)"

"See 언제든지 내 모습 magic

단 한 번에 내가 잡어, 절대 기죽지 않지 uh!

Pow, pow 니가 뭘 알어? (알아)

견딜 수 없어, 원해도 (해도)

원하는 게 얼굴에 보여

I'm trouble and you're wanting it

I'm so cold (so cold)

When I move that way, you gon' be so blown (so blown)

I'm the realest in the game, uh!"

You went hard on the rap, putting Zoey's skills to shame, only slightly.

"Say I'm on fire with a blade

You're about to hear my name

Ringing in your head like

Whoa-uh-uh, uh-uh-oh."

You once again started to sing slowly on the next verse, then brought in the intensity, doing everything in your power to keep the crowd locked onto you.

"So keep your eyes on me now

무엇을 보든 좋아할 거야

We're so tough (tough)

Not scared to show you up (up)

Can you feel the rush now?"

You took a breather for a moment, swaying in the music as the crowd went wild for your new song, the demonic side of your soul feasting on the adoration of the fans. The side no longer feeling restless as it got what it wanted.

"Ain't nobody bringing us

Down, down, down, down, down, down

They could try, but we're gonna wear the crown

You could go another round

Round, round, round, round, round, round

Wish you luck, but you're not bringing us down

We go hard 'til we get it, get it

We go hard, we so in it, in it

We pop stars (pop stars)

Only winning, winning now

Ain't nobody bringing us

Down, down, down, down."

You trailed off, letting the instrumental play as you threw a smoke bomb on stage, disappearing from view to catch your breath, smiling to yourself. This is what you wanted to do when you were younger, and it excited you to your core, making others happy as you performed on a stage in front of thousands of fans.

"Hmm-mm, ooh-ooh, Umm

Oh 난 멈추지 않아

Oh, oh, we go hard

Oh, oh, we pop stars (stars), stars (stars)."

You sang, appearing in the center of the stage as the crowd goes wild seeing you appear once again.

"Ain't nobody bringing us

Down, down, down, down, down, down

They could try, but we're gonna wear the crown

You could go another round

Round, round, round, round, round, round

Wish you luck, but you're not bringing us down

We go hard 'til we get it, get it

We go hard, we so in it, in it

We pop stars (pop stars)

Only winning, winning now

Ain't nobody bringing us

Down, down, down, down."

You finished, striking a pose on center stage out of breath but happy. You only live once, right? You threw another smoke bomb on the stage, after doing a finger heart and then promptly disappeared backstage as the huntrix trio followed suit.

A/N: Sorry that I pushed the girls to the side for this part lol. It was mainly a reader-centered chapter as I loved this idea of what would happen if a new idol crashed a concert. Next part will definitely have the reader interacting more with the girls.

See you all next time <3

Taglist @your-favorite-god

104 notes · View notes

artificialroux · 5 months ago

Text

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

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

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

played by olivia scott welch

PRE-CRASH

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WILDERNESS

i don't belong here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ADULT TIMELINE

played by victoria pedretti

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

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

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

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

154 notes · View notes

aeth-eris · 7 months ago

Text

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

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

★ aries in the 9th house ★

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

★ taurus in the 9th house ★

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

★ gemini in the 9th house ★

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

★ cancer in the 9th house ★

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

★ leo in the 9th house ★

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

★ virgo in the 9th house ★

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

★ libra in the 9th house ★

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

★ scorpio in the 9th house ★

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

★ sagittarius in the 9th house ★

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

★ capricorn in the 9th house ★

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

★ aquarius in the 9th house ★

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

★ pisces in the 9th house ★

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

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

#astrology #astrology observations #astrology aspects #astro observations #9th house

364 notes · View notes

love-that-we-were-in · 1 year ago

Text

betting on all three for us two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Morning coffee with Luke stops that fear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I will take that deal.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

“I just think that hat is stupid.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re kind of obsessed with it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

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

+1.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#luke castellan #luke castellan x reader #percy jackson and the olympians #pjo #luke castellan x you

495 notes · View notes