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bueckets · 8 months ago

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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.

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ammapola · 7 months ago

Text

I lied, put your clothes back on

I'm going to explain to you why Altan, Qara and Chaghan are the characters that were telling us in advance about the end of the trilogy and the trifecta formed by Nezha, Rin and Kitay but we didn't pay enough attention to them

Altan, Chaghan and Qara are the" failed" trifecta

Altan's sacrifice breaks the cycle, paving the way for Rin, Kitay, and Nezha to become the next generation of the trifecta

Each reflects the mistakes of the past: Rin as Altan and Riga, Kitay as Qara and Jiang, and Nezha as Chaghan and Daji, all trapped in the same vicious cycle

In the end, Rin understands that, like Altan, her destiny is to sacrifice herself to break the cycle. Her death, along with Kitay's, leaves Nezha alive and ruling, mirroring Chaghan's fate

In the dynamic of Rin, Kitay and Nezha, it is clear that they represent an echo of Altan, Chaghan and Qara's failed attempt. Rin takes Altan's place as the center of destruction and strength, Kitay represents strategic and emotional stability as Qara did, while Nezha, being the only one left in the end, is a distorted version of Chaghan, the survivor who carries the weight of the world

Rin understands, at the end of the trilogy, the meaning of Altan's sacrifice: not only was it necessary to break the cycle to create something new, but his sacrifice was also an act of love towards her, giving her the opportunity to build a future that he never had. Rin's sacrifice reflects that understanding, breaking the cycle of hatred and revenge that Riga perpetuated in his generation

(I hope you understand, English is not my native language)

I should be drawing I Know...

#the poppy war #poppy war #tpw #tpw trilogy #rf kuang #fang runin #chaghan suren #altan trengsin #qara suren #chen kitay #yin nezha #the trifecta #the dragon republic #the burning god

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yandere-sins · 5 months ago

Note

You trying to run away from Caleb and him using his gravity manipulation Evol 😍😍

Omg, and it's not even just when you run away... You have such a good point, anon ♥

❥ Imagine finally outsmarting him and getting a chance to run. Caleb could simply put you down with a sweep of his hands, but instead, he makes your surroundings work against you. The gravel beneath your feet rolls back towards him, making you trip over yourself as you can't get away from the spot. Leaves and branches fall down on you/hitting you in the face and obscuring your sight, so you stumble, lose your direction, and run right back into his arms. He has them open for you, always. But his grip is iron-tight now that you showed him your desire to get away. Caleb can't have you try that again, you understand that, right?

❥ But, of course, after your second attempt, even he gets frustrated with you. It's child's play to slam you onto the ground, even if it hurts you. You didn't want to listen, so maybe the cuts and bruises will teach you. But you aren't the only one who learns because Caleb quickly realizes how devilishly fun it is to see you struggle. He just needs to soften his evol for a moment, so you think you can get up and run again before he breaks your spirits by applying the pressure of gravity again, bringing you down and dragging you towards him slowly. Your pain doesn't even concern him, not when he still sees you willing to fight him. You, never giving up, is like a drug that goes straight to his brain. He'll let you fight against the pull, lets you think you have a fair fighting chance as he taunts you with deliberate, slow steps in your direction, his shoes clicking menacingly on the floor. You're so cute—feisty and hopeful as you still are, and Caleb experiences the most sadistic pleasure to see your will bend and break, snap right into pieces as he grabs you by the neck and licks your bloody, swollen lips. He's like a kid licking his pancakes to keep his siblings from eating them, but the notion is the same: You're his.

❥ Caleb also uses it to disarm you in case you ever get your hands on something you really shouldn't. It's fun to see you struggle while you try to keep the weapon and yourself from being dragged towards him. And it almost drives him crazy to hear your surprised gasp when you accidentally let go of the object, and it almost does get close to hurting him. A second ago, you were all big and threatening, and suddenly, you feel bad for him, it's amusing. Next thing you know, you are on his lap, getting playfully chided for trying to get rid of him, and how you need to do better than that since you didn't even come close. If the weapon is reachable, you almost have a chance of getting to it again and trying to hurt him. Still, it's all just a game for him, and he might let himself get cut just so he can punish you properly while trying to deny how happy he is about playing with you.

❥ However, he draws the line at you trying to hurt yourself. See, it's all fun and game until your life is on the line. You are pulled into his arms with the weapon immediately slapped, ripped, or, if he has to, broken from your hand. The only one allowed to hurt you is Caleb, and he makes no laughing matter out of your attempt to blackmail him with your life. You don't know how much harm you can do to yourself while his actions are always calculated. Even when it seems like his slamming you to the floor is cruel, unless you give him a real reason (like hurting yourself), he won't actually mess you up. Caleb will even help you stabilize your wounds after he seriously hurt you, trying to disarm you, but it's all just to show you not to mess with him. Show you that his evol can do way more than throw you around and hurt your ego and will to fight. You don't get to argue with him on your security, not even for a second. Caleb simply won't entertain these kinds of threats, and it will make it harder for you to get close to dangerous items in the future. Also, he will be pouting and ignoring you for a while, you really hurt him with your actions. Maybe try apologizing. Please! :(

❥ Despite everything, Caleb does a few nice things with his evol. You might be forced to watch movies and cuddle with him, but he'll draw the blanket you like so much closer or fetch you your drink if it's out of reach. You won't have to leave the comfort he provides (albeit unwillingly). He also saved you from things falling on you by pulling them and (much preferred) you out of the way and into his hold. Sometimes, he catches food before it lands on your newly worn shirt. Yeah, he's that kind of nice (even though he likes to laugh at how upset you are when it does happen). The more you are on his good side, the more he'll do nice things for you, and his evol will be an exclusive power for you to use. He likes to tease you endlessly, and his psychotic behavior worries you sometimes, but you will learn that Caleb would do anything to keep you by his side, preferably happy and in love with him. Even if it means he'll become the weapon you can use to set the world on flames if only you play your cards right.

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heavens-devils · 1 month ago

Text

I Hate You

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x female reader

Era: I honestly did not have a specific season in mind

Summary: You and Daryl are tasked with executing a supply run. The two of you are known to disagree and not get along, so Rick thinks this is a great opportunity for the two of you to become civil.

Warnings: Smut, rough sex, domination, swearing, masterbation, and slight violence

Word Count: 6,794

"You two have got to learn to get along eventually." Rick declared, marching behind you as you began to storm away from the male in an act of frustration.

You and Daryl had been known to bicker and disagree with one another. The biker easily got on your nerves, often causing the two of you to begin pointless arguments. If Daryl thought a bed should be situated one way, you always challenged his judgement. If you believed that a specific movie was the funniest of all time, the brunette would always scoff in disbelief before further explaining why that was the stupidest thing he had ever had the misfortune of hearing. It seemed as if almost everyday, the two of you could be found screaming in each others faces and calling one another cruel designations and offensive names. Carol had always claimed it was due to how similar the two of you are, and she believed that eventually, you two might become the closest of friends.

That statement always seemed to piss you off.

"You really think that sending the two of us out into a town infested with walkers is really that good of an idea?" You asked the sheriff as you spun around in disbelief. "We're going to get each other killed! Either that, or we're gonna kill each other."

Your features displayed a mixture of skepticism and perplexity. Your eyebrows were draw together, forming a slight wrinkle between your brows. Your eyes were dark, lids opened wide, and a demeanor of pure frustration glazed your vision with shock. Your lips hung open and your jaw was slack as you glared at the officer before you, your mouth ajar in anticipation as you awaited the males future statement.

Rick chuckled lightly under his breath as his eyes met the ground, laughing at your immature declaration. He did not understand why the two of you had loathed each other from the very beginning. You both were two of the best fighters the group contained, the pair of you were strong, determined, and often mysteriously silent. From the outside, one would believe that the two of you would make a perfect team.

"Look Y/N, we need someone who is quick and reliable to adventure out there and collect more supplies. And it would not be a wise choice to send either of you off on your own. You should always have someone accompany you incase of an emergency." Rick explained.

In all honesty, the male had mainly paired the two of you together in an attempt to spare the rest of the groups ears from the irritating sound of you two fighting everyday. Rick was hoping, practically praying, that some alone time would cause you two to bond. He intended for this trip to bring an end to your rivalry and possibly form a civil relationship between the two of you. However, he would never admit it, and his previous statement seemed the most realistic and believable.

And you fell right into Rick's trap.

You knew the sheriff was correct. You were aware of how thorough and dependable both you and Daryl were. You understood that you would be quick and Daryl would be a worthy protecter as the two of you scavenged for supplies and fought walkers.

About thirty minutes later, after some complaining and protest from Daryl, you were strapped to the back of the bikers motorcycle, flying through the empty, desolate streets. Prior to finally departing from the prison, the two of you had gotten into multiple disagreements. The first of which regarding the logical reasoning behind using Daryl's loud and attention capturing motorcycle as the vehicle of choice. And the other argument focused on attempting to persuade Daryl into using a different weapon, something you determined more close range and sturdy compared to his signature crossbow.

Throughout the motorcycle ride you two shared, every little incident and event had managed to piss you off. The way Daryl's greasy, dirty, and honestly disgustingly smelly hair continuously blew through the wind and proceeded to slap you across the face every five seconds angered you. The large amount of walkers his obnoxiously loud bike attracted to the narrow, barren road upset you. And simply the fact that you had to wrap your arms around the brunettes waist as he controlled the vehicle filled you with frustration. Every little thing this man did seemed to get on your nerves. Even the way he breathed throughout the trip seemed to piss you off.

You were displeased with the fact that you had to basically cling onto the biker for support. The last thing you wanted to do was hold the mans torso within your grasp. You hated the fact that your fingers clenched onto the thin fabric of his shirt and the reality that you often found yourself resting your head upon his upper back in order to avoid the gruesome attack of the wind. And deep down, you knew that Daryl was enjoying every single moment you were forced to rely upon him.

And the truth was, that he most definitely was savoring every moment of this ride. The male loved to irritate and antagonize you every way he could manage. He knew that every moment you spent grasping at his waist, forced to practically cuddle up to him, was driving you borderline insane.

After the two of you had sailed over the fifteenth bump scattered across the road, you had reached your limit. You could no longer handle every little infuriating action achieved by the brunette. The biker had appeared to deliberately drive across every single bump and hole he spotted within the road. And every time the motorcycle road over any sort of obstacle, your body began to uncontrollably bounce upon the seat of the bike, almost flinging you onto the pavement below.

Once you had finally crossed over the last bump, causing you to almost lose your tight grip upon the bikers waist, you finally exclaimed your thoughts.

"Stop! Stop the motorcycle!" You screamed into Daryl's ear as you yanked onto the leather of his vest, your best attempt at capturing the bikers attention.

The action of you suddenly tugging upon the male's clothes had caused Daryl to slightly jerk backwards. The fact that you had purposely pulled at the biker caused his hands to slightly falter upon the handle bars.

You heard the male mutter something along the lines of "Oh my fucking God." And "This stupid bitch." As he began to ease the vehicle to a halt. His words of anger almost made you slap the brunette right across the face. However, you still maintained some sort of self control and decided against that option.

Once the motorcycle came to a complete pause, the engine died down, and the biker placed the vehicle within a comfortable parking position, you practically flew off the seat, attempting to escape from the situation as fast as you possibly could.

You were swift to exit the seat of the bike, and once your shoes had successfully collided with the concrete of the road, you began to march back in the direct you came from. You did not grant the male with a singular explication for your gesture as you strode down the road in frustration. Although the pair of you were being very loud, your yelling combined with the previously continues roar of Daryl's bike, you did not spot a single creature lurking upon the edge of the surrounding forrest.

"Hey!" Daryl called after you, his heavy boots slamming against the ground as he followed behind you in a mixture of confusion and anger "Where the Hell do ya think yer goin?!"

After little to no contemplation, you decided not to admit any sort of confession to the biker as you continued down the desolate road. You had determined that any exchange of words or admission of your thoughts would simply cause an argument.

The reverberating sound of Daryl's footsteps chased after you as he seemingly attempted to escort you. The male was silent, not allowing any sort of claim to escape from his lips, but that didn't take away from the fact that you continued to perceive his frustrated and vexed grunts and huffs as he trailed behind you.

Most of your attention was focused upon the wilderness surrounding you, concentrating on deciphering any sort of clue that could possibly be caused by a lingering, unseen predator. Most of your awareness was absorbed with the task of remaining on guard and constantly informed. Due to this element, you had not perceived just how close the brunette had advanced upon you.

Whilst you were silently eyeing your surroundings, repeatedly flicking your concentration from one side of the road to the other, Daryl was adamant on catching up to you. He was dead set on forcefully ripping an explanation from you, one way or another. Your blatant disrespect and disregard of his inquiry had only made him much more irritated. The male could not fathom exactly why you had ignored him, and it was honestly very annoying and upsetting. Maybe even a little bit hurtful. But instead of confronting his emotions calmly and relaxed, he had quickly decided that the more bold and rather confident route was to replace his feelings with rage and fury.

The biker replaced his previous fast, short steps with rather long strides. He was determined to catch up to you, and he thought the perfect moment to execute his plan was when you were too busy focused upon the possible threats surrounding you and your survival. He swiftly advanced behind you, utilizing three, lengthy steps in order to arrive only about a few inches behind you.

He observed the back of your frame, the way your hair swayed when you walked and the manner in which your hips swung with every step you took. Every little feature about you in that moment only fueled his wrath; the way your arms dangled at your side, your confident movements, and most of all, your complete ignorance and disregard for Daryls entire existence, just completely and utterly infuriated the male.

Suddenly, you felt a group of warm fingers wrap around your wrists. The grip was tight, almost painfully so, in an attempt to control and dominate your movements. An almost inaudible yelp escaped from your lips as the brunettes digits made contact with your skin. His grasp was slightly painful, pinching your flesh beneath his clutch.

Using his current authority over your body, Daryl utilized this moment to force you to turn towards him. You were suddenly yanked backwards. You had almost no time to defend yourself as you were both swiftly and forcefully spun around. The biker had used a powerful amount of force to firmly make you face him. You were quickly turned upon the heals of your shoes until you were face to face with the biker.

You were suddenly met with the male's expression of fury; Daryl's brows were furrowed, his lips were pulled into a tight, thin line, and a thin coat of light garnet glazed his features, due to his intense amount of outrage and displeasure.

Daryl now had a firm grip upon both of your exposed wrists, his thick fingers wrapping all the way around your thin arms until the tips of his digits connected. The biker was currently shaking you before him, using the strength within himself to jerk your body back and forth, almost as if he was attempting to knock some sense into you. The two of you were so close, you could practically smell the scent of cigarettes lingering upon his breath and the smell of motor oil varnishing his figure. If you had truly desired, you were close enough to launch your head forward and slam your forehead against the males, in an attempt to escape his grasp whilst asserting your dominance. However, you decided against this idea, quickly coming to the conclusion that such an action would only exacerbate your current predicament.

Originally, you had predicted that Daryl would just drive off in a fit of rage once you had successfully dismounted his vehicle. You had previously believed that he would simply leave you to walk back to the prison on your own. He did not seem to care much about your survival before, so when the current events unfolded, you were both surprised and stunned. This was not what you had expected at all, and the reality of the situation was borderline frightening.

Frightening, yet somehow appealing.

The way the biker manhandled you and controlled you with his own strength caused a mixture of emotions to flow throughout your body. Feelings and sensations you had not experienced in a very long time.

The fact that you were feeling this way towards someone you had previously despised, and honestly currently still hated, made your anger intensify. You were extremely upset that a man you disliked so deeply could make your knees suddenly weak, your panties instantaneously soaked, and cause your entrance to clench with desperation. God, it made you want to grab the biker by the collar of his shirt and either break his nose or fuck him senseless.

"I said, where the Hell do ya think yer goin?" Daryl repeated, his tone quiet but his voice stern as he did his best to burry his seething anger.

Due to a mixture of Daryl's firm statement, his dominating control over you, or the displeasing emotions you felt within that moment, you felt your body suddenly freeze. It was as if a spell was cast upon you. You were frozen, unable to move, unable to think a singular thought, and even unable to breath. You had transformed into a deer within headlights as you stood before the male, motionless and frightened.

Maybe it was due to the fact that you had been focused upon surviving for such a long amount of time, that you had completely forgot what it felt like to want sex so desperately. Or maybe it was just the reality that you had not had each and every congruent thought within your brain fucked out of you in so long.

In an attempt to run from your suddenly outrageous emotions, you gained control over your body once more, escaping from the previous trance of fear the biker had situated upon you. You began to squirm within his grasp, attempting to wriggle your wrists out of his possession as you fought against his intense grip.

"Daryl, let go of me." You exclaimed, your words sounding small and impotent as they tumbled from your lips.

Suddenly all of the previous anger and confidence you had possessed evaporated, and your words were reduced to a weak plea. This was completely unlike you; typically, you were assured and stubborn, often facing your problems with determination and courage. However, in that moment, it felt as if you had been transported back in time, returning to a scared, young girl as your parents yelled at you.

Although you were fighting with all of your might and strength, you still were unable to free yourself from the biker's grasp. You were no match against the grown mans strength, and as much as you tried, you had failed to even slightly escape from his grasp. Instead, the bikers firm clutch only tightened, causing a slight whimper of pain to escape from your lips once more.

In order to regain your attention, to capture your wondering gaze, the brunette executed one final jerk, pulling you forward with force before basically shoving you backwards within a second. His grip did not falter throughout the entire ordeal, not even for a second.

And it appeared as if his attempt had succeeded. He had regained your attention and you were suddenly motionless once again. The slight sense of fear permeated your body as you frozen before the male. Every attempt at trying to escape had came to a halt. You ceased your struggle, terminated your previous endeavors, and swiftly concluded your frantic efforts.

You were terrified of meeting the biker's gaze once more, scared of the probable expression plastered upon his face, and petrified of the idea of the events to follow. However, you could not fight your natural instincts to connect your vision with the brunette as your eyes began to automatically wander back up the males frame.

Your view, beginning upon the dusty ground below you, previously focusing upon every little pebble and grain of sand as a distraction, began to slowly trail across his worn boots. Your vision examined the tattered leather of his shoes, perceiving every frayed crack and ragged particle that had been strained into the shoes over time. You wondered what had caused each and every scrape and cut upon his boots, contemplating the idea of the male frantically fighting zombies or spending hours working upon his motorcycle beneath the blistering heat of the sun.

Your focus migrated from the bottom of his frame as your vision danced up his lengthy legs. Your eyes were met with the sight of the torn jeans the male was supporting. Similar to his signature boots, his pants were not in very good shape. His trousers were torn and littered with holes, most likely as a result from his many hours of strenuous labor and arduous work. Although you would never admit it, you had always been fascinated by the idea of the brunettes legs. You had never spotted Daryl supporting any other form of bottoms father than his jeans. You often found yourself pondering upon the thought of what his legs looked like beneath his clothes.

Your vision traveled from his legs towards his broad chest. Although the male was supporting many layers, including a tattered shirt and his signature leather vest, you could still easily examine the outline of his toned body. You often wondered how exactly he managed to survive the extreme heat whilst enduring the variety of clothing articles he wore daily. His shirt was tight against his chest, his upper body easily filling his top in a rather flattering manner. Furthermore, every ounce of his exposed skin was covered in a layer of thick, gleaming sweat. The veins littering his arms were pulsating and the exposed flesh upon his neck was varnished with a layer of shinning liquid.

Before reaching the destination of the biker's face, your eyes couldn't help but glance down towards the grip he had executed upon your wrists. His knuckles had transformed into a light white hue compared to the rest of his tan skin, due to the sheer amount of force he was executing upon your limbs. The veins adorning his hands were easily visible, pushing against the barrier of his skin as his palms remained firm.

Finally, your pupils examined his face. The same expression of anger remained apparent upon his features. His lips were tight, clamped shut as if he was attempting to hold something captive within the confines of his mouth. His thick eyebrows were drawn taunt, pushed so close together they were almost touching. And his irises exuded a pure aura of rage. His pupils were dark and blown wide. If this was another circumstance and literally any other male had stood before you, a part of you would have believed that he was supporting a countenance of desperate, passionate, lust.

The dark look within the biker's eyes, the red hue glazing his skin, and the expression of pure confidence and determination only further reminded you how desperately you wanted to be fucked.

However, your vision quickly resorted to a detail you had almost previously missed. A small feature that you had quickly over looked just moments prior.

It had appeared as if the situation had finally claimed Daryl as well. He was alone in the woods with an admittedly beautiful and young women, someone he could easily drag and yank around, and the sound of your muffled whimpers as you fought against his grasp had finally taken control of him.

Daryl was hard.

It was a feature you had almost previously missed, due to his baggy jeans and the rather captivating circumstances. However, it was undoubtedly true. The waist of his pants were much tighter against his body compared to the rest of his bottoms. Whilst the legs of his jeans were much more oversized and loose fitting, the waist of his trousers were much tighter and filled in. A rather impressive tent had formed upon his groin as he stood before you, appearing as if his erection was fighting against his zipper for any form of freedom.

Daryl quickly noticed your attentive gaze focused upon his concealed member, and whether it was out of embracement or a mixture of desire and desperation, the biker began to yank at your wrists once more.

The male started to drag you back towards his motorcycle, and you attempted no sort of fight to oppose the brunettes actions. There was only two sensations currently coursing through your entire being:

The first of which being fear. You had no idea of the bikers current thoughts. You were defenseless against the large male before you. As he practically dragged you back towards his bike, you were very aware of the reality you were currently faced with. You were suddenly terrified of the idea that Daryl could hurt you, leave you stranded, or even kill you, and no one would ever know. You couldn't deny the intense emotions of fright and slight terror controlling every single one of your thoughts. Almost every single notion that is, except one.

The second of which being arousal. You had no idea of the bikers current thoughts. You were defenseless against the large male before you. As he practically dragged you back towards his bike, you were very aware of the reality that you were currently face with. You were suddenly excited of the idea that Daryl could pleasure you, dominate you, even fuck you, and no one would ever know. You couldn't deny the intense emotions of arousal and excitement controlling every single one of your thoughts.

Luckily enough, the second option of the pair ended up being the correct feeling.

Once the brunette had successfully hauled you back to his motorcycle with extreme force, he place you before the tail end of the bike. There was a minuscule moment where you wondered what exactly was about to happen. The biker was placed behind you, excluded from your vision, and his current thoughts were completely unknown to you.

You silently observed the view of Daryl's motorcycle in front of you. Your eyes wandered across every inch of metal, momentarily concentrating upon the worn leather of the seat, and utterly captivated by the way the sun shone across the vehicles black paint, expelling bright rays of light off of the object.

However, the moment quickly came to an abrupt end as both of the males hands suddenly let go of their previous authority and domination upon your lower arms. The bikers right palm quickly traveled down towards the small of your back, his finger tips gliding across the fabric of your shirt before arriving upon your lower spine.

His left hand danced down to the outer edge of your hip, firmly grasping upon the fabric of your jeans. His grip upon your waist was not as forceful and powerful compared to the previous clutch he had upon your wrists. However, the same sensation of dominance remained.

Using the strength within the palm splayed across your lower back, the biker easily push your body down into a ninety degree angle. His hand effortlessly controlled your upper body, shoving your chest downwards until both your clothed breast and the skin of your face met the worn leather of his bike seat.

The material was warm against your features, the heat of the dark leather pressing against your characteristics only furthered your emotions of arousal and sensations of excitement. As your head remained squished against the vehicle, the only view your eyes encountered was the wilderness surrounding the pair of you. The environment was quiet, the trees were still, and there was still, somehow, not a single creature within sight.

The hand Daryl had placed upon your hip remained firm, his fingers were tight against your waist in an attempt to keep your body both stable and steady as he altered your position.

The way the biker effortlessly moved and adjusted your frame caused your body to instinctively become frantic and desperate. As your ass remained in the air, you attempted to relieve any form of pressure from in between your legs. You pressed your thighs together, wriggling your lower body in an attempt to achieve even the slightest bit of pleasure. It had been so long sense you had felt this worked up and aroused that you found yourself acting like a horny teenager. Your movements were desperate, your entrance was aching, and your mind was filled with dirty and depraved thoughts.

As you stood defenseless below the male, you experienced a brief moment where you pondered upon the events that were about to unfold. A part of your mind was focused upon how wrong the situation was, how much you despised this man and previously believed that you would rather die a gruesome and painful death than ever participate within any sort of sexual act with the brunette you determined your enemy.

However, both dominating and destroying every logical thought within your brain was the loud and overpowering sound of your mind screaming: "YES, YES, YES!"

For a while, the only sound that entered your ear canals was the echo of the male fumbling with his belt, the sound of metal clashing together and the resonance of leather sliding against his jeans. You eventually heard the indication that the brunettes belt had been successfully removed, as the sound of both his leather belt and jeans hitting the ground below him entered your head. You felt the warmth and rough skin of his previously preoccupied hands return to your lower back. He swiftly tucked the tips of his fingers below the waist band of your jeans, sliding his digits beneath your bottoms until they were snug between the fabric and your skin.

You waited in excruciating anticipation as Daryl hesitated once more. His painfully slow movements and borderline teasing gestures were only further frustrating you, constantly reminding you how much of a stupid and bad idea this was. You hated this man, and you were willingly about to let him become the first person to fuck you in God knows how long. Every ounce of hatred you had for the biker suddenly reappeared, crashing down upon you like a wave as his nonexistent movements teased and tortured your desperate body.

Suddenly, his soothing, raspy voice was expelled into the previously mute environment surrounding the two of you as he finally spoke.

"Do ya wan this?" He inquired.

For the first time in history, the mysterious bikers voice did something to you. You had never exactly perceived just how gruff and honestly attractive the brunettes voice was. Your entrance clenched once more in response to the males statement, and all your mind could focus on was the slight possibility of hearing one of the bikers raspy, deep grunts escape the chamber of his mouth as he fucked you relentlessly.

You shook your head up and down against the rough leather seat of the motorcycle, signaling your agreement. Your nod was quick and frantic, a desperate attempt to get the biker to begin and stop teasing you.

Although the biker thoroughly understood your silent statement, he needed more. He deeply desired to hear you beg and plead for his aching member. However, although he was unwilling to admit it, you could have claimed he was a "stupid bitch" and you could have been as mean as you wanted to in that moment, and he still would have obeyed to his natural instincts and fucked you relentlessly, out of pure desperation and necessity.

"I need tah hear ya say it." He added, his eyes heavy as he stared down at your thin frame below him.

The way you appeared before the male was absolutely astonishing. Daryl had never once considered you as a desperate or weak individual, he had only ever seen you remain confident, calm, and controlled. However, there you were beneath him, rubbing your tights together in desperation, your back arched in anticipation, and completely under his control. He had never seen you so distressed and desperate before, and the view of his hard cock only inches away from your clothed body, twitching and throbbing in anticipation, only made him want to bury his dick inside you without waiting for any sort of response.

You rolled your eyes in frustration as once again, every ounce of hatred you had towards this man returned to you. You knew what he was doing, patronizing you until you were practically putty within his hands. And you couldn't believe that his constant teasing and irritation was actually working, it was making you even more desperate for the mans cock.

You spoke your desperation and agreement once more, an action you would have never previously carried out if it hadn't been for how desperate and needy you were for any sort of pleasure within that moment. If you were within your right state of mind, you would have flew up from your position, punched the biker in the face, before driving away and leaving him stranded. However, it was as if you were currently stuck within some sort of desperate state, and you would do anything to get fucked in that moment.

"God Daryl, just fuck me. Quickly, before we're eaten alive." You exclaimed, pausing for a short moment before continuing. "Please..."

The final addition of the word "please" was a measly attempt to persuade Daryl. You were not the type to beg or plead, however, every single porn you had ever viewed within your life had suddenly entered your brain, causing you to beg Daryl in an attempt to gain his agreement and further arouse him.

And thankfully, your strive had succeeded. The sound of you, someone who had previously never given the male the time of day, begging for his weeping cock sent a shiver down the bikers spine. Your desperation for his dick, the tone of desire lacing your voice, and the notion that he had gained full authority and dominance over you sent the brunette into a frenzy.

He was quick with you, taking your statement extremely serious. Without even bothering to unbutton your jeans, the male's large hands latched around your waist band before yanking your pants down. Suddenly, your nearly bare ass was exposed to the chill atmosphere surrounding you. You felt as if you were on display, naked and needy just for the stupid, annoying biker behind you.

Daryl didn't even bother with removing any other article of your clothing, he simply pushed your panties to the side, shoved your shirt farther up your back until the skin of your torso was also exposed.

The biker brought his right hand down to his throbbing cock, rewarding himself with a few, tentative strokes as he absorbed the exhibit before him. As much as he wanted to digest the memory of your exposed, desperate, trembling body as much as he possibly could, for later use of course, he knew he would have to pick up his pace.

The brunette was aware of the extreme situation the two of you were placed within; a zombie could appear at any moment, attracted to your loud actions and noisy expressions, and end both of your lives. He was aware of the reality that the two of you still needed to acquire supplies after this and return back to the prison at a reasonable time. Additionally, the biker did not want to finish too soon, before the fun had even started.

Once both of his palms returned to your now exposed hips, Daryl slowly brought the tip of his cock down to your aching entrance. He teased your hole slightly, tracing his head around your desperate cunt whilst collecting as much liquid as he possibly could. Such actions caused a frustrated groan to escape from your lips as you pressed your ass backwards towards the brunette, attempting to signal both your annoyance and desperation.

He allowed his member to smoothly enter you utilizing a singular, rough thrust.

You let out a hiss of slight pain once the male had successfully entered you. Although you were thoroughly a mixture of both wet and slick to the touch, it had most likely been months, maybe even a year, sense you had received any sort of action similar to this. Your walls were tight, and your entrance was even more tense, and the sensation of the males thick cock stretching you open caused a strike of pain to web throughout your lower body.

However, the pain quickly diminished and swiftly altered into pleasure. The fact that the biker was so rough with you, simply chasing after his own pleasure out of pure desperation, made the experience ten times more attractive. The reality that Daryl both easily and rather aggressively entered you without a singular thought regarding your physical state caused your body to perceive any sort of sensation as pleasure.

The sheer tightness of your hole could have caused Daryl to finish right there and then. However, he fought his instincts of chasing easy pleasure in order to appear much more attractive and manly than he really was in that moment. He would have been extremely embarrassed if he had spilled out it into you within one second, and he knew that you would never let him forget it.

"F-fuck." The male mumbled as he slowly pulled his hips backwards, suddenly moving at a much more leisurely pace than before.

Daryl's cock was thick and pulsating, throbbing with every slight movement as your walls squeezed around him. He was large, and he was filling you to the brim. If you hadn't been so debilitated with desire and pleasure, this moment might have been much more painful and agonizing. However, due to the circumstances, the biker was stuffing you and stretching you in all of the right aways.

His excruciatingly slow movements were an obvious attempt at trying to contain himself. And as both hot and complimenting as that fact was for you, you desperately needed the male to begin to move at a quicker pace. You needed to cum, and you knew that any sort of movement would have made this experience ten times more pleasing than it currently was.

"Faster." You instructed, your words vibrating against the seat of the motorcule.

And as much as Daryl wanted to defy your command and do as he wished, to dominate you and remain in complete control of the situation, he could not seem to control both himself and his instincts as he began to pick up speed.

With every snap of his hips, your walls caressed his shaft, causing the two of you to moan without shame. Whenever the biker would thrust his hips against your own, your body would propel against the motorcycle beneath you, causing every metal and fabric to rub against your skin as the vehicle fought against your weight.

He was quick, and so were you. If the circumstances had been different, this whole situation would have been almost beautiful. The two of you would have gone much slower, absorbing every slight ounce of pleasure each of you received as your insides wrapped tightly around the male. You would have allowed the brunette to move his body in a much more gentle and deliberate manner, to truly feel just how every ridge and curve of his cock danced against each surface and crevice of your entrance.

Your walls began to tighten around the males member as you felt him twitch within you. As much as you hated to admit it, you were close. It had been months sense you had last received any sort of pleasure, and the manner in which the motorcycle rubbed perfectly against each correct spot upon your body as the male slammed into you only brought you closer and closer to the edge. And honestly, you had no idea when you would receive any sort of action like this again, you were unsure when you'd be able to pleasure yourself once more, so you were honestly in quite a hurry to finish.

Furthermore, Daryl felt the exact same way. In all honesty, the way your hands grasped at his torso and every bump you hit during your previous ride only made the males cock strain against his jeans with more and more desperation. Your tight, slick walls brought him closer to his finish with every slight movement he achieved. Simply breathing seemed to send a wave of pleasure coursing through his veins.

"S-say my name." He stated, his voice gruff as he ended his sentence with a slight grunt.

The sound of his raspy voice and his slight accent almost pushed you over the edge. The way in which his dick vibrated when he spoke and his palms shook as he thrusted into you only intensified your pleasure.

However, your anger towards his self centered statement kept you grounded. As attractive as it was that Daryl seemed to pay no mind to your pleasure, only focusing on his own satisfaction and utilizing your body as a method to achieve his goal, you still could not deny the slight anger bubbling within you. You were completely aware of the reality that exclaiming the bikers name as you reached your conclusion would only further inflate his ego.

"Im n-not saying that." You responded, suddenly fighting every ounce of pleasure coursing through your body in order to not finish in that exact moment.

However, Daryl would not take no as an answer. He needed to have complete authority over you, to dominate you and practically mark you as his own territory. After all of these months, every time you yelled at him and patronized him, he needed to be in control.

"Say it." The biker reinforced, picking up speed in order to successfully persuade you.

His rapid and desperate actions did earn a few moans from you, however, you focused more of your attention on ignoring the male, hoping that would just make him forgot about the whole topic. However, your attempt obviously failed as he pushed the palm of his right hand into your back, forcing you further against the metal vehicle below you.

The male's actions caused your frame to become further pressed against the bike. Your chest was squished against the hot metal, your cheek became compressed against the worn leather, and the way your abdomen became smooshed against the motorcycle only intensified your pleasure.

"Say it!" He shouted, his tone angry yet authoritative.

You couldn't fight your own body and natural instincts anymore. His rough and dominant pace pushing you over the edge, causing you to finally give into his command.

"D-Daryl!" You cried, your entrance pulsing around his member.

A wave of complete and passionate pleasure erupted throughout your body. The pressure previously building within your lower abdomen finally detonated as you came around the male's cock. Your entrance repeatedly throbbed and palpitated against his thick member as your legs began to quiver. You let out a string of curses and moans, exclaiming your pure delight and satisfaction as you came. It had been so long sense you had been pleased in such a manner, your body could not handle the sheer amount of pleasure as you came like you had never before.

Not even a second later, Daryl pushed his hips as far into you as he could possible manage before he allowed himself to finish within you. You felt a warm sensation fill your lower body as the male let out a few, deep and rough grunts. You felt his member twitch violently within you as he came to a slow halt.

Once the biker had finished, he steadily pulled his cock out from within you, and even the slightest bit of motion caused the two of you to release matching yelps of pain.

As you remained compressed against the tail end of the bikers motorcycle, your legs shook and your breathing was rapid as you came down from your previous high of pleasure. No longer clouded with desperation and inferior judgement, you contemplated the events you had participated within only moments prior.

"No one can ever know about this." You stated as stared off towards the empty, silent, wilderness.

#daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon twd #twd #the walking dead #daryl #daryl x reader #daryl dixon the walking dead #twd daryl

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nereidprinc3ss · 1 year ago

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baby fever

in which reader and spencer discuss having a baby while at work

fluff warnings/tags: fem/AFAB!reader, bau!reader, BOYFRIEND!SPENCER or husband if u so desire, discussions of pregnancy/having a baby (obviously), reader wants a baby, so does spencer a/n: god i need him so badly. should i write follow up smut?? mwahaha evil emoji......

The coffee finished brewing minutes ago, but you’re still standing by the pot, watching Anderson’s daughter toddling around the bullpen on chubby legs. She’s not very adept at walking, but her spirit is indomitable—every time she tips a little too far forward, she catches herself and gets right back up. It’s not like she’s doing anything particularly impressive or even interesting, but you can’t take your eyes off her. Every movement makes your heart twinge, every giggle or curious quirk of her head is so adorable it physically hurts in your chest.

From your peripheral vision you see Spencer approaching, bearing his own empty mug, but not even he can draw your attention away from the adorable little pixie and her tutu and her pigtails.

“That is the cutest kid I have ever seen in my life,” you whisper to Spencer, hoping the quiet tone of your voice will help hide how much you feel like cooing and squealing.

He smiles to himself as he pours his coffee.

“That’s Rosie. Have you said hi yet?”

“I’m afraid if I talk to her I’ll try to keep her.”

“She is pretty adorable.”

You turn to him as he leans next to you on the counter, sipping his coffee casually.

“Adorable? Spencer. Puppies are adorable. You’re not understanding the magnitude of what I mean right now. I can’t explain to you how much adorable doesn’t cut it. I’m not kidding about the child abduction thing.”

HIs eyes slide around the room as he chuckles into his mug.

“Let’s maybe not joke about kidnapping a child in FBI headquarters.”

“I’m not joking,” you hiss. “I feel like I’m going insane. I just—”

At the last second you stop yourself, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth.

“You just what?” Spencer asks, adjusting the hem of your shirt with his free hand. You glance down, watching the care he takes in the tiniest detail that you wouldn’t have given a second thought to.

“Is something wrong with my shirt?”

His eyes flick up to yours, hazel tinted with mild surprise.

“No. It just was sliding up your waist a little bit.” As he says it, his knuckles brush the bare skin of your torso. You suppress a shiver, studying his profile once he pulls his hand away and goes for another sip.

“Can we have one?”

Your inopportune timing results in coffee dribbling down Spencer’s chin as he quickly attempts to wipe it away, wide eyes torn between you and trying to assess the mess he’s made.

“You--you mean like a baby?”

“Yeah, like a baby,” you say, grabbing his shoulders and squaring them to you before dabbing the coffee from his face and jacket. He watches on as you clean him up, completely still except for his wandering eyes.

“I thought we were waiting on that.”

“Waiting for what? A better time? There’s never going to be a good time with this job. And it’s not like we’d have to quit. Look at JJ. She has two and still does it.”

“First of all,” Spencer begins, quickly recovering from your surprise proposition, “I don’t love the idea of either of us being in the field with you pregnant. And secondly, JJ also has Will and her mother to take care of the boys. We don’t have that. We’re both here all the time.”

“I don’t care,” you groan, trashing the paper towels once you’ve done the best you can with his clothing. “We’d figure it out somehow!”

“Mhm. It sounds like you’ve really devoted some careful consideration to this.”

You drop your head to your shoulder, giving him your best puppy dog eyes and pulling lightly on his shirtsleeve.

“Oh, come on. You haven’t thought about it at all? My perfect brain and your pretty face fusing to create a future Nobel-prize winner? Imagine how cute she would be, Spencer, we could put her hair in little braids and pigtails and we could dress her up and she could be in soccer and ballet and—”

“She?” he smiles, studying your face intently. You roll your eyes.

“Yes, she. Obviously we would have a girl. You—”

The idea of Spencer as the father of your daughter hits you like a tidal wave, stopping you dead in your tracks. The images materialize in your mind’s eye so clearly, it’s like they’re already memories, so real and tangible you have no doubt it must come to fruition someday. But if before, your ranting was mostly a silly fantasy—now it’s become a bit more intense.

He seems to sense your shift in mood. The big smile thaws slightly as he subtly grabs your hand on the counter.

“What? What’s wrong?”

There he goes again. Being kind. Being perfect.

Tears sting your eyes, but you don’t let them fall.

“Nothing. Nothing is wrong. I just... didn’t realize how badly I actually wanted that until I said it out loud.”

The concern in his eyes softens to pure affection as he runs his thumb over the back of your hand.

“I want it too. And whenever you decide you’re ready I’ll drop everything for you.”

His words are like compounding pressure to the deep heat within you—forming something so solid and perfect you don’t have to wonder if it’s real. A ten on the Mohs scale, a concept that gets closer to actualizing by the minute.

Your voice is quiet, revelatory as you admire the amber facets in his eyes.

“You’re ready?”

“I’ve been ready for quite some time,” he admits. And at once you feel the certainty of him paint your past and your future with one broad brushstroke. One day you will look back on your life and remember the time before Spencer, and that will be it. There is before Spencer, and with Spencer, but never an after Spencer. He wants to create something utterly permanent with you. “Come here.”

He sets his mug down, carefully pulling you forward so you’re toe to toe with your back to the rest of the BAU; so that only he can see you. Despite how good the two of you are at avoiding PDA, occasionally an exception is made. He tenderly wipes away the few tears that have sprung from your waterline and accepts your arms around his waist, mirroring your embrace and completely enveloping you.

“I love you,” he murmurs against the top of your hair, quiet enough that nobody in the office has a chance of hearing it. You sniffle.

“I love you too. Also you smell really good.”

He chuckles, hand roaming up and down your back for a moment.

“And that is why we are holding off on this at least for a while.”

“What do you mean?” you whisper indignantly as he gently peels you off him. His hands remain a steadying force on your waist as he smiles down at you beatifically.

“I mean let’s give it two weeks and see if you still want a baby when you’re not ovulating.”

#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you

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melanchoire · 4 months ago

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SAVE A HORSE, RIDE A COWGIRL ──── jang wonyoung.

── ( 🐎🌾) with her dreams at stake, wonyoung escapes to the forbidden rodeo in her room, joining forces with you for a night of tantalizing twists and turns, proving that sometimes, the hottest rodeos are the ones that break all the rules.

pairing. dom!farmer's daughter!jang wonyoung x sub!childhood best friend!gp reader

warning(s). cunnilingus, fingering, making out, pet names, use of weed.

word count. 10,2k

requested? yes.

wonyoung was adrift in a sea of spun sugar clouds, the air sweet with the scent of cherry blossoms and designer perfume. in her dream, she glided down a parisian runway, the flash of cameras a dazzling constellation around her. each step was perfect, each pose effortless. this was it, the life she craved, the future she envisioned.

cock-a-doodle-doo!

the sound pierced her idyllic bubble, sharp and utterly unwelcome. wonyoung’s eyes snapped open, her dream instantly dissolving like sugar in water. instead of clouds, her vision was filled with the frantic flapping wings and beady eyes of a particularly audacious rooster. it stood perched on her dresser, its comb practically brushing against her cheek as it unleashed another ear-splitting cry.

with a groan, wonyoung threw back the covers, the remnants of her dream fading like morning mist. she’d meticulously closed the curtains the night before, a desperate attempt to cling to sleep a little longer. but no, the farm life always found a way to intrude.

panic flared. wonyoung bolted upright, her heart hammering against her ribs. she swatted at the rooster, a shriek escaping her lips. “get out! get out!”

“i say: get out!” she hissed, grabbing a pillow and shooing the offending fowl towards the door. it squawked indignantly, flapping its wings before finally hopping out. wonyoung slammed the door shut, leaning against it for a moment, her chest tight with frustration.

“stupid bird.” she muttered, her voice trembling with residual fear and a healthy dose of annoyance.

she had been so careful last night, meticulously drawing the heavy curtains to block out the encroaching dawn. usually, that bought her a precious hour or two of extra sleep. but apparently, no amount of drapery could keep the farm’s resident alarm clock at bay.

this… this was her life. a room filled with fashion magazines and dreams of milan, situated on a farm where the alarm clock was a rooster and the air perpetually smelled of manure.

life on the farm. it was a constant clash between her aspirations and her reality. she’d grown up with it, of course. and it was a respectable, hardworking life. but it wasn’t hers. she, on the other hand, felt like a misplaced puzzle piece, constantly yearning for something different.

wonyoung dreamed of city lights, of towering skyscrapers instead of rolling hills. she envisioned herself gracing magazine covers, walking down runways, a world away from the mud and manure that clung to her family’s boots. but her parents, bless their hardworking souls, couldn’t comprehend her desires. her father, a horse blacksmith with calloused hands and a love for tradition, saw her future here, rooted in the land. her mother, the vibrant owner of the local town market, believed happiness lay in community and familiarity.

they couldn’t understand. they saw her dreams as frivolous, a childish fantasy. they wanted her to stay, to take over the farm, to continue the legacy. the legacy she desperately wanted to escape. their vision for wonyoung was a comfortable, predictable one, a life woven into the fabric of their small town. but Wonyoung craved the unknown, the challenge, the dazzling allure of a life she had only glimpsed in magazines and on television.

with a sigh, she ran her hands over her face, trying to shake off the lingering vestiges of sleep and the remnants of her shattered dream. she pulled her hair back into a messy bun, the image of sleek, professionally styled models flashing through her mind. slippers replaced the imagined designer heels as she trudged towards the door. time to face the music, or in this case, the crowing roosters and the aroma of frying bacon.

downstairs, the aroma of frying bacon and strong coffee filled the air. the sounds of the farm were already starting to swell: the lowing of cows, the clucking of hens, the distant clang of her father’s hammer. she murmured a polite greeting as she entered the kitchen, heading straight for the refrigerator. her parents were already seated at the table, their faces illuminated by the warm morning light filtering through the window. her older sister, daah, was perched on a stool, flipping through a magazine.

“morning.” wonyoung mumbled, opening the refrigerator and grabbing a carton of orange juice and poured herself a glass.

“look who finally decided to join us.” her older sister, daah, said without looking up from the stove. daah was everything wonyoung wasn’t: practical, grounded, and content with the farm life. their relationship was a constant battleground of differing opinions.

her mother, a sturdy woman with kind eyes and perpetually calloused hands, smiled. “morning, sweetheart. sleep well?”

wonyoung offered a noncommittal shrug. “as well as one can with a rooster for an alarm clock.”

“so, your father was just telling me about the rodeo this afternoon.” her mother said, her voice bright as she flipped a pancake. “it’s going to be a big one this year, with the usual dance afterwards.”

her father, a man of few words but immense strength, cleared his throat. “big rodeo this afternoon, wonyoung! should be a good one.”

wonyoung’s stomach clenched. rodeos were not her thing. the smell of horses and dust, the raucous cheers of the crowd, the sheer testosterone that seemed to permeate the air – it all made her incredibly uncomfortable. and the dance afterwards? an even greater nightmare, filled with awkward small talk and the persistent advances of overly enthusiastic farm boys.

“oh, i don’t know, mom.” wonyoung said, carefully avoiding eye contact. “i was thinking of catching up on some reading. i have a lot of schoolwork to do.”

her father chuckled, a deep rumbling sound. “schoolwork can wait, wonyoung–ah. this is a town tradition. besides, it’s good to get out and socialize.”

"oh, that's right!” her mother chimed in, placing a plate of steaming pancakes on the table. "it’ll be a good chance to see everyone, wonyoung. and maybe even meet a nice young man."

wonyoung choked on her orange juice. “mom, you know i’m not interested in any 'nice young men' from around here.”

her father nodded in agreement, pushing the plate of steaming pancakes in front of wonyoung. “it’ll be fun! i promise.”

wonyoung forced a smile. “maybe. but i really need to focus on my studies.”

daah snorted. “studies? please. we all know you’d rather be practicing your runway walk in front of the mirror.”

wonyoung’s cheeks flushed. “that’s not true.”

“oh, come on, wonyoung.” daah continued, relentlessly. “don’t be ridiculous.” daah scoffed, flipping a pancake with unnecessary force. “it’s good to have a bit of fun, wonyoung. you spend too much time locked up in your room, dreaming about things that will never happen. when are you going to give up on these childish dreams of yours? you’re a jang. we’re farmers. it’s in our blood”

there it was, the barb she knew was coming. daah never missed an opportunity to belittle her aspirations.

wonyoung slammed the carton of orange juice back into the refrigerator. “and you spend too much time judging me for having ambition! what’s so wrong with wanting something more than this?” she gestured around the cozy, familiar kitchen, the heart of a life she didn’t want.

“and what exactly is so wrong with our life?” daah challenged, crossing her arms. “2e have everything we need. family, friends, a roof over our heads. what more could you want?”

“more than just this!” wonyoung exclaimed, gesturing around the kitchen with a frustrated wave of her hand. “i want to see the world. i want to experience new things. i want to be someone, not just another farm girl who marries the boy next door and spends her life milking cows.”

“there’s nothing wrong with milking cows!” daah shot back, her face reddening. “it’s honest work… and– there’s nothing wrong with being realistic!” daah retorted, her voice sharp. “you can’t just ignore your responsibilities here. dad’s getting older, mom can’t run the market forever. someone needs to take over the farm.”

those words hit wonyoung’s heart hard. yes, it was true, his father was getting old and it was always a difficult task bending down when working in his blacksmith shop in the farm yard or when he had to take care of the animals and that involved squatting. wonyoung always tried to help his father when he spent hours and hours working in the workshop or the stable, always sitting on a small and uncomfortable bench and hunching his back in a way that is painful to watch. she didn’t have much knowledge about tools and that field, but over the years she learned how to learn – not because blacksmithing or mechanics is something that interests her or that she is passionate about, but because she was only interested in learning to help her father and take care of doing as much work as possible to prevent him from overexerting himself and getting physically hurt.

but daah it wasn’t like that at all. she called her father’s work “dirty” behind her parents’ backs, but she always pretended in front of them that she was a family girl who would give everything for them. she only contributed to helping her family with her mother’s job, who owned the local store in town, but she didn’t even help with anything in particular; sure, daah spent the whole day in the supermarket, but she just sat behind the cash register, filing her nails or laughing while texting with her friends, having the nerve to get upset and make a face when a customer puts their purchase on the register and it’s time for her to serve them and collect the corresponding money.

“and why does that someone have to be me?” wonyoung demanded, her voice rising. “why can’t you do it? you love this life!”

daah turned to face her, her expression hard. “because you’re the responsible one, wonyoung. you always have been. i have my own life, my own plans.”

“and what about my plans?” wonyoung cried, her voice trembling. “don’t they matter?”

her father cleared his throat, his voice stern. “enough, both of you. this isn’t how we start the day.” he looked at wonyoung with a hint of disappointment in his eyes. “wonyoung, your sister has a point. we’ve given you everything. the least you can do is appreciate it.”

wonyoung fell silent, her appetite gone. she pushed her plate away, the pancakes suddenly tasting like ash in her mouth. it was always the same. every time she tried to express her dreams, she was met with resistance, with disapproval, with the crushing weight of expectation.

she knew she couldn’t change their minds. they were too set in their ways, too deeply rooted in their traditions. but that didn’t mean she had to give up on her own dreams. she would find a way, somehow, to escape this suffocating routine and build the life she truly desired. even if it meant facing their disapproval, even if it meant breaking their hearts.

because in the end, it was her life, and she was determined to live it on her own terms. even if that meant facing a few more early morning wake–up calls from a rogue rooster along the way.

“this is my house, and you will both show some respect. wonyoung, you will come to the rodeo this afternoon. it’s a tradition, and we always support our community."

wonyoung bit back a retort, tears stinging her eyes. she knew arguing with her father was futile. he was a man of tradition, of duty, of unwavering expectations.

she looked at her mother, pleading for understanding, for support. but her mother’s expression was resolute, her loyalty firmly with her husband.

“it’'ll be fun, wonyoung.” her mother said softly, but the words felt like a sentence.

“fun?” onyoung whispered, her voice thick with tears. “you call this fun? being trapped in a life i never wanted, surrounded by people who don’t understand me? my dreams are not childish; they are my passion. and staying in here, pretending to live a life that i don’t feel happy about, is so much worse.”

she turned and fled, running back upstairs, the image of her 0arisian runway dissolving into a blur of tears. she slammed the door to her room, collapsing on the bed, the scent of cherry blossoms now tainted with the bitter taste of disappointment.

the rooster, oblivious to her distress, began to crow again. this time, wonyoung didn’t just shoo it away. she grabbed it by its scrawny neck and held it, its frantic flapping a futile protest against her grip.

for a moment, she considered doing something drastic, something that would shock them all, something that would finally make them understand the depth of her unhappiness.

but then, she looked into the rooster’s beady eyes, and she saw something… fear. and in that fear, she saw a reflection of her own.

with a sigh, she released the rooster, letting it scamper out the door. violence wasn’t the answer. running away wasn't either. but staying here, silently suffocating, wasn’t an option either.

“i’m sorry, buddy… it’s not your fault, i know.”

she would go to the rodeo. she would smile, she would socialize, she would play the part of the dutiful daughter. but she would also start making a plan. a real plan, a concrete plan, to escape the farm and pursue her dreams.

this rooster might have woken her up, but it wouldn’nt keep her grounded forever. she would fly. she had to. for her own sanity, for her own future. she wouldn’t let her dreams remain dreams; she would make them reality.

the afternoon sun cast long shadows across wonyoung’s bedroom, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. she twirled in front of the mirror, a vision in denim and defiance. her worn a skirt jeans, once relegated to mucking stalls, had been artfully distressed and studded with glittering rhinestones. a plain white tank top now boasted intricate embroidery around the neckline, and a fringed leather hat completed the transformation. this wasn’t just a farm outfit; it was a statement. it was a rebellion against the endless fields and the predictable routine.

“perfect.” she murmured to herself, smoothing down the fringe. “rodeo–ready, and runway–worthy.” living on the farm, churning butter and wrangling stubborn goats, felt like a cage around her aspirations. she dreamt of paris fashion week, of sketching bold designs in a sun–drenched studio, not mending fences under a scorching sun. but wonyoung was resilient. she’d find a way. she always did.

a piercing whistle shattered the quiet. wonyoung’s smile faltered.

daah, her older sister, leaned against the doorway, a smug grin plastered across her face. a battered cowboy hat perched jauntily on her head, and her plaid shirt was tucked neatly into her jeans. she looked every inch the quintessential farm girl, a stark contrast to wonyoung’s carefully constructed glamour.

“well, well, well...” daah drawled, pushing off the doorframe. “loook who decided to raid the costume box again. you going as ‘glamorous cowgirl’ this year, wonyoung?”

wonyoung stiffened, her fingers clenching around the vest. “it’s called ‘elevated rural chic’ daah. and it’s an outfit, not a costume.”

“right, right.” daah said, rolling her eyes. “because rhinestones and embroidery are exactly what you need when you’re dodging rogue cows. you know, practicality is kind of a big deal out here in the, uh, rural parts.” she emphasized the word with a saccharine sweetness that grated on wonyoung’s nerves.

“maybe if you spent less time gossiping with mrs. kim and more time actually helping out, you’d understand that practicality and style aren’t mutually exclusive.” wonyoung retorted, turning back to the mirror to adjust her hat. she needed to stay calm. engaging in a full–blown argument would only validate daah’s attempts to ruin her mood.

“ouch, sharp words.” daah chuckled, taking a step closer. “but speaking of helping out, shouldn’t you be, oh, i don’t know, making sure the prize–winning pumpkin is ready for judging? or are you too busy dreaming about escaping to the big city and leaving us all behind?”

wonyoung swung around, her eyes blazing. “what’s not fair, daah! i contribute just as much as you do. and having a dream doesn't mean i’m abandoning everyone. unlike some people, i actually believe it’s possible to have both."

daah crossed her arms, her smile gone. “oh, really? so you think you can be a successful fashion designer and still be a farmer’s daughter? that’s… ambitious, even for you. don’t you think you’re setting yourself up for disappointment? face it, wonyoung, this is our life. this farm, this town. it’s not some backdrop for your little fashion fantasies.”

the words stung, sharper than a bee sting. wonyoung swallowed hard, refusing to let the tears well up. “and what’s wrong with having fantasies? at least i’m trying to create something beautiful, instead of just accepting things as they are.”

“acceptance is maturity, wonyoung. chasing pipe dreams is… childish.” daah paused, her voice softening slightly. “look, i’m just saying, maybe you should focus on something realistically attainable. help dad with the farm. start a family. you know, the things that actually matter.”

wonyoung stared at her sister, a cold fury rising within her. “and who gets to decide what matters? you? is that it? because you’re perfectly content with mediocrity, you think everyone else should be too?”

“it’s not mediocrity, wonyoung! it’s… stability. it’s family. it’s belonging."

“and u can’t have those things and still pursue my dreams?” wonyoung challenged, her voice trembling. “is that what you're saying? that i have to choose between being a good daughter and being myself?”

daah didn’t answer, her silence speaking volumes. the tension in the room crackled, thick and suffocating. wonyoung turned back to the mirror, her shoulders slumping. for a moment, the glittering rhinestones and the intricate embroidery seemed hollow, a flimsy shield against the harsh reality daah had just laid bare. but then, she caught her reflection, her own determined gaze staring back at her.

no.

daah might not understand. the town might not understand. but wonyoung understood. and that was enough.

she squared her shoulders, adjusted her hat with a defiant tilt, and turned back to face her sister. “i’ll see you at the rodeo, daah.” she said, her voice steady. “maybe you’ll be surprised by what i accomplish. with my ‘little fashion fantasies’.”

and with that, she walked past daah, leaving her standing in the doorway, her face a mask of conflicting emotions. wonyoung had a rodeo to win. and a dream to prove.

the dust swirled around wonyoung’s ankles, a red–brown haze that clung to the air like a persistent memory. the rodeo was in full swing, a cacophony of roaring engines, twanging guitars, and the excited screams of the crowd. the air hung thick with the scent of dust, and something vaguely metallic, the smell of anticipation and adrenaline that clung to every rodeo. wonyoung, usually more at home in the sleek confines of her family’s modern kitchen or lost in the pages of a well–worn novel, felt utterly out of place. the stetson perched precariously on her head, a forced purchase by her zealous mother, felt like a brand.

she wandered aimlessly through the bustling grounds, a phantom limb grafted onto the rugged reality of the rodeo. men in worn denim and dusty boots tipped their hats, their eyes lingering on her with a frank curiosity that made her skin crawl. women, their faces etched with the lines of sun and hard work, offered polite nods, their eyes holding a mixture of amusement and pity. wonyoung was an anomaly, a polished gem dropped into a pile of rough stones.

thee truth was, she didn’t want to be here. Not even a little bit. the rodeo, the epitome of small town tradition, was the last place she felt she belonged. her dreams extended far beyond the confines of this dusty arena, reaching for the glittering lights of the city, the hushed reverence of libraries, the vibrant chaos of art studios. but her parents, particularly her mother, envisioned a different future for her, one rooted in the familiar soil of their village, a future involving a sturdy rancher and a life mirroring her own. Hence, the rodeo. the forced mingling. the subtle, and not–so–subtle, matchmaking.

her parents’ expectations had become a suffocating weight, a constant pressure that squeezed the joy out of her life. ever since she’d expressed her yearning to study art in seoul, a chasm had widened between them. her once bright and airy home now felt like a gilded cage. hours were spent locked in her room, sketching furiously in her notebooks, trying to carve out a space for herself in a world that felt increasingly hostile. the village store, usually a place of connection, became another source of awkward encounters and strained silences. helping her mother restock shelves felt like serving a sentence, each can of beans a reminder of the life she didn’t want.

wonyoung wasn’t entirely convinced she should be here. in fact, if it were up to her, she’d be miles away, lost in the pages of a book or sketching designs in her worn notebook. but family obligations, particularly those enforced by her father, were a force of nature stronger than any bucking bronco. her parents, particularly her mother, had become increasingly insistent on her embracing the “small–town life” on finding a “suitable” husband, and on abandoning what they deemed her “fanciful” dreams of becoming a fashion designer. this rodeo, apparently, was the perfect opportunity to showcase her “eligible maiden” status.

she sighed, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. the vibrant energy of the rodeo felt alien, a stark contrast to the quiet solitude she craved. ever since her parents had started tightening their grip on her life, wonyoung had retreated inwards, spending countless hours locked away in her room, a sanctuary filled with fabrics, sketches, and the whispered promises of a life beyond the confines of their expectations. the silence was a comfort, a buffer against the constant pressure to conform.

lost in her spiraling thoughts, wonyoung wasn’t paying attention to where she was going. she bumped, not gently, into someone, a soft “oof!” escaping her lips. a cascade of brightly colored pamphlets scattered across the dusty ground.

“oh, i am so sorry!” wonyoung blurted out, bending to help gather the mess.

“no worries, i should have been looking where i was going too.” a familiar voice responded, and wonyoung”s head snapped up.

she looked up, and her breath caught in her throat. standing before her was you. your eyes, the same warm brown she remembered from all those years ago, widened in surprise. you were even more beautiful than she recalled, your smile as radiant as the summer sun.

kneeling beside her, picking up a pamphlet advertising the local 4-H club, was you. your hair, usually braided neatly, was pulled back in a messy ponytail, escaping tendrils framing your face. you were wearing a simple shirt and denim jeans with some boots, looking every bit the part of a small–town girl, yet there was an undeniable spark of intelligence in your eyes.

“wonyoung?” you asked, a hint of delighted surprise in your voice. “is that really you?”

a wave of warmth washed over wonyoung, a feeling she hadn’t realized she’d been missing. it had been so long since she’d felt genuinely seen, not as the daughter of the store owner, not as a potential bride, but just as wonyoung.

“hey…” she managed, a genuine smile finally gracing her lips. “it’s… it’s good to see you.”

a genuine smile touched your lips. “wonyoung! wow, i haven’t seen you in ages! how have you been?”

the years melted away in an instant. suddenly, she was back in the schoolyard, sharing secrets and dreams with you under the shade of the old oak tree.

“i…” wonyoung hesitated, unsure of how to answer. the truth was, she hadn’t been doing well. she was suffocating under the weight of her parents’ expectations, her dreams slowly fading like a watercolor painting left in the sun. “i’ve been… busy.” she finally said, a weak attempt at deflection.

your eyes searched hers, a knowing glint in their depths. “busy doing what? last i heard, you were quite the artist, always sketching away in your notebook. making those... uhm, sketches about clothing collection ideas? the girl, daughter of the owner of the town library, you know, liz the blondke, told me about it.”

wonyoung’s heart ached. “i still am.” she admitted, “but my parents... they don’t really approve. they think it’s just a hobby, not a real career.”

“that’s ridiculous!” you exclaimed, your voice laced with indignation. “you’re incredibly talented, wonyoung. i remember seeing your drawings back in school, they were amazing.”

a flicker of hope ignited within wonyoung. “thank you.” she whispered, a genuine smile gracing her lips for the first time that day.

“so, what are you doing here at the rodeo?” you asked, gesturing around at the chaotic scene. “this doesn’t exactly seem like your kind of place.”

wonyoung grimaced. “tell me about it. my parents, they… well, they think it’s a good way for me to meet someone.” she rolled her eyes, unable to fully conceal her exasperation.

you winced. “ouch. that sounds… intense… ah, the age-old quest for a husband. remind me to hide if my mom gets any ideas.”

a comfortable silence fell between them, punctuated by the distant roar of the crowd. wonyoung felt a sense of peace she hadn't experienced in months. being with you, even after all this time, felt natural, easy.

“so, what about you?” wonyoung asked, eager to change the subject. “what have you been up to? are you still living here?”

“yep, still here.” you replied, your eyes twinkling. “i’m helping mom out at the school. i’m actually thinking about becoming a teacher myself, just like her.”

‘that’s wonderful!” wonyoung exclaimed. “you’d be a fantastic teacher. you were always so kind and patient, even back in elementary school.”

ypu blushed slightly. "thanks, wonyoung. That means a lot. i don’t know if { really want to be a 100% teacher, maybe an assistant, or whatever is enough to be able to help my mom at work. you know, she’s getting old…”

“she still talks about you.” you said, your voice softening. “she always said you were one of her brightest students. she was so disappointed when you stopped coming around.”

yeah, that made wonyoung’s heart hurt so much… she met you during school, when she and all her friends used to be little kids who loved singing songs and drawing pictures in elementary school. you, the daughter of the sweetest teacher in the establishment, were always a complete sweetheart to her; practically during the first day of school you were with wonyoung the whole day, never stopping talking like a parrot, but making wonyoung’s days happy and fun.

the reason why she dropped out of school? her parents. just one day after she finished getting ready and headed straight to the front door to head off to school, her mother told her that she stopped paying her school fees because the family needed wonyoung’s full help on the farm.

wonyoung’s smile faltered. “yeah, well… things got complicated.”

“i know.” you said gently. “i saw you a few times at the store, but… you always seemed so distant.”

“i’m sorry.” wonyoung said, her voice barely a whisper. “i just… i haven’t been myself lately.”

a long silence stretched between them, filled only with the sounds of the rodeo swirling around them. wonyoung felt a knot of guilt tighten in her stomach. she had let her fears and frustrations isolate her, cutting herself off from the people who genuinely cared about her.

you broke the silence, your voice firm and resolute. “look, i know this whole rodeo thing is probably your own personal hell, but you don’t have to stay here. not if you don’t want to.”

wonyoung looked at you, a flicker of hope igniting in her eyes. “what do you mean?”

you grinned, a mischievous glint in your eyes. “i mean, this town hasn’t changed much. we could ditch this rodeo and go for a walk. we could get some ice cream at the parlor, maybe visit mrs. davison. we could even go see mr. henderson’s pig, if you’re feeling brave.”

wonyoung’s heart skipped a beat. the idea of escaping the suffocating atmosphere of the rodeo, of reconnecting with the familiar comfort of the village, was incredibly appealing.

“seriously?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

you nodded, your eyes sparkling with encouragement. “seriously. what do you say? want to escape?”

wonyoung looked around at the chaos of the rodeo, at the expectant faces of the townsfolk, at the invisible chains that bound her to a future she didn’t want. then, she looked back at you, at the genuine offer of friendship in your eyes, at the promise of freedom and escape.

a slow smile spread across her face. “let’s go.” she said, the words filled with a newfound sense of determination. “let’s get out of here.”

the sun was a furnace in the sky, beating down on the dusty main street of your town. you tugged at the collar of your shirt, wishing you’d worn something lighter. the annual rodeo was in full swing, and the air was thick with the smell of fried food, manure, and the general chaos that always seemed to follow the event.

“seriously, how many more cowboy hats can one town possibly hold?” you muttered, more to yourself than to wonyoung, who was walking beside you.

wonyoung giggled, a sound like wind chimes in the oppressive heat. “oh, hush. i think they look kinda cute.”

you snorted, but then your eyes landed on wonyoung’s outfit. she was sporting a denim skirt, a fitted white tank top, and a pair of intricately stitched cowboy boots. a playful bandana was tied around her neck, and a wide–brimmed straw hat sat perched on her head.

“okay, maybe you’re right.” you admitted, a blush creeping up your neck. “especially on you.”

wonyoung’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink. “you think so?” she asked, twirling a strand of hair around her finger.

“absolutely. you look…you look amazing, wonyoung.” the words tumbled out before you could stop them. you cursed yourself inwardly for being so forward, but the genuine admiration in your voice was undeniable.

wonyoung’s smile widened, and she bumped her shoulder against yours. “thanks. you look pretty good yourself, considering we’re trying to avoid the entire town.”

you chuckled, the tension easing slightly. “pretty good at avoiding the rodeo, maybe.”

the truth was, both of you had a perfectly good reason to be anywhere but the rodeo. wonyoung’s dad, bless his heart, was practically the mayor of the rodeo. he was the one who organized the events, wrangled the sponsors, and generally made sure the whole shebang ran smoothly. which meant wonyoung was expected to be there, smiling and waving, playing the dutiful daughter. it was a role she loathed.

as for you, your mom taught at the local elementary school and was, as always, roped into volunteering at the rodeo’s kid zone. face painting, pony rides, the whole shebang. you loved your mom, but spending a day surrounded by screaming children and glitter glue was your idea of hell.

and so, here you were, two outcasts seeking refuge from the rodeo's relentless cheer. you wandered through the quiet side streets, seeking refuge from the relentless “yee-haws” and the twang of country music.

“let’s go back to my place.” wonyoung suggested, breaking the comfortable silence. “dad won’t be home until late. we can raid the fridge and watch some terrible reality TV."

you grinned. “sounds like a plan.”

and that’s how you ended up here. lying on the hood of wonyoung’s dad’s vintage convertible, parked in the driveway. the sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. a couple of lukewarm beers sat between you, condensation beading on the bottles. and the sweet, pungent aroma of weed hung in the air, courtesy of your friend yujin’s generous stash.

neither you nor wonyoung thought it would end like this.

the first few puffs had been a little rough, a tickle in your throat that made you cough. but now, a pleasant buzz was spreading through your body, making everything feel soft and fuzzy around the edges.

“you know.” wonyoung said, her voice slightly slurred. “i really appreciate you helping my mom with the school fair last month. you know, when she was giving out candy and snacks to the kids”

you blinked, trying to focus. “it was nothing. she’s an amazing chef."

“she really likes you.” wonyoung insisted, nudging you with her elbow. “she said you have a special way with the kids. you make them feel… seen.”

a warmth spread through your chest. “well, i like helping out. your mom’s really cool, you know?”

wonyoung giggled again, a sound that always made your heart skip a beat. “you think my mom is cool?”

“i…well, yeah. she’s dedicated and kind. and honestly, the school fair was way less stressful with you there.”

wonyoung turned her head to look at you, her eyes sparkling in the fading light. “you’re pretty cool yourself, you know that?”

“am i?” you asked, a playful smile tugging at your lips.

“totally.” she said, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. “you’re… you’re really funny. and you always know how to make me laugh, even when i’m feeling like i’m forced into a role i don’t even know how to play.”

“that’a what friends are for.” you said, but the words felt inadequate, hollow. you wanted to be more than just friends.

the silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken feelings. you took a long swig of your beer, trying to quell the nervousness churning in your stomach.

“these cowboy boots are killing me.” wonyoung suddenly announced, kicking one of her feet in the air.

you chuckled. “serves you right for embracing the rodeo spirit."

“hey, i was trying to be ironic!” she protested, but her protests were quickly lost in a fit of giggles.

you reached out and gently took her foot in your hand. “let me help you with that.”

wonyoung’s breath hitched as your fingers brushed against her ankle. you carefully unbuckled the boot and slid it off her foot, then repeated the process with the other one.

“better?” you asked, looking up at her.

her eyes were fixed on you, her pupils dilated. “much.” she whispered.

you continued to hold her foot in your hand, your thumb tracing circles on her skin. the air crackled with electricity. you could feel your heart pounding in your chest.

“you know…” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “you look really beautiful tonight.”

wonyoung’s cheeks flushed again, a deep crimson that stood out against her pale skin. “stop it.” she breathed, but there was no heat in her words.

“i’m serious.” you insisted, your gaze locked on hers. “you’re beautiful all the time, but especially right now.”

wonyoung leaned closer, her hand reaching out to touch your face. her fingers brushed against your cheek, sending a shiver down your spine.

“you’re not so bad yourself.” she murmured, her voice laced with a playful flirtation.

the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you, suspended in this moment of pure, unfiltered connection. you could feel the warmth of her breath on your skin, the intoxicating scent of her perfume filling your nostrils.

without thinking, you leaned in closer, your lips hovering just above hers. you could feel her inhale sharply, her body tensing with anticipation.

“can i…?” you whispered, your voice trembling.

wonyoung closed her eyes and nodded, her lips parting slightly.

and then, you kissed her.

it was a slow, tentative kiss at first, a gentle exploration of each other’s lips. but as the seconds ticked by, the kiss deepened, growing more passionate and urgent. you wrapped your arms around her, pulling her closer, until there was no space left between your bodies.

her hands tangled in your hair, her fingers massaging your scalp. you could taste the sweetness of beer and the lingering scent of weed on her lips. it was a heady combination that sent your senses reeling.

the world spun around you, the stars blurring into a kaleidoscope of light. you lost yourself in the kiss, in the feeling of her body pressed against yours, in the sheer, unadulterated joy of finally, finally, kissing wonyoung.

it was everything you had ever dreamed of and more.

when you finally broke apart, breathless and flushed, you were both dazed and giddy. you rested your forehead against hers, your eyes closed, savoring the moment.

“wow.” you whispered, your voice still shaky.

“yeah.” wonyoung breathed, her grip tightening on your arms. “wow.”

the silence that followed was thick with unspoken questions, lingering desires, and a healthy dose of nervous energy. you pull back slightly, your eyes searching wonyoung’s, trying to gauge her reaction. her cheeks are flushed, her lips slightly swollen, and her gaze is locked on yours with an intensity that makes your heart race.

“so,” you began, attempting a casual tone that falls flat. “what now?”

wonyoung laughs softly, a sound that sends a shiver down your spine. “i don’t know.” she admits, tracing a pattern on your arm with her fingertip. “but i definitely don’t want to go back to the rodeo.”

you grinned. “me neither. screaming kids and glitter glue are not exactly conducive to post–kiiss bliss.”

her smile widens. “exactly. besides” she adds, her voice dropping to a suggestive murmur. “i think we’ve earned a little more privacy.”

without another word, she slips off the hood of the car and extends her hand to you. “come on.” she says, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “my room is a much more comfortable place to, uh, discuss our future plans.”

your heart leaps at the invitation. you take her hand, the warmth of her touch sending a jolt of electricity through your body. together, you walk towards the house, the gravel crunching beneath your feet.

as you approach the front door, you glance back at the convertible, the empty beer bottles sitting forlornly on the hood. a pang of guilt hits you – you’re pretty sure wonyoung’a dad would not be thrilled about the evidence of your little rebellion. but the thought is fleeting, quickly overshadowed by the anticipation of what awaits you inside.

wonyoung unlocks the door and leads you through the dimly lit living room. you notice family photos lining the walls, capturing moments of laughter and joy. a portrait of wonyoung in her rodeo queen attire hangs prominently above the fireplace. you can’t help but smile at the irony.

she guides you up the creaking stairs and down a hallway, finally stopping in front of a door adorned with fairy lights and a collection of concert posters. this, you realize, is wonyoung’s sanctuary.

she pushes the door open and steps aside, allowing you to enter first. the room is bathed in the soft glow of a string of fairy lights, casting dancing shadows on the walls. a large, plush bed dominates the space, piled high with colorful pillows and a patchwork quilt. a bookshelf overflowing with novels and CDs stands against one wall, while a desk cluttered with art supplies and half–finished projects occupies the other.

it’s a space that feels undeniably wonyoung – a blend of creativity, comfort, and unapologetic individuality.

“welcome to my humble abode.” she says, gesturing around the room with a playful flourish.

you take a moment to soak it all in, a sense of warmth and intimacy washing over you. “it’s perfect.” you breathe, turning to face her.

wonyoung blushes, her eyes darting around the room. “it’s a bit of a mess, i know.”

“it’s not a mess.” you protest. “it’s...lived in. it feels like you.”

her smile returns, genuine and radiant. she walks over to the bed and kicks off her socks, sinking into the plush mattress with a sigh of contentment.

“come sit.” she says, patting the space beside her.

you hesitate for a moment, suddenly feeling a surge of nervousness. this feels like a turning point, a step beyond friendship into uncharted territory. but the look in wonyoung’s eyes – a mixture of anticipation and vulnerability – reassures you.

you take a deep breath and walk over to the bed, sitting down beside her. the mattress dips beneath your weight, bringing you closer together. the air crackles with unspoken desires.

wonyoung reaches out and takes your hand, her fingers interlacing with yours. “so…” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “what do you want to do first?”

the possibilities seem endless. you could talk for hours, dissecting every detail of your feelings, exploring the depths of your connection. or you could simply surrender to the moment, letting your bodies guide you, exploring the physical intimacy that has been simmering beneath the surface for so long.

you look into wonyoung’s eyes, searching for an answer, a clue. and then, you know.

“i want to kiss you again.” you say, your voice raspy with emotion.

wonyoung’s eyes light up, and she leans in closer, her lips parting in anticipation. “then what are you waiting for?”

you don’t need to be told twice. you lean in, your lips meeting hers in a kiss that is even more passionate and electrifying than the first. this time, there is no hesitation, no tentativeness. it’s a kiss of pure, unadulterated desire, a melting together of two souls that have finally found their way to each other.

her hands move from yours to cradle your face, her thumbs tracing the contours of your cheeks. you deepen the kiss, your tongues dancing together in a rhythm that is both familiar and new.

the world outside fades away, leaving only the two of you, lost in the intoxicating embrace of each other’s lips. time seems to stand still, and all that matters is this moment, this connection, this undeniable spark that ignites between you.

the kiss goes on, deepening and intensifying. you slide her tank top up, exposing her bare skin, and she reciprocates, tugging at the hem of your shirt. the room is heating up, and you feel a desperate need to get closer, to feel every inch of her against you.

you break the kiss, gasping for breath, your bodies trembling with pent–up energy. you pull back slightly, your eyes meeting hers, searching for permission.

until a reality check hits you. you two had escaped from the rodeo.

for your part, you were a little persecuted about the consequences this would bring you. it’s not that your mother was a very strict person who treated you like a little kid, but you did know that you would probably get scolded later for disappearing without telling her beforehand. of course, you had promised her that you would help her take care of the children and help them with the children’s activities during tonight’s rodeo, so yes, you had a more than guaranteed punishment.

but on wonyoung’s part... you were aware of how fussy and traditional her family is and always will be. a typical family with traditions and customs that they make and inherit for generations and generations for many years, like a spiral or an infinity. wonyoung was always rebellious and made it known that she wanted more than just harvesting crops on the farm and taking care of the barnyard animals, but she was always silenced by her parents and labeled as ”being confused by her age” or because she watched too many hollywood programs that were broadcast on television.

“wonyoung, we should go back to the rodeo–.”

“oh, you want a show, huh?" she asked, her voice dripping with sultry promise. now she was... different. you never saw this side of her, or at least, you weren't aware that she had it. “i thought you might.”

turning to face you fully, she put her hands on her hips, striking a provocative pose. she looked like a naughty fantasy version of a cowgirl – the outfit was far too small and tight, clinging to her every curve.

”how’s this, cowgirl?” she asked, doing a little twirl to show off her skirt, the fabric rising a little as wonyoung turned and the panties that were perfectly hugging her round ass. she walked towards you, her hips swaying, until she was standing inches away.

”this is the kind of cowboys show you wanted, right?” she whispered, reaching out to run a finger along your jawline, her touch electric. ”i can give you an even better show if you want... in private.”

“r-really?”

another important fact; wonyoung knows how whipped you’re and you were always for her. wonyoung can’t blame you, but it’s also not her fault that her natural charm and charisma are like a magnet that catches everyone’s attention. ever since you went to kindergarten with her and did most of elementary school with her by your side, she always knew how to have your complete attention and make you practically staring at her all day.

wonyoung smirked at your nervous stammer, finding your flustered reaction adorable. she stepped even closer, until her body was nearly pressed against yours. her fingertips traced along your collarbone as she gazed intensely into your eyes.

“mhmm, really.” she purred, her voice low and breathy. ”i want to show you everything... taste every inch of you."

slowly, teasingly, she began to unbutton the remaining buttons of her blouse, revealing more of her smooth, tanned skin. she shrugged the blouse off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor with a soft rustle.

wearing only the skimpy denim skirt and black lace bra now, she reached behind her back to unclasp the bra. she let it fall away, exposing her perfect, full breasts to your hungry gaze. her nipples were already hardened into stiff peaks.

“i want to feel your hands on me.” she breathed, taking your hands and placing them on her bare breasts. “touch me, (y/n). i’m all yours…”

she arched her back slightly, pushing her chest further into your palms. the soft, warm flesh yielded under your fingers as she guided your hands to explore her curves. her skin was incredibly smooth and supple.

“i don’t know how to–”

wonyoung shushed you gently, placing a finger to your lips. her eyes softened with understanding, seeing the inexperience and hesitation in yours. “shhh, it’s okay. i’ll guide you... just let your instincts take over.”

she took your hands and slowly, sensually, began to trail them down her body. she let your fingers brush over the swell of her breasts, down her taut stomach, pausing at the waistband of the tiny denim skirt.

wonyoung’s tongue darted out to wet her lips as she looked at you with lidded eyes, her chest heaving with anticipation. she reached down to unbutton the skirt, letting it drop to the floor with a whisper. now she stood before you in nothing but a pair of white lace panties that left little to the imagination.

she took your hands and placed them on her hips, then slowly slid them around to cup her ass. She squeezed the firm globes, urging you to do the same. her skin was incredibly soft and pliant beneath your touch.

“that’s it.” she encouraged breathily. “explore me... discover what feels good. i want to feel your hands all over me.”

she leaned in close, her lips brushing against your ear as she whispered. “don’t be shy, (y/n)... i want you to touch me like you mean it. i want to feel your desire…”

emboldened by wonyoung’s sensual guidance and the building heat between your legs, you began to explore her body with growing confidence. your hands roamed over her soft, smooth skin, caressing and squeezing the curves you found there.

you slid your hands up her sides, feeling the dip of her waist and the flare of her hips. cupping her breasts, you marveled at their weight and softness in your palms. you could feel her nipples hardening even further against your touch.

wonyoung let out a soft moan, arching into your hands as they mapped out her body. she reached out to grasp your wrists, guiding your hands lower, over her stomach, until they rested on the waistband of her panties.

“touch me, (y/n).” she breathed against your ear, her voice ragged with desire. “i want to feel your fingers on my skin... i’m so hot for you right now.”

she nipped at your earlobe, her teeth grazing the sensitive flesh. her hips undulated slightly, rubbing her nearly bare mound against your thigh. you could feel the damp heat of her arousal even through the thin lace barrier.

wonyoung pulled back to look at you, her eyes dark and heavy–lided with lust. her chest heaved with each ragged breath, and a flush of arousal colored her cheeks. she gazed at you expectantly, waiting for you to make the next move, to claim her as she had claimed you.

spurred on by the raw desire in wonyoung’s eyes and the way her body trembled under your touch, you hooked your fingers into the waistband of her panties. with a sudden tug, you yanked them down her long legs, baring her most intimate places to your hungry gaze.

wonyoung gasped, a sound of pleasure and surprise, as cool air hit her heated flesh. she stepped out of the puddle of lace, now fully nude before you. the sight of her, with her toned body and glistening pink folds, made your mouth go dry with want.

unable to resist any longer, you leaned down and pressed your lips against her stomach, feeling the taut muscles quiver beneath your touch. you trailed kisses lower, over her mound, until you reached the apex of her thighs. wonyoung let out a low moan, her fingers tangling in your hair as she guided your face closer to her dripping sex. the scent of her arousal filled your nostrils, musky and intoxicating.

“yes, my love.” she breathed out. “taste me... i’m so wet for you.”

she spread her legs wider, giving you an unobstructed view of her pink, swollen folds. her clit peeked out from beneath its hood, already engorged and throbbing with need.

and unable to resist any longer, you leaned down and pressed a kiss to her mound, inhaling the heady scent of her arousal. wonyoung’s fingers tangled in your hair, holding you close as you explored her with your mouth.

you dragged your tongue along her slit, tasting her essence, before focusing on her sensitive clit. you circled the hardened nub with the tip of your tongue, flicking and stroking it until wonyoung was writhing against your mouth.

“oh fuck, (y/n)!” she cried out, her voice echoing off the walls of her bedroom. “don’t stop... please don’t stop…”

emboldened by her reaction, you suckled her clit, then slid two fingers deep into her tight, wet heat. her walls clenched around the intrusion, drawing you in deeper. you pumped your fingers in and out of her, curling them to stroke that sensitive spot inside her that made her see stars.

wonyoung rutted her hips against your hand, fucking herself on your fingers as you pleasured her. her juices coated your hand, dripping down your wrist. the obscene sound of her wetness filled the room, mingling with her wanton moans and cries.

wonyoung’s body tensed, her muscles pulling taut as a coil of tension wound tighter and tighter in her core. her grip on your hair tightened, fisting almost painfully as she held you in place.

“fuck, fuck, fuck... i’m gonna... ah–” wonyoung’s words dissolved into a guttural moan as her orgasm crashed over her. her pussy clamped down around your fingers like a vice, fluttering and pulsing as waves of ecstasy radiated out from her core.

you felt the hot gush of her release flooding your hand, dripping down your wrist and forearm. the taste of her, the scent of her arousal, the sound of her pleasure – it was intoxicating. you couldn’t get enough.

as the aftershocks began to subside, wonyoung went limp, slumping back against the wall behind her. she panted harshly, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. slowly, she released her grip on your hair, her fingers uncurling from the strands.

with a trembling hand, she reached down to cup your cheek, tilting your face up to look at her. there was a dazed, blissful look in her eyes, a satisfied smirk on her kiss–swollen lips.

“that... was incredible.” she murmured, her voice still ragged. “you're a natural, big girl. but don’t think we’re done yet..."

she pushed off the wall and grabbed your hand, hauling you up and onto the bed with her. she shoved you down onto the mattress, crawling over you with a wicked gleam in her eye.

“now it’s my turn to make you scream.” she purred, a wicked promise in her voice. “and i have a feeling you’re going to scream very loudly indeed…”

she reached over to the nightstand drawer, rummaging inside before pulling out a condom and a bottle of lube.

“now, can you take those off or do you need my help?” wonyoung questions, raising an eyebrow as she moves one of her hands towards your body, pointing at your body. at first you didn’t understand what she meant because you were still overwhelmed by all the previous events that happened in a short period of time, like a blink of an eye – but then you realized she was talking about your pants, of course.

“oh, i– sure, i can do that.” with your cheeks flushed from her bold question, you brought your hands to the waistband of your pants, opening your belt buckle and unbuttoning the button and unzipping your pants with some clumsiness in the process, but accomplishing the task at hand. taking off your shoes and kicking them off your feet, you completely pull your jeans off your legs, leaving you with only your t–shirt and underwear on.

“you forgot about those.” to surprise you even more with her boldness, wonyoung is quick to approach you and finish preparing you for her, she hooks her thumbs into the waistband of your underwear, pulling your boxers down your thighs, releasing your throbbing cock from its confines, causing it to stand up happily and give a small thud against your stomach.

“now you’re ready for me. now lie down on the bed and wait for me.” she purred, tearing open the condom packet with her teeth. she rolled the latex sheath over your stiff cock with practiced ease, giving it a squeeze at the base.

next, she drizzled a generous amount of lube over your length, stroking you from base to tip until you glistened with the slick substance. she tossed the bottle aside and straddled your hips, the heat of her bare pussy radiating against your thighs.

wonyoung reached down to line you up with her entrance, rubbing the swollen head of your cock against her slick folds. she teased herself with the contact, coating your tip with her arousal until it was slippery with her juices. this action made you whimper due to the contact, closing your eyes and throwing your head back to rest it against the headboard of the bed, pushing your hips up in search of more contact.

with a roll of her hips, she sank down onto you, taking you inch by deep inch into her tight, clutching heat. she threw her head back with a guttural moan as you stretched her open, filling and completing her utterly.

“oh fuck yes.” she gasped, her walls fluttering around your thickness. “you feel so fucking big inside me... stretching me so good.”

once you were fully sheathed inside her, she began to move, rolling her hips in a sensual grind. she rocked against you, savoring the feeling of your cock throbbing deep inside her.

wonyoung braced her hands on your chest and started to ride you in earnest, lifting herself up until just the tip remained inside her, then slamming back down to take you to the hilt. her tits bounced with each powerful thrust of her hips, drawing your gaze to her perfect breasts.

and well, it seemed like her tits wanted to completely steal your attention! yes, you could have a beautiful woman in front of your eyes and making you feel so good while looking like a goddess in front of you, but having such a perfect, round pair of breasts moving in front of your face was something that took you out of reality and made you forget everything around you so you could only focus on them.

but of course, you could literally be fucking your childhood best friend now, but you were still a little nervous about making a big move or a daring action.

“can i…–?”

wonyoung looked down at you, a wicked grin spreading across her face as she saw the hunger in your eyes. she could tell exactly what you wanted, and she was more than happy to oblige.

“go ahead, baby.” she purred, arching her back to thrust her breasts forward invitingly. “touch them... taste them... i want to feel your mouth on me.”

she grabbed your head and pulled it to her chest, pushing her nipple against your lips. the stiff peak brushed your mouth, begging to be suckled. the scent of her perfume mixed with the unique aroma of her arousal was intoxicating.

wasting no time, you opened your mouth and drew her nipple inside, swirling your tongue around the sensitive bud. wonyoung let out a low moan, her fingers tangling in your hair as you suckled her.

“that’s it.” she encouraged breathily, holding your head in place. “suck on my tits while I ride this fucking cock. fuck, you’re driving me crazy…”

she began to bounce on your lap with renewed vigor, her hips slamming against yours with each powerful thrust. the wet sounds of your coupling filled the room, mingling with wonyoung’s increasingly loud moans and cries of pleasure.

you switched to her other breast, lavishing it with the same attention as the first. wonyoung’s fingers tightened in your hair, holding you to her chest as she rode you with wild abandon. her body trembled and shook, teetering on the brink of another explosive climax.

wonyoung let out a sharp cry of pleasure as you sucked harder on her nipple, your teeth grazing the sensitive flesh. she arched her back, pushing more of her breast into your eager mouth. Her fingers tightened almost painfully in your hair, holding you in place.

“yes, just like that.” she panted, her voice ragged with arousal. “bite me, (y/n)... mark me... make me yours!”

spurred on by her desperate pleas, you closed your teeth around her nipple and bit down, not hard enough to truly hurt her, but with enough pressure to make her see stars. at the same time, you reached down to rub her clit in tight circles, feeling it swell and throb under your touch.”

you didn’t let up, continuing to suck and nip at her nipples while rubbing her clit through her climax. each touch sent aftershocks of pleasure radiating out from her core, drawing out her orgasm until it felt like it would never end.

wonyoung’s moans grew louder and more desperate as she rode you harder, chasing her impending release. her nails raked down your chest, leaving faint red lines in their wake as she clung to you.

“fuck, i’m getting close.” she panted, her voice tight with strain. “don’t stop, (y/n)... don’t you dare fucking stop!”

she slammed down onto you one last time, taking you as deep as physically possible. her pussy clamped down around you like a vice, pulsing and fluttering wildly as her orgasm crashed over her.

you felt her juices gush around your cock, soaking through the condom and dripping onto the sheets below. the sensation of her coming undone around you, combined with the taste of her skin and the sound of her screams, pushed you over the edge.

with a guttural groan, you thrust up into her one last time, your cock pulsing and throbbing as you found your own release. you filled the condom with spurt after spurt of your hot seed, your body shuddering with the intensity of your orgasm.

wonyoung collapsed against your chest, both of you panting and drenched in sweat. she nuzzled into your neck, pressing sloppy kisses to your skin as she slowly came down from her high.

“holy shit.” she murmured, her voice hoarse from screaming. “that was... fuck, that was incredible. you’re amazing.”

she lifted her head to look at you, a satisfied smirk on her well–fucked face. her eyes sparkled with mischief and promise.

“but don’t think we”re done yet.” she purred, a wicked gleam in her eye. “we’ve got all night long... and i plan to make the most of every minute of it.”

#wonyoung #wonyoung x fem reader #wonyoung x reader #wonyoung smut #jang wonyoung #jang wonyoung x fem reader #jang wonyoung x reader #jang wonyoung smut #ive #ive x fem reader #ive x reader #ive smut

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purerae · 7 months ago

Text

— DUPLEXITY;;

fem!reader x coworker!yanderes

— who knew attempting to bond with your co workers would lead to a fucked up love triangle?

next >>

prologue; quit your job! If dying was an option right now, Y/N would take it with a gleeful smile.

Sprinting through the woods, her ears ringing, she slams her grimy, broken hand against her head over and over. Her knees, bruised to a swollen pulp of purple, threaten to buckle beneath her. A deep, unprotected gash dressed painfully across her back, its edges rotting, every movement tearing at the poorly dressed wound.

Ignoring the piercing whine in her ears, her heart froze at the sound of shuffling drawing closer. Her legs wobbled, threatening to give out, but the surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins kept her moving forward. An ear striking screech bursts from the girl’s throat, desperate to catch the attention of any passing drivers or hikers.

How could she be so foolish? It’s four in the morning, and she’s in the middle of nowhere, with two freaks relentlessly chasing her.

Her scream was a terrible mistake. It brought her no closer to freedom instead only closer to her pursuers. Their shouts echo behind her, filled with words she can’t—and doesn’t want to comprehend.

Pleas, threats, and bursts of anger escape from their mouths but the only thing that Y/N had her mind on was getting her brother and leaving this shithole. Y/N ran and ran, but to her dismay and an almost comical cruel sense of bad luck , Her vision was slammed with a wall ruined with graffiti that was now taunting her from her inescapable future. Her breathing slows as she stumbled back, desperately praying for anything that could save her. Surely they weren't close, she put in all this effort, they cannot be close! With trembling caution, she moved backward, her steps deliberate and silent. She avoided every brittle branch and insect littering the forest floor, straining to make as little noise as possible. Her back pressed into something soft yet unyielding, carrying the earthy scent of firewood mixed with the sharp tang of blood that she’ll always loathe. Y/N’s breath hitched, frozen in her chest as the sound of heavy breathing enveloped her ears from just behind.

‘Fuck.'

“You can’t run from us. It’s two against one, cutie.”

Even with her back turned, she could picture his smug, shit-eating smirk. A chill ran down her spine as his arms snaked around her waist, pulling her closer, trapping her. God, she wished she had a bat so she could beat him till he was a lifeless piece of flesh that she could point and laugh at. Too bad that would never be possible, even if she had a weapon to begin with. Deep down, Y/N knew there was no escaping this. But with every ounce of strength her battered body could summon, she let out the loudest scream she could muster; a semblance of hope in her body that somebody could save her. It tore through the cold night air before everything turned black. The last thing she heard was another man's footsteps approaching them, and two voices she made an oath to never hear, conversing. All she wanted was a fucking pay raise.

- Y/N buttoned her blouse with a giddy smile, rushing around her room in search of the shoes she’d bought just for this day. "I can't believe I got the job! I'm so excited, this still feels so surreal." she exclaimed, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm as she grabbed her phone, waiting for her friend’s response. "Girl, I'm happy for you!” her friend shouted over the line, her voice barely cutting through the loud music and chatter in the background. “Just work hard, and you’ll be promoted to detective in no time! My little Sherlock Holmes~” Y/N scoffs out a laugh before she shakes her head at the chaos on the other end. Normally, she’d lecture her friend about hosting a party at seven in the morning, but today, she was too nervous and way too excited about her first day to care. "Ahaha, Yeah I don't know about that... I'm still in shock that I got the job to be the assistant, let alone be the main thing. I just hope the person in charge of me is nice." The E/C-eyed girl replied looking at the ceiling , nervously biting her nails whilst walking back and forth in her room.

"Don't stress about it! I'm sure they'll be nice, babes. And you should ju-" Y/N’s friend was abruptly cut off by a guy shouting in the background, his voice carrying over the music: “Ayra! Get back to the party already!” "Hold on a sec Noel! Im talking to Y/N" she yells back with an obvious scowl on her face… Well, Y/N was almost positive that she displayed one based on the tone of her voice. "It's fine! You go do your shit, I gotta’ finish getting ready." "Okay Okay, message me after your shift ends. I wanna know everything~!" The bubbly girl says as she mimics a kiss sound. Despite Ayra not being able to see Y/N, she smiles with a soft gaze at the phone before hanging up. Staring into the mirror, she carefully assessed her outfit. A sleek black blouse layered over a white undershirt paired perfectly with a matching black pencil skirt. Light makeup enhanced her features, and her neatly styled hair framed her face just right. She smoothed her clothes with her hands, beaming widely as she twirled in front of the mirror. Y/N gathered all her essentials, carefully packing them into her bag before stepping out of her apartment. She locked the door with a quick twist of the key, then paused to double-check it twice…just to be sure; it was a habit she had done ever since she lived in her parents home.

Stepping into the elevator, she pressed the button for the ground floor. Knowing the ride would take a while, she lived on the second-highest floor, after all, she pulled out her phone to check the time. It was 7:15 a.m. Perfect. With the bus journey to the department taking only 30 minutes, she was right on schedule (which was always a struggle for her.) A grin spread across her face as she opened her email app and tapped on the message from the 'Warrens Department.' Her heart fluttered nervously as she re-read the letter, scanning each line to ensure she hadn’t missed anything important. As she scrolled to the bottom, her brows furrowed. There, tucked away, was a link she hadn’t noticed before.

'Shit I must've missed this' She thought with worry before quickly clicking the link, silently thanking her instincts for prompting her to double-check the message. The link was a profile of the detective that she would be working with. Looking at the picture, she notices that he was a very conventionally attractive male. The formally dressed girl squints her eyes before assessing the man that her eyes laid upon.

Xavier Allette, it read. Twenty-five years old, with five years of experience as a detective.

‘Holy shit, he became a detective at 20? I was still in university then.’ Y/N’s thoughts wandered briefly as she reminisced about her own journey, a flicker of envy stirring as she compared herself to her boss.

Letting out a breath of relief that she didn't know she had; The assistant was expecting an old cruel man as her boss, but to her luck, it was someone of a similar age to her. And, as a bonus, he wasn’t bad to look at either.

Y/N knew better than to judge someone based on their appearance, but as her cheeks warmed, she couldn’t help but blush at the handsome face staring back at her from the screen. A straight pale face, with a clean-shaven look. His hair was a wavy deep black, tussled formally. Eyes sharp and matched with his extremely dark hair. Y/N couldn’t help but notice the absence of a glint or any sign of life in his pupils. ‘I’m overthinking it,’ she told herself. ‘He’s just posing for the picture’. It had to be her psychology degree kicking in, making her analyze every feature of his face like a subject in a case study. Xavier’s nose was strikingly defined, and his lips were full, holding a slightly warm tint that gave his serious expression a subtle softness. Though he was wearing a suit, anyone could tell the detective worked out as his jaw was sharp and his shoulders were broad. It was clear that he took good care of himself.

The only other information displayed on his profile was a list of the cases he had worked on and details about his educational background. 'Maketa Academy?!' That was the most prestigious high school that Y/N had ever heard of. You could either get in with a scholarship or a lot of money. Unfortunately for her, she had been neither crazy smart nor crazy rich, so attending a place like that had never been an option. Y/N couldn’t tell whether Xavier had gotten in through wealth or intellect, but either way, it was impressive. Her train of thought abruptly halted as the elevator chimed, signaling her arrival on the first floor.

Turning off her phone, She exits the building before walking a short distance to the bus so she could arrive at the destination where she was going to be working.

'Please be nice to me, Warrens Department.'

Y/N rushed out of the bus, the clock read 8:00 am. The bus kept on delaying because of the traffic that the driver faced. The 15 minutes that she was hoping she had left to spare, disappeared all because of not getting a driver's licence! Cursing at herself, she ran to the building that was two minutes away. She could get there in ten seconds, her stubbornness is saving her life today.

The girl stared in awe at the building for a second. It was massive and incredibly modern. A large sign labelled Warrens Department was placed right in the middle of the building. Shaking her head, she scans the key card that came into the mail a week ago and fixes any loose hairs before walking into the building.

8:01 am, Already a minute late, though not much of a difference, she didn't want to disappoint her boss on the first day. Power walking to the reception she sighs shyly before speaking up. "Hi!" Her voice cracks.

'Oh my god, first I'm late, now my voice cracks, I should just quit my job and leave this e-' "Hello! Who’re you? I've never seen you before?" The ginger girl behind the desk questioned loudly. Her light southern accent peeked through. The red-haired was incredibly short, her face caked with pink-themed makeup matching her formal pink outfit. Y/N thought the receptionist was cute and seemed nice too! If she wasn't too busy stressing about being late, she'd love to be her friend. "I'm the detective's new assistant— Xaviers Allette's assistant." Y/N rambles, hands shaking with nerves.

"Y/N L/N?" The receptionist questioned with eyebrows raised, Y/N nods quickly and shows her key card to the lady. "I'm Abigail!" her smile drops, "Also, you should probably head over to his office quickly, Mr Allette hates tardiness.. a lot." It was now Y/N's turn for her face to drop, she mumbles a quick thank you before running off.She stops in her tracks as she realised her stupid mistake. "Hey Abigail, what's his room number?" Y/N spoke rushing back to the desk. Reaching halfway, the red-haired girl puts her hand out, ordering her to stop running back. "It's on the second floor, room 11, hurry!" She yells, shaking her hand. The late assistant puts a thumbs up as a way of saying thank you before completely ignoring the elevator and rushing up the stairs. Turning left she finds the room that is the lead detective. On the door, a silver plate is shown with 'Room 11' and 'Xavier Allette' engraved onto them in a fancy font.. It was clear that his room was the biggest on the floor.

Wiping the sweat off her hands and re-checking herself on the reflection of the plate, she checks the time.

8:05 am.

Y/N knocks on her boss's door. The door opens automatically, she notices the man that was just on her screen almost an hour ago, sitting down with his eyes furrowed and lips pulled into a frown. His eyes were fixated on his computer screen, fist propped against his chin. The assistant looks around while patiently waiting for him to say something.

20 seconds passed and all that she could hear were the sounds of him typing. the h/c hair-coloured girl clears her throat.

"Good morning, sir. My name is Y/N L/N, and Im p-"

"You're late." A deep, harsh voice cuts her off.

A/N : New story :p !! i really like the plot for this one and will have a masterlist out for it soon!

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jinxvex · 8 months ago

Note

can we get jinx w a very doting gf :3

♱ gf!jinx x doting (affectionate)!reader ♱

yes!! i love this request! 🖤 oneshot vibes fr!

cw: a bit angsty at first, little snippets of act 1/season 2,SFW & NSFW!!!, smutty drabble at the end, jinx pushes you into a wall once, you're very affectionate (obv), kissing, hugging, dirty talk, tribbing, praise, dom-ish!jinx & sub!reader, etc etc

wc: 1.4K

jinx had nothing; no one.

not after the her attack on piltover.

her unhinged, yet powerful act of rebellion ultimately caused a war between the city of progress and the dangerous underground city of zaun.

and had forced her into hiding…

i mean, what was worse? being caught by the stuck-up, zaunite-hating, piltie goons who murdered her mother and father or being alone?

she often contemplated that question.

she contemplated her future.

was any of it worth it now that her sister wanted nothing to do with her? now that she’s laid her adoptive father to rest in the contaminated murky river? now that she has a bounty on her head?

she wasn’t sure.

she wasn’t sure if anyone even gave a damn about her or whether she lived or died.

“it’s all just… pointless!” she replayed on a loop in her head, the place that has always been too loud and too daunting for her comfort.

jinx was alone.

well, until she met you.

as jinx sneakily roamed the dark and dingy alleyways of zaun in her not-so-discreet disguise, she was met with (almost) complete and utter silence. which casts an eerie feeling of unfamiliarity within her bones.

the lively (although still dangerous) streets of zaun were usually bustling with people. drunks, shimmer addicts, salesmen, crooks, and goons alike typically overcrowd every inch of the sunken city, which used to allow her to go wherever she pleased without anyone noticing her.

since the enforcers started raiding the city and imprisoning the people of zaun, a petty punishment for her own wrongdoings, many zaunites didn’t feel safe. they opted to stay inside, shut themselves out, and draw the blinds closed to prevent them from being taken too.

as jinx continues to walk towards her destination, “home”, a wave of loneliness washes over her, a feeling she so desperately had attempted to rid herself of for years.

she isn’t inclined to speak, though. not out loud to empty space or to the voices. maybe she’d save that for home.

as her head is angled downwards, looking at her dragging feet, she turns another corner in order to make her way back to her humble abode.

and all of a sudden, she bumps into a hard, human-shaped object? as she backs up menacingly after plummeting into something, she slowly brings her head up and is met with the sight of… you.

“a girl?” she exclaims in her head.

“a pretty one.”

“does she live near here?”

“wait! does she know who i am?”

“is she here to kill me? take me away?”

“no. no! i can’t let her.”

“not now…”

“damn it!”

her thoughts overflow with endless possibilities and scenarios that cause her to grip your shoulders and harshly back you up into the hard surface of a cement building without warning.

you gasp loudly, but as you bring your hands up to fight back and protect yourself from whatever is about to come, your moments are suddenly still.

as you look into her pinkish, vibrant eyes, you’re met with fear. you’re met with anger, loneliness, and suffering, which prompt you to freeze. her face is littered with fresh cuts, scrapes, and scars. your heart squeezes in empathy as you look into each other's eyes—jinx not even having the energy to reach for her gun out of concern for herself.

“you’re hurt.” you mutter softly. your caring nature immediately wanting to help her. jinx. and yes, you know of her. that doesn’t matter to you now.

her eyes still gaze into yours, even as she removes her hands from your shoulders.

“yeah, tell me ‘bout it, sweetness.” she laughs almost mockingly, not towards you, but at herself.

“want me to clean that up?” you point your chin up at the wounds on her face.

she blinks at you incredulously before allowing a smirk to grace her features for the first time in what seems like forever.

“damn! take a girl out to dinner first, babe.”

you smile.

… ( mini time skip!! a couple months)

jinx wasn't used to physical and emotional affection. love. let alone romantic gestures. silco looked after her but struggled to give the affection a parent would once he took her in all those years ago.

at first, she was incredibly taken aback by your willingness to help her even though you knew who she was. you knew who she was and still allowed her to lead you back to her workshop to patch her up. after that day, spent cleaning her wounds, you never left.

she was enamored by you.

by your ability to love.

you were moderately affectionate in the beginning, but as the weeks passed, your excessive praise and doting intensified. at first, it was lingering touches on her face after you insisted on "checking" her facial bandages. then it was moving her hair out of her face and caressing the sides of her head when she's in an episode.

once you started coming up behind her as she was working on her gadgets to link your arms around her waist and lay your head on her shoulder, she was hooked on you.

she did initially flinch and curl out of your touch, but as she took in your scent and realized it was you, she relaxed. she accepted you.

...

"just me!" you exclaim happily as you nudge your face into her neck, and she softly gasps when you give her small, gentle pecks.

"hmmph! you're too sweet to me, buttercup! scares me sometimes..." she fluctuates the tone of her voice from happy to unsure and back to happy again.

one thing she is sure of, though, is her love for you.

as you peer up at her from the side of her neck, you tighten your arms around her, "you deserve it. all the hugs, kisses and love!"

you both never felt a need to verbally establish a label on your relationship.

the night you took each other's first kiss, there was a mutual understanding. you were hers, and she was yours.

when she's with you, the voices quiet, and the visions aren't as prevalent anymore. she feels safe. not just because she's in hiding, still successfully dodging piltover, but because you're there.

although that is the case, you still make her crazy for you.

your unconditional affection ignites a fire inside her that loving you could only put out.

...(nsfw incoming!!)

"s-shit, babe! fuck!" her voice echoes throughout the seemingly endless depths of her workshop as she circles her hips and drags her wet cunt against yours.

your moans and little "oh my g-god!'s" adding to the music that is your pussies grinding together to make filthy sloshing noises.

"fuckin' pussy is so so good, bunny! pl-eease!" she begs you, although she's the one above you, her hand pushing one of your legs up to rest on her shoulder and her other hand pressing your leg down onto the couch. her ass is perched on your upper thigh to allow her to buck her hips up into your cunt as close as she possibly can.

"yes! yes! more, baby! you feel so good!" you babble as you lay back, looking up at her through your eyelashes. she's sitting right side up as she continues to hump your cunt with her eyes glued shut in concentration.

she can feel every pulse, every throb of your heat as she chases her high, and it affects her deeply.

"you're perfect, y-you know that?" you question. "fucking perfect. i love you so much!" she almost stills. that "perfect" word causes her heart to beat out her chest. she slows down slightly as she opens her eyes and looks down at you, looking back at her lovingly.

now inspired by your praise, she then speeds up, even faster and rougher than before.

"yeah? yeah? 'm perfect, baby? you loveee me?" she asks you mockingly as she stares into your eyes.

"yes! you feel so good. so perfect! fuckin' love you! need ta' cum! you scream out.

"mhm! thought so. then show me how good you're feelin' and cum all over me." she demands of you. "make a mess on this pussy, toots."

she lets out a "give me that shit, baby" and a "need my sweet girl to cum, so fuckin' nice to this pussy" to urge you on.

"fu-uck! right there! i'm cumming!"

"shit, me too!"

...

as you both come down from your high, she eventually lets your leg down and sits you upright to hug you tightly.

she feels so appreciated, so loved in the moment that she cups your jaw with her shaky hands and kisses you hard.

"i love you, hon. you're so..."

"i love you too, pow."

...

and y'all live happily ever after, and the events of act 3 NEVERRR happen!!! 😜🥳‼️

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westside-rot · 6 months ago

Text

Therapy Hours

Pairing: husband!terry richmond x black fem!reader

Words: 3.7k words

Summary: Terry seeks comfort from the only person who can give it to him.

Notes: Minors DNI. Smut, oral: fem receiving (0ver-stimulation) and cursing. Light by my standards lol. I had to force myself to stop revising this so please forgive any errors. I'll find em eventually and fix it. 😭 In the future I plan on alternating between fluff and smut so the next one should be fluffy/angsty.

Here's a visual of the position used. Not quite the same but close enough 👀: *nsfw pic link* *link #2*

Also please don't repost this on any other sites. Reblogs/comments/likes make me happy.

Tags: @megamindsecretlair @melaninpov

Something isn’t right. You look over to the side and discover the space occupied by your husband is empty. He was there a moment ago, proud and silent in his admiration for you while you sat mesmerized by the view. This picnic was the culmination of a month-long struggle to find balance with work and each other. All you cared about was reconnecting with him in a garden straight out of a fairytale for as long as possible, forever if you had it your way. Now he was nowhere to be found.

You rationalize his absence by assuming he must’ve forgotten something in the car. Likely an item you’d noticed earlier and convinced yourself not to purchase. Satisfied with your answer you lay back on your thick cotton blanket face to the infinite stretch of blue, uninterrupted by clouds with your arms and legs stretched out in opposite directions as far they'll comfortably reach. That’s when you notice the dress you’d been wearing has somehow vanished as well. You don’t bother pursuing logic this time. It’s beautiful outside and warmed to the ideal temperature for sunbathing. Now you’re a part of that beauty, perfectly made and carefree.

The sun’s warmth penetrates your brown skin and you relax into a gratified acceptance with your eyes closed and a smile on your face. A breeze grazes your skin. You part your legs to it exploration. It's subtle at first then harder as it sweeps up your legs and fixates on your intimate parts. You moan as your hips begin to move in a sensual dance interrupted by something you can’t name. Then you realize the golden reddish hue behind your eyelids is gone. It's dark, darker than it should be for the time of day. You find it impossible to care with so much pleasure running through your system. It doesn’t matter who or what is responsible for your predicament. They can keep you so long as they promise never to stop.

The unknown force answers with more delicious suction. It draws your body into a tight arch and pulls the breath from your lungs. Breathing is pointless where you’re headed. While your brain can’t fathom the destination, it doesn’t get in the way of supplication once you're finally pushed over the edge.

"Terry..." You moan the name forever present in your heart and mind. His location is still unknown, you trust him to always find you.

"I’m here love." The voice is muffled. You recognize its owner the second you hear it. The pleasurable void you’ve fallen into rematerializes as soft sheets against your back. Everything else gradually comes into focus, your husband's massive hands anchored on your waist, the prick of his facial hair as his tongue and lips move along your slick folds made warm by each labored breath he takes. Your eyes reset themselves forward as you attempt to reorient your place in the real world, a simple task made difficult by his unwillingness to pull his tongue from your drenched hole. Delirious but still guided by habit you manage to catch sight of the alarm clock on your nightstand. 3:00am.

"Shit…We have to be up in a few more hours--" Your hands act in contradiction to your words, pulling him in closer by the neck to keep him on the right spot. "Baby..."

"I know." He flattens his tongue against your clit and latches on. You realize he's responding to the urgency in your voice and not the truth you’re attempting to speak.

Where your first orgasm was tempered by your dream, the second attacks your senses at full force. His strong capable hands absorb the shock as they hold you in place. It's several minutes before your thrashing subsides to gentle undulations from the heavy breaths passing through your body. His fingers knead the flesh around your waistline. Even though his lips are still dangerously close to your pussy you feel more like the wife he’s attempting to soothe and less like the midnight snack you've been made into. You melt among the pillows with your eyes closed one hand loosely cradling the back of his head, the other bent and draped across your face as he makes out with your inner thighs. It takes you a while to recover your voice, a little longer to remember what you intended to say next.

"What’s wrong papa? Did your regret for not playing with me earlier finally wake you up?”

He doesn’t speak right away. The answer reaches you in the silence long before his words give confirmation.

"I’d take regret over these dreams I keep having. They’re getting worse."

Six months ago, Terry nearly lost his life attempting to protect his cousin. His outer wounds have healed up nicely. It's the scars left on his soul that provoke your bloodlust. If you had your way those piece of shit cops would’ve received their karma long before the worst happened. Mike would be alive. The man you love, a man accustomed to sleeping peacefully by your side every night wouldn’t be routinely attacked by demons you couldn’t see.

Most nights you’re promoted to the role of big spoon. You hate the circumstances, but it settles the panic in your heart to hold your mountain of a man in your arms and grant him the protection he’s given you over the years. Tonight, he's found a different way to cope, a method worth keeping in your toolbelt even if it means resembling a zombie for the rest of the day.

"Baby I’m sorry. You should’ve woken me up." You reach down to massage his ears with both thumbs before attempting to bring him to eye level. He resists by nuzzling his face in your thigh.

"Technically I did wake you up." He mumbles, filtering kisses between increasingly labored breaths. The path his lips are taking force you into a conundrum. Press the issue or trust his methods. Brains weren’t meant to work this hard at this hour. It’s cruel and unfair when you realize Terry isn’t weighted down by the same predicament. Every time his breath passes over your sensitive lips you feel your logic slipping further away. He’s giving you a reason to forget and move on. You’re also his wife. The one person on this shitty planet he can always rely on, the only person crazy enough to sacrifice a third orgasm so close after the second to protect his heart from the lie he was attempting to maintain.

You find a compromise in the minute that passes, maybe two. It’s hard to separate the details when he’s making every attempt to bury his face in your pussy. You struggle to be assertive. It’s the desperation in your voice when you say his name that eventually gets him to lift his head.

The room is dark, the moonlight casts a glow across the top half of his face just enough to see his eyes. He reminds you of a sad puppy being chastised for something they don’t understand. The expression breaks your heart and makes you smile as you stroke his jawline, your upturned lips on full display to match his sad look.

“I need to make sure you’re okay and not telling me what you think I need to hear. We deal with this together. Not apart.”

He nods and turns his face into your hand to kiss your palm. There's an uncomfortable silence in the room, but you remain patient, resisting the urge to pry the answer from his now visibly tense body.

“I dreamed I lost you.” His delayed response is both a relief and heartbreaking as the previous dreams he’s shared replay in your mind. All include some variation of him being imprisoned. None include a happy ending for him or for Mike. Leaning down to kiss the top of his head, you mimic his vice like hold once he buries his face in your stomach.

Regret mixes with the anger you were already struggling to contain. It fills the room, ensnaring you in contradictory thoughts. Sit on his face to make you both feel better or do what Terry refused to and murder the men responsible for making him feel anything less than a hero, for desecrating the space in his heart reserved for the people he loved. You could only really be mad at yourself for pressing the issue. Orgasms were a far better reward than listening to the gruesome details of your presumed demise. Given what he's been through your mind takes you to the worse possible options. You’re prepared to listen but aren’t sure how you'll get back to sleep afterward this.

"Nothing is going to happen to me." You soothe him with more kisses and tender reassurances. He answers with a tighter grip like he’s expecting something to challenge your words.

"We fought about everything…” He starts. You prepare for the story to get progressively worse. “One day you show up with some random ass light skinned fucker with a crooked hairline. I’m thinking he’s the new gardener only to find out you’re leaving me for him. You kicked me out. Had me sleeping in a tent in the backyard while some bum ass bitch wore my clothes and fucked my wife. Losing you is one thing. Losing you to a leprechaun who can’t grow a proper beard is bullshit."

You were anticipating having your throat slashed or a hole torn in your chest by a monster you couldn’t outrun. This was somehow worse because Terry was dead serious yet nothing he said warranted a serious response.

"Ok, first of all, you’re light skinned too."

Clearly you were being tested and failing miserably. You'd taken a deep breath in the hopes of drawing something positive and meaningful into your thoughts. All you managed to do was bring up a past hilarious debate about him being caramel and not chocolate like he proclaimed himself to be. Terry’s head shot up like someone had lit a fire underneath him. You can feel him staring you down and instantly crack under the pressure.

"Be serious woman."

The poor man is clearly traumatized. You bite down on your cheek for his sake before giving him a direct view of your face, wide eyed and filled with doctored innocence that crumbles by the second. “I’m trying!” You fuss. “But you’re being awfully specific about this man's appearance."

"I saw the fucker clear as day like I’ve seen him before…I’m taking you to work. Might even stay just to be safe."

The conviction in his voice tells you not to brush off his words. You can imagine him now posted up in your office surveying the area. He wouldn’t hover or say much, his domineering presence and chiseled muscles on full display would guarantee no woman within a 30-mile radius was productive. You would be at the top of the list. Unlike half the women in your office you had zero decorum in your husband’s presence. The last thing you needed were your colleagues gossiping about you getting fucked in your office.

"My dear sweet husband aren’t you being a little unreasonable?” Posing the question in a song doesn’t have the desired effect. It merely gives him a reason to frown harder.

"Hell no. I’m not taking anything for granted anymore, especially when it pertains to you. Far as I’m concerned this was a message from God to protect my home.”

There’s plenty to laugh at. Even less to challenge. You were looking at your answered prayer, a literal message from God to prove men like Terry weren’t a fantasy. This one was real and more than you could’ve hoped for. In honor of that gift you smile and nod in agreement and prepare to be followed everywhere.

“I can’t say you’re wrong. I can tell you no one at work fits the description.” He ponders while you stroke his neck. He isn’t silent for long.

“He could be a new security guard or the person delivering the mail."

"Mhm, I could forgive the wrinkles in a UPS uniform. Something about those brown shorts makes me feral. I’m getting wet thinking em." The laugh you’ve been holding sputters from you, putting tears in your eyes.

Terry sucks his teeth and gestures to raise up completely. He doesn’t get far when you throw your arms around his neck. He grunts but lets you have your way. "It's not funny."

"You’re right baby. It's not. Dream me is a dumb ass bitch. I’d never leave you, especially not for an obviously unattractive man with tiny feet and a crooked hair line. You’re so pretty daddy. No one with sense would ever look anywhere else." You lean forward to coax a smile from him with a kiss. You feel his jaw loosen and his fingers grip up your ass. "I love you."

All the humor in your voice is gone, replaced with an unmistakable sincerity that eases Terry back to the calm levelheaded man he's always been. "You’re taking the necessary steps to heal. It's not something you'll ever forget but you’re going to be okay. We both are. The fact we can laugh about any of this is progress. Now I’ll promise to keep my sidepiece out the house you pay bills in if you promise not to stalk me from the parking lot."

He chuckles. "Promise."

It's nearly 4am. In two more hours you'll have to be up for work. Hardly enough time for a decent rest but your body will hate you if you don’t try to get back to sleep. You kiss your husband one last time and gently lay a hand on his chest to pull away only to be met with resistance.

"Wait. I still need to prove it to myself."

"Prove what baby?"

“That you won’t give up on me. That I won’t lose you." He speaks against your lips, his voice moving through you like the low rumble before a storm. It stirs up the lust cast aside for his benefit. You feel it in your belly and everywhere his tongue has been. The energy in the room changes with the dark look in his eyes. He drinks you in saying nothing and everything with his calculated gaze. Awareness pricks at your skin off the strength of his possession moves. Then his hands are on you, lowering your arms from around his neck to your sides. He seizes your waist and hums as if contemplating something. Before you can ask the question, you lose the words in the swift rearrangement on to your stomach. You gasp from the shock while the rest of you uses all your energy to push against the sturdy fingers holding your wrists down. Freedom isn’t your goal. You resist solely to reinforce his dominance and feed your desire to test his nature. You want him to stake his claim and issue a warning to anyone daring to look in your direction even if the rival in question is a phantom conjured up by his subconscious.

Handcuffs aren’t an option for obvious reasons. You wonder if binding your hands together with rope will achieve the same shuddering response to being cloaked with his weight. You’re completely helpless and content to stay right where you are, one with mattress, one with him.

"Say you'll never leave me." His warm breath passes over your ear before his teeth sink down on flesh.

"I'll never leave you." You whisper back, moaning appreciatively when he kisses down the column of your neck down between your shoulder blades. His hands aren’t pinning you down anymore, but you try your best not to move as his tongue traces a warm and agonizingly slow line down your spine to your ass.

"I’ve never taken a life. I will if it means keeping you safe…You belong to me " Terry had taken down an entire police force without sending anyone to hell where they belonged. It was comical to think a man she never met; a man who didn’t exist could provoke him to use lethal force. The unexpected sting of teeth clamping down on your backside jolts you out of your musing. He's fully awake now, unfettered by slumber and past traumas. He doesn’t need to be gentle or ask for permission. The pain from that discovery offers an indescribable contribution to the pleasure you’ve experienced thus far. You can’t distinguish the two anymore the harder he bites.

"Yes." It's an reiteration and an apology for earlier all wrapped up in jarring acceptance. This isn’t the man you fell asleep next to hours ago. You aren’t the same either. His influence has unlocked a part of your brain that craves the pain and the pleasure it brings. If branding you with his teeth will bring him peace you want that too.

You moan and arch toward your captor’s mouth. He answers the invitation with a growl, yanking you on to your knees, driving your face into the comforter to deepen the arch in your back. You’re already spread obscenely open. He spreads you further with his thumbs and stops moving. He’s probably smiling in that subtle way you catch when he thinks no one’s watching. This isn’t quite the same. He's taunting you with proximity, close enough to feel the heat from his breath, far enough away to create an ache only he could soothe.

"Please." He's reduced you to this, folded in half and shameless in your attempts to reach his mouth. When he does finally lick his way inside everything else in the world melts away.

He's merciful but also deliberate in the way flattens the wide breadth of his tongue along the length of you, slurping you up like ripe fruit he intends to savor. All you can do is shudder and mewl as he groans into your slick heat, rubbing his face in it, masking himself with your scent. The message isn’t for you. It's for him. You hope it soothes the disquiet in his heart the way it's cleared out the baggage in your mind. All thoughts lead back to him, the thorough way he draws tight circles over your clit and the depths he reaches as he simulates the way he would fuck you if he had the willpower to trade places with his tongue.

He makes himself comfortable, stretching out his legs alongside your writhing body. His ankles provide a stable anchor for trembling hands. Then they’re caging you in, limiting your range of movement.

The sheets absorb your screams as you cum without warning and no sign it’ll end any time soon. You push toward his face at the same rate you pull away. Escape isn’t the goal. It's the only proper response to sensory overload. Indescribably good and too much to handle all at once. Terry is right there with you, latched on and undeterred by your frenetic movements, grunting indecipherable praise despite the pressure your thighs have placed on his ears. At this rate you’re going to claw the sheets to shreds or beat a hole in the mattress. Then he's putting his entire body into it, crossing his ankles behind your head to lock you in place.

Weeks ago, you expressed an interest in learning Jiu-Jistu. You expected detailed commentary while you observed from the sidelines or watched a video. This wasn’t how you envisioned your first lesson or any lesson. You weren’t even sure if this was a legit move or something he’d improvised. The absurdity of it doesn’t register correctly in your mind. Instead you’re grateful, grateful for his strength, for his persistence, for his ability to find healing through forced orgasms even it’s obvious he’s lost his mind in the process. Unlike the dream version you take your vows seriously. You accept Terry at his best and his worst, through nightmares and a demonic possession.

Panic opens your mind to a ridiculous thought. He's going to kill you. The irrational part of your brain is convinced you won’t survive another orgasm. You can’t bring yourself to resist the rapid strumming on your clit and the spike in pleasure it produces. You’d gladly give your life for it. Leave earth with a smile on your lips and a memory worth immortalizing in the afterlife. To call your bluff Terry brings his thumb from your fluttering hole to the soft flesh of your ass. He prolongs the suspense with teasing swipes around the rim then very slowly pushes through your defenses when he feels you’re ready for it. Something in your brain malfunctions. You start to whine like a caught animal. They’re the kind of sounds you’d find embarrassing if you weren’t in the presence of a grown ass man.

The last thing you hear before you explode is Terry’s deep voice in your ear. "Good girl."

When you return to consciousness, you’re still face down with a damp spot under your cheek and under your pelvis. Terry is stretched across your back crooning in your ear about how proud he is of you, how beautiful you are, how in love with you he is. His touch is equally soothing as he trails down your forearms to interlock your fingers. You haven’t stopped trembling. It’s worse in your legs. Even the slightest movement revives the memory of where his tongue has been. You find comfort in the fetal position anyway. Terry is right there to reinforce the hold, cradling you with his entire body so he doesn’t lose you in the subspace you’ve drifted off to. When the consequence of his overindulgence subsides to a light shudder you feel his coiled lips at your temple.

“Are you proud of yourself?”

“Maybe.” He drawls, the pride evident in his voice. “You’re still shaking baby. Are you good? Did I hurt you?

“Of course you didn’t. I’m a little floaty but I kinda want you to break me again--just to make sure I like it.” You offer a lazy smile and reach back to scratch his cheek. "What about you? Are you finally convinced I won’t run off with your ugly ass replacement?”

His laughter sounds like music. You wonder how he can find the joy in anything with his stiff dick left unattended and drooling precum on your backside. It’s all you can think about now.

"I am."

"Good because it’s never going to happen. I’m also not going to work today. I can’t function like this." Despite your predicament you use the distraction to your advantage and raise your thigh to accommodate him. A little maneuvering slots the tip between your lips but doesn't quite make it inside. You whimper and try again.

“No. You’ve had enough sweetheart.” You’re more than a little disappointed when he pushes your legs shut.

“I can keep going. Let me take care of you.”

“You have taken care of me baby.” A kiss is all it takes to end your pouting. Like a greedy brat, you twist around to claim another, then one more to sample your flavor on his lips. His dick stirs against you, it doesn’t persuade him to be anything less than noble. “I plan on keeping you in this bed all day. Get some rest. I’ll have you later.”

Terry’s demeanor remains unchanged as he realigns your back to his chest and slips is muscled leg over your restless ones. He’s given you a preview, a reminder, and a warning. You aren’t sure how well you’ll sleep knowing what you know but you snuggle up to his arm tucked beneath the pillow.

“I love you.”

Those three words calm the restlessness in your heart and get you to shut your eyes.

"I love you too handsome. Try not to dream about me."

#Rosegold fics #terry richmond fic #x black reader #terry richmond x black oc #terry richmond smut #fanfiction

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