#practically baseline part 2

[artspats]

Smartie

Her shoes scraped against the tile floor, her head down as she picked at the threads of her old tennis bag. She should’ve been more focused, should’ve been better today, but it wasn’t happening. Not after the way Art had been looking at her all afternoon.

She hated this feeling. That weird pit in her stomach when she didn’t know where she stood with him. He’d barely said anything during practice, his eyes darting between her and the other girls.

Just as she was about to push open the locker room door, she felt a hand grab her wrist.

"Hey."

It wasn’t a question. It was his voice, low and firm, dragging her attention back to him.

Before she could pull away, he was already stepping closer, his fingers wrapping around her arm, guiding her around the corner of the locker rooms.

“Hey,” he said, just loud enough to be heard. “We need to talk.”

His touch lingered, a bit desperate.

She glanced back at the door, feeling that twist of guilt. Maybe she was overreacting, maybe she should just get over herself, but the weight of it all—his distance, the coldness—felt like it was suffocating her.

She didn’t even notice when they were already out in the hallway, out of sight.

“Art,” she said softly, but he wasn’t listening. His eyes were fixed on her, like he was trying to figure out what was wrong. He was close now, too close for comfort.

He stopped, his hand on her shoulder, his touch oddly gentle now. “What the hell happened out there?”

Her jaw tightened. “I don’t want to talk, not right now—“

He cocked his head, eyes narrowing slightly. "What is this all about?, tell me" His tone was quieter now, almost as if he was confused by her sudden outburst.

“I feel like you act like you care, but when it comes to anyone else…” She trailed off, her voice barely a whisper. The jealousy gnawed at her.

Art’s expression softened in a way that made her heart race. He leaned in, just a little, the subtle movement like a promise of something she couldn’t quite understand.

“You’re different,” he said, almost too smoothly. “You know that. You’re the one who stands out. I’m trying to help these other girls to get near your level, but it’s impossible, they can’t even compare to you,”

“You always say that,”

His voice dropped even lower, a trace of sweetness behind the words that made her heart skip. “Why do you think I do?”

She couldn’t breathe. His words were like a weight, a pressure that she felt somewhere deep inside. He was looking at her like she was everything—like she mattered more than any of the other girls who were desperate for his attention.

“You know I don’t like anyone else like I like you, right?” he murmured, a subtle hint of something darker behind his words.

The room seemed to narrow in on her, the walls closing in. She should’ve pulled away. She should’ve told him that it wasn’t right, that this wasn’t normal. But all she could do was stare at him, her chest tight with the ache of wanting something she couldn’t explain.

She opened her mouth to speak but found nothing.

His hand brushed the side of her face, a tender, almost affectionate touch. "Come here." He pulled her in without waiting for an answer, his arms wrapping around her with a slow, deliberate ease.

She let herself sink into the embrace, her body softening against his. His hands were warm, steady, like he was trying to make her forget all the things she knew in the back of her mind. His lips brushed the top of her head, the kiss lingering just long enough to make her heart race. Her cheek smushed against his sharp collarbone, and it felt wrong but so right, just like what she felt for him.

“Let’s take five, okay?” His voice was soft, but the command was still there. "You're the one that matters to me. The rest? just noise." His palms subtly wrap around each of her lats, it almost feels like comfort.

“Come on,” he whispered against her hair. “Ain’t you my smart girl?”

Her stomach flipped, the words curling around her like a soft, dangerous lullaby. She felt something stir within her, something she didn’t want to acknowledge, something that made her feel... special.

"Yes," she murmured, barely able to hear herself over the rush of blood in her ears. "I'm your smart girl." She inhaled, the faint smell of fresh laundry from his jacket barely appearing and followed by his cologne.

Art pulled her just a little closer, there was something in the way he held her, like she wasn’t allowed to think, to doubt, to question it. She just closed her eyes, and let him keep whispering sweet lies that made her believe she was everything he wanted.

@matchpointfaist ;)

Part 1: Baseline

Part 3: Needy

Part 4: Greedy

Part 5: Heady

[ev3rm0re-q]

fire & ice ⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆

desc: basically the hotel room scene in challengers (with a twist!) but with yeonbin!!

pairing: tennis player!Yeonjun x tennis player fem!reader x tennis player!Soobin

genre: challengers AU, spicyy

warning/s: lots of swearing, smoking, 18+ content (suggestive)

wc: 5.1k

a/n: okay, okay.. i know i did promise a part 2 for half a spell, but i just couldnt help myself ITS A CHALLENGERS AUU I MEANN. i feel like u guys are getting fed as much w this one bc this one is scrumptious as fuckkk HELPPPAKSHBFAJS anyway, pls comment if u guys want more from thiss (part 2??) bc i doo have a very fun dynamic planned for these three!! hope yall enjoyyy <33

"She’s not coming, Yeonjun."

"She’s coming."

Soobin lies the wrong way across the bed, his bed technically, but both mattresses had been shoved together hours ago in a half-assed attempt at a bigger one.

His bare feet rest on the pillows as he tosses a tiny rubber ball against the wall—thunk, thunk, thunk—watching it rebound into his palm again and again.

“You don’t know that,” he says, flicking his wrist. His voice isn’t bitter, just worn out.

Yeonjun doesn’t answer right away.

He’s slouched in the wooden chair at the foot of the bed, one leg propped up, elbow draped over his knee. The dim light from his phone screen casts a pale blue shine over his face. A lit cigarette hangs loosely from his mouth as he scrolls through social media.

"She said she’d think about it," Soobin mutters, catching the ball mid-air and letting it sit in his hand for once. "People don’t usually show when they say that they'll 'think about it.'"

Yeonjun stops scrolling. His eyes flick toward the door.

“She’s coming.” He says it with quiet finality.

Then, just as easily, he scrolls again.

Thunk. Thunk.

The ball hits the wall.

✧˖° earlier that day °˖✧

The game was still in full swing, the bright yellow ball cracking sharply against the court with every controlled hit.

Yeonjun didn’t flinch or clap.

He simply sank deeper into his seat, a popcorn bucket left forgotten on his lap as one hand loosely held onto the container. His eyes flicked back and forth across the court, tracking the steady rhythm of the ball.

Soobin, on the other hand, leaned forward slightly, lips curled softly around the straw of his iced tea, sipping with quiet focus.

His eyes were only locked on her, sharp and unreadable, like he was silently memorizing every flick of her wrist and every subtle shift in her stance.

Moments earlier, Yeonjun had practically dragged Soobin into the stands, insisting he watch the women’s finals—raving about this tennis prodigy who, in his words, was "the hottest woman he’d ever seen."

Sure.

Soobin had taken it lightly at first, figuring Yeonjun was just exaggerating again.

But now, watching Y/N move across the court with that rare blend of grace and fire, he couldn’t look away. She wasn’t just a prodigy.

She was easily the most captivating girl he’d ever laid eyes on.

Just then, Y/N sent a sharp hit of the ball, skimming right at the edge of the court, just out of her opponent’s reach. The point was hers, and a soft murmur rippled through the crowd.

She made her way back to the baseline, casually bouncing the ball in her hand. Her hair was tied back loosely in a ponytail, her wrist completely relaxed—no tension, just precise control.

A small twitch ran through her fingers as she lined up the serve, fully absorbed in the rhythm of the game. Still, her expression remained soft—effortless and sweet, yet deadly in its own grace.

With calm focus, she tossed the ball into the air.

Her serve sliced through the court.

Her opponent reacted almost instantly, matching her pace with barely a pause. The ball returned with equal force, flying through the court with razor-sharp precision.

The rally stretched on each shot smooth, deliberate, and packed with skill. And with every return, quiet grunts slipped from her lips as the scoreboard crept closer to the final point.

“Holy… fuck…” Soobin breathed out, his voice barely more than a moan.

Yeonjun let out a soft groan and shifted in his seat. Both of them subtly adjusted their jeans, trying to stay composed despite the rising tension.

On the last shot, her opponent lunged but missed—the ball slipping just past their racket, out of bounds.

The crowd’s applause swelled, growing louder with every second.

“Match point. Y/N,” the announcer said, calm and clear.

Her breath slowed, every muscle tightening and then releasing, moving like clockwork. The ball bounced once, then twice.

Y/N tightened her grip on the racket, eyes locked on her opponent—ready for the final play. Without a second thought, she sprung into action.

Her racket cut through the air as she launched the last serve. The ball blasted across the court with deadly speed, landing just out of her opponent’s desperate reach at the far edge court.

The crowd held its breath as the ball slammed into the baseline, the sharp crack echoing across the outdoor court.

Her opponent lunged once more, the tip of the racket barely grazing the ball—but it was too late.

The match was hers.

And for a split second, everything stood still.

Then—

Y/N lets out a soft breath.

Not a loud battle-cry shout or a booming cheer—just a quiet sigh that slipped through the silence of the court. For the first time all match, the composed mask she’d been wearing slipped just enough to let the fire underneath peek through.

Then, the crowd erupted in thunderous applause.

Soobin blinked, like he’d just been snapped out of a trance, lips parted in something between awe and disbelief. Even Yeonjun was uncharacteristically speechless—until he let out a low whistle and leaned back with a small, impressed smile.

Down on the court, Y/N didn't move. Her feet were kept grounded to the floor as her shoulders held loose but steady, chest rising and falling with quiet, measured composure.

Like the match hadn’t taken everything.

Like she still had more to give.

Then, as the cheers grew louder, she smiled.

It was soft yet bright. Almost too dazzling to look at. It wasn’t the kind of smile that begged for attention. It just had a way of drawing you in.

Y/N had won.

Not with noise. Not with theatrics.

But with grace, control, and a fire that didn’t need to roar to be felt. And in that moment it was undeniable:

She didn’t just belong on that court.

She fucking owned it.

Later that evening, Yeonjun and Soobin somehow ended up at a celebration party thrown in her honor—despite the fact that Soobin had only learned of her existence a few hours earlier.

Between the pop of champagne and the buzz of congratulatory chatter, both boys just stood off to the side, looking completely out of place. They almost resembled two lost puppies who were simply basking in the glory of her ADIDAS sponsorship, the swarm of rich kids in sleek designer outfits… and, of course, her.

Neither of them really mingled. They just kind of… hovered.

Close enough to see her laugh, talk, and dance. But far enough to not be too obvious about it.

Which, of course, made it almost glaringly obvious.

Eventually, Yeonjun couldn't take it anymore and worked up the courage to cross the room over to Y/N. Soobin trailed closely behind him, carrying an expression that looked like he wanted to turn back with every other step.

And when finally they reached her, the nerves hit. But to their surprise, the girl didn’t wave them off.

She smiled. Laughed even.

Teasing them back just enough to make it hard to tell if she was being polite… or genuinely flirting back.

Then Yeonjun, bold as ever, just went for it.

“You know,” he said, feigning casual, “since we’re all staying at the same hotel. If you’re free later, you could… swing by our room?”

She looked at him with that soft, unreadable smile. The kind that said absolutely nothing and everything all at once.

“I’ll think about it,” she said, voice sweet as honey.

And then she was gone—off to greet another guest who had just arrived at the party, leaving both boys staring after her like they’d just been hit by a truck.

A beat passed.

Then another.

And then, suddenly, they bolted—straight back to their hotel room, scrambling to clean their mess like their lives depended on it.

Pillows were deliberately fluffed. Scented air fresheners and personal colognes were deployed.

Soobin even wiped the windows.

Just in case.

✧˖° Cut back to the present °˖✧

The hotel room, once spotless in a frenzy of panicked cleaning, has now slowly returned to its natural state of chaos.

Pillows and blankets are, once again, tossed haphazardly across both beds, and clothes lie scattered in every direction. It’s the same mess Yeonjun had promised—multiple times—that he’d “get to later.”

And honestly? It’s really starting to seem like she’s not coming after all.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

Soobin huffs, “I’m telling you, she’s not—”

A knock cuts through the room.

They both go still.

The rubber ball slips from Soobin’s fingers and hits the floor with a soft thud, rolling just beneath the coffee table.

Another knock. Then one more.

And then all hell breaks loose.

Yeonjun quickly flicks the cigarette out the window, exhaling the last bit of smoke through his nose as they both rush to fix the room—again. Blankets are yanked back into place, clothes shoved under the beds, pillows re-fluffed in a frenzy, like they hadn’t just trashed the place twenty minutes ago.

Soobin, caught up in the chaos, reaches for a pillow but missteps.

He rolls right off the bed with a surprised yelp, landing with a soft thud on the floor. He immediately scrambles to get back up as Yeonjun stifles a laugh.

On the other side of the door, Y/N presses her ear lightly against the wood, biting back a laugh.

She hears frantic footsteps, whispered scolding, and then the unmistakable sound of someone tripping over something. Her grin spreads wider with each passing second.

Without warning, the door swings open. Y/N quickly straightens, slipping into a calm, indifferent expression.

Inside, both boys freeze in awkward poses.

Soobin 'coolly' leans against the doorframe, trying to look casual. Except, his elbow is positioned too high, making him seem more like he’s mid-flinch than striking a cool pose.

Yeonjun stands in front of him, attempting a smooth, effortless smirk, but the panic in his eyes and the messy hang of his half-untucked tank top ruin the effect completely.

Y/N lifts an eyebrow, visibly amused.

“…Hey,” Yeonjun says, breath just a touch uneven.

Soobin gives her a slight nod, pretending that his shoulder isn’t starting to cramp from that ridiculous pose.

She just smiles. Innocently. As if she hadn’t heard every second of their panicked scrambling.

"Hi."

Her voice is soft, but it cuts right through the thick cloud of tension hanging in the air.

For a beat, no one moves.

Soobin, still awkwardly leaning against the doorframe, blinks like he forgot how to function. Yeonjun opens his mouth, then closes it again. Neither of them speak. The silence stretches—long enough to feel heavy, too short to recover.

Somewhere behind them, a sock slides slowly off the bed and lands on the floor with an audible flop.

Y/N tilts her head, lips twitching like she’s fighting a smile.

"Soo… are you guys gonna let me in?"

Soobin jolts upright so fast he nearly knocks into the door.

“Yeah, s-sorry...come in!” he stammers, quickly stepping aside to give her space.

Yeonjun clears his throat, suddenly standing straighter as he tries to kick away a wrinkled shirt behind him with one foot.

“Make yourself at home,” he says, stepping aside as well as he flashes what he hopes is a cool, effortless smirk. But it’s mostly just nervous.

Y/N steps inside, eyes sweeping the room with a knowing look that says she’s already seen everything she needs to.

But, she doesn’t comment on the grey t-shirt poking out from behind the curtain or the suspiciously empty chip bag sticking out from under a pillow. Instead, she just walks in like she belongs there, comfortable, unfazed, and completely in control.

Yeonjun and Soobin glance at each other behind her back, both silently mouthing what now? like two idiots in over their heads.

Y/N turns around to face them, arms crossed and one brow raised.

“Well?” she says, playful. “You two gonna stand there all night or offer me a drink?”

A beat of silence—Soobin blinks like he’s short-circuited, and Yeonjun jumps in, a little too loudly, “Right! Yeah. Of course!”

-------˖⁺. ༶ ❤︎ ⋆˙⊹ ෆ ⊹˙⋆❤︎ ༶ .⁺˖-------

Now, they’re sitting on the floor, legs either stretched out or curled up, passing around a half-empty beer can between them.

A few crushed cans lie scattered nearby—a quiet reminder of the nerves they’d been carrying just moments before. Soft music plays from Soobin’s phone, propped up on the table beside him, blending seamlessly with the warm glow filling the boys’ hotel room.

The earlier tension has now melted away, replaced by easy chatter, casual laughter, and quiet—sometimes not-so-subtle—glances exchanged between them.

“Wait, wait—so you guys started a band back in middle school? That’s how you met?”

“Yeah. We started this little garage band with three other friends. Instruments and everything,” Soobin says, taking another sip of the beer. “I played guitar, and Yeonjun here was the lead singer.”

“Wow, that’s really cool,” she says, tilting her head with a soft smile.

Then, after a beat, she adds smoothly, “But how did you guys become… this?”

“This..?” Yeonjun raises a brow, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Tennis,” Y/N says, gesturing vaguely between the two of them. “You know, Fire and Ice.”

Yeonjun leans back on his hands, legs stretched out in front of him, tank top loose against his frame. “Oh, we always played. Not seriously at first—just with our dads, sometimes after school.”

“Yeah, our dads were friends,” Soobin says, sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed, beer in hand. “They used to take us to their country clubs and let us mess around on the courts for hours.”

He lets out a soft laugh. “But we were pretty awful back then. I’d swing like I was trying to murder the ball. And Yeonjun kept trying these dumb trick shots on the court.”

“Sounds about right,” Y/N giggles, curled up across from them in a sweater and black shorts, knees pulled to her chest. She watches them with quiet amusement.

A pause. She tilts her head again, voice soft but clear.

“When did it get serious?”

“Tennis camp in Jeju,” Yeonjun says, running a hand through his raven hair. “It was the summer before high school. Our parents shipped us off for like three weeks—thought we needed discipline or whatever.”

A beat.

“And?” she prompts.

Yeonjun exhales. “And, it was the first time anyone really pushed us.”

"We also got placed in the same dorm room,” Soobin says, glancing at her. “Tiny-ass bunk beds, shitty air conditioning, and we shared it with like six other kids.”

“I swear we almost killed each other the first night,” Yeonjun says, grinning at Soobin. “Then we both realized we hated everyone else more.”

“That’s cute...” Y/N laughs, eyes crinkling. Her gaze flickers briefly to the beer in Soobin’s hand as he lifts it for a sip.

A quiet beat later, Y/N leans forward with graceful ease, fingers brushing his as she takes the can. Then she leans back again, her movements smooth and unhurried, and takes a slow sip.

“The training must’ve been intense,” she says, voice still light.

“Oh it was brutal,” Yeonjun adds. “Drills before sunrise. Coaches who didn’t give a shit if you puked in the grass.”

The room quiets for a moment.

“But,” Soobin shifts slightly, “it was also the first time we realized we were pretty good at tennis.”

“Yeah, like maybe-we-could-actually-do-this kind of good,” Yeonjun echoes.

“So.. you’ve been playing together since then,” she says, almost to herself.

“Yeah,” Yeonjun nods. “Always doubles. Sometimes singles, but… you know, it’s different when there’s someone you trust on your side of the court.”

Soobin glances at him, then at Y/N again. His expression softens, but there’s something else there too. It was subtle and unreadable.

“I guess you kind of start to know different things too,” Soobin says. “How they move. How they think. When they’re gonna overhit or choke a serve. It’s like…”

“Muscle memory,” Yeonjun finishes quietly.

Y/N’s gaze lingers on the both of them. Then, with that same casual ease, she leans forward again and takes another sip from the can, eyes still on them.

“But this camp,” she asks, voice smooth and nonchalant, “was it co-ed?”

“Yeah,” Soobin says, eyes still on her. “But they split the dorms—guys and girls.”

Y/N nods slowly, a small curve playing at the corner of her mouth.

“Is that where you met your girlfriend?” Y/N asks, pointing at Yeonjun with the can still in her hand.

“Oh, she’s not my, uh…” Yeonjun starts to trail off, eyes flicking away as he thinks. Soobin smirks as he crosses his arms, clearly enjoying watching the other boy squirm.

“…Yeah. I guess.”

Y/N grins, amusement shining in her eyes.

“And you,” she shifts her gaze to Soobin, taking another sip of the beer, “why aren't you pretending not to have a girlfriend?”

"Oh no, I don't—"

“Soobin’s got this whole 'no strings attached' thing going on right now.” Yeonjun smirks, taking the beer from Y/N’s hand.

“What? No—no, that makes me sound like—”

“A player?” Y/N offers, eyes twinkling with quiet mischief.

“Yeah, Soobin does fine for himself.” Yeonjun says, smirking. “I mean, come on—look at him.” He reaches over and gives Soobin’s cheek a light tap before Soobin swats his hand away.

Y/N smiles, the corners of her lips lifting as she shifts slightly from her postion.

“Alright then—how about this? Right now… how often do you guys go after the same girl?”

And just like that, both of them freeze, caught off guard.

Soobin finally looks away, eyes dropping to the carpet, cheeks flushed. Yeonjun chuckles softly, raising his hands in mock surrender.

“Were we that obvious?”

Y/N shrugs, taking the beer can back from Yeonjun. “It’s like looking through a glass window.”

A beat passes.

Soobin clears his throat, still a little pink. “Not very often…”

“We usually have different types,” Yeonjun adds with a smirk.

Y/N takes a slow sip of the beer. Her voice is velvet-smooth, but there’s a glint behind it now.

“Soo you’re saying I’m supposed to be.. flattered?” Y/N teases.

Soobin takes the beer from her, holding her gaze a beat too long, then looks away, lips twitching like he’s holding back a smile.

“Depends.”

“On?” she presses, brow raised, as if she doesn’t already know.

Yeonjun answers, voice low, teasing. “On whether you mind being the exception.”

Y/N leans back, arms draped over her knees, calm and in control, like she knows exactly what she’s doing. “Hmm,” she hums, eyes flicking between them. “I don't mind the view from here.”

Then, silence. The boys don't utter a word, they just watch her.

Tension slowly filling the air around them.

Yeonjun finally speaks, tone softer. “Alright then, since you’re so curious about us… how about you? What’s your experience been like—navigating this kind of attention?”

Y/N rolls her eyes playfully at Yeonjun’s question, but there’s a gentle light in her eyes that feels almost unguarded.

“I’ve had a few boyfriends here and there,” she says softly, voice steady but with an easy warmth. Then, after a brief pause, she adds quietly, “Most of them just didn’t know how to handle someone like me, though.”

Her smile is calm, almost innocent. “So, I simply didn’t stick around long enough to teach them.”

Yeonjun blinks, clearly surprised by the quiet honesty. Soobin’s grin softens, his gaze thoughtful.

Y/N tucks her hair behind her ear, looking down briefly before meeting their gaze again.

“I’m usually the one who holds it all together,” she says gently. “But sometimes… I feel like it’s okay to just let things be.”

Yeonjun’s leaning back on his hands now, but his eyes stay on her—curious, like he wasn't expecting this moment of such raw honesty.

Soobin, on the other hand, grows quieter now, fidgeting with the tab on the beer can as his knees slowly brush against hers.

“You know, you guys talk a lot,” she says, voice soft, teasing. “But you’re kind of terrible at this kind of thing.”

“Oh?” Yeonjun lifts a brow.

“You two keep looking at me like I’m going to break,” she says, voice soft but charged.

“If you’re going to keep staring… you might as well do something about it.” Her eyes lock onto them without flinching.

...huh?

This makes their brains completely short circuit.

Soobin freezes, fingers hovering over the can, eyes snapping up to meet hers—wide and caught completely off guard. Yeonjun breathes out a low, incredulous laugh. He seems to be struggling to conceal the smile tugging at his lips as his head briefly dips.

But, when he looks up, his eyes are darker now. Focused.

The silence stretches, but it isn’t awkward. it’s fucking electric.

That's when he makes his move.

With careful movements, Yeonjun pushes off his hands, shifting from his seated position and slowly closing the distance between him and Y/N.

He kneels tall, just right above her, his eyes darkening with lust as they roam over her figure beneath him.

Y/N’s breath hitches ever so slightly as she tilts her head up to meet Yeonjun's gaze. But her expression remains calm, unbothered, as she tries to casually brushing past the subtle tremble in her fingers.

She looks at him with soft, doe-like eyes. The picture of pure innocence—almost. Because beneath that softness, there’s something else entirely.

Hunger.

She looks at him as if this moment was always meant to be—from the second she stepped into the boys’ hastily cleaned hotel room. Like she’d known all along and was just waiting for them to catch up.

His eyes linger on her face a moment longer, quietly drinking in her soft, perfect features—like he’s trying to memorize every detail, unwilling to let a single part of her slip from his memory.

Carefully, his gaze drifts down to her lips.

Then, he reaches out, fingers brushing along the side of her face, gently caressing her soft skin. She leans into it, calm and steady, her eyes never leaving his.

Soobin sits cross-legged just across from them, his heart pounding so hard it feels like it might burst from his chest. His palms grow clammy, and his lips part slightly in stunned anticipation, unable to tear his eyes away from what’s unfolding right before him.

Yeonjun leans in slowly, his movements soft but charged with an unmistakable hunger. Their lips meet in a gentle, lingering kiss—his soft, plump lips pressing against hers with sensual tenderness.

He moves closer, his body nearly pressing against hers as he settles between her legs, still kneeling. His tongue traces delicate, kitten-like licks along her pink lips, drawing a soft moan from the girl.

Then, just as Yeonjun parts his mouth slightly, Y/N takes the lead, slipping her tongue inside with practiced ease. She feels his warm breath tickling her face as she deepens the kiss, and he lets out a low, surprised moan, caught off guard by her sudden boldness.

Meanwhile, Soobin just sits there again, eyes wide, her moans sounding like gentle music in his ears. His cheeks flush a soft pink as he bites down on his bottom lip, trying to hold back a low groan from slipping past his lips.

He shifts uncomfortably in his spot, struggling to ignore the tent growing in his shorts as he tries to figure out what to do next.

Does he leave?

Does he stay?

Fuck, what do I do now? Soobin thought to himself.

Then, Y/N breaks the kiss, before slowly leaning in again. Her lips brushing Yeonjun's in a teasing whisper of contact—just enough to leave him breathless—before pulling away completely.

Her eyes don’t stay on him for long.

Instead, she tilts her head to the side, gaze drifting over to Soobin.

God, he looks so cute, she thought.

He continues to sit there cross-legged, the beer can he previously in his hand is now discarded on the floor beside him.

One hand rests over his lap—not subtle, but not exactly trying to hide it either. It makes her wonder if he’s shielding himself… or just chasing a bit of friction through the fabric of his shorts.

He looks up at Y/N, eyes wide and darkened with a mix of jealousy and lust.

"Come here, baby. Don’t be shy," she says, her voice soft and inviting as she gestures him over with a crook of her finger.

Soobin’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t hesitate—scrambling forward so quickly that he knocks over the empty beer can with a soft clatter. Yeonjun slowly leans back, hands braced against the carpet, watching them with lust-filled eyes.

Soobin finally settles beside her, sitting like an obedient puppy waiting for his owner's command—eyes fixed on her, breath shallow. He's practically vibrating with nervous energy now, the need in his gaze impossible to miss.

Y/N leans in, effortlessly straddling his lap as her arms drape around his neck. Her breath fans against his face, their lips now just centimeters apart.

By now, Soobin wants to individually thank every single person who has led him to this exact moment.

His parents, for pushing him into tennis camp. His coaches, for their brutal training schedules. And, of course, Yeonjun—for convincing him to come watch that match in the first place.

Because right now, in this moment, Soobin feels like the luckiest man alive.

“Don’t be scared, baby, okay?” she whispers, gently brushing his hair away from his face as she leans in even closer.

“I’ll take care of you,” she adds softly.

Soobin melts under her touch, every feeling of doubt and hesitation dissolving into the warmth of her words.

He places his hands on her waist carefully, his gaze still locked onto hers, almost like he’s afraid to blink and miss it.

Then she leans in, her lips meeting his.

Soobin lets out a quiet, surprised moan, caught off guard by the contact, as if he’d been waiting for this exact moment without even realizing it. (It’s not his first kiss, but god, it might as well be.)

Her fingers tangle into his hair, gently scratching at his scalp, and Soobin groans again, louder this time, completely at her mercy.

Slowly, Y/N begins to rock back and forth in his lap, the soft friction sparking heat between their lower areas. The kiss deepens naturally. Their lips parting just a bit, tongues brushing softly against one another—growing a small pool of wetness in her core.

Holy. Fuck.

Soobin softly tightens his grip around her waist, carefully slipping his hands beneath the fabric of her sweater, resting them on her bare skin.

Y/N slowly withdraws one hand from Soobin’s hair, tilting her head just enough to catch Yeonjun’s gaze—her lips never parting from Soobin’s.

Yeonjun’s gaze is fixed on her, jaw clenched, eyes filled with lust and desire as they trace the scene before him. His hand moves quietly over his clothed member, fingers stroking with a slow, measured rhythm, searching for some quiet release.

Then, Y/N reaches over slightly, taking Yeonjun's his hand and gently pulling it closer to herself and Soobin.

Yeonjun leans in from behind her, softly brushing her hair aside before pressing his plump lips to the tender curve of her neck.

She lets out a soft moan against Soobin's lips, pulling him in closer, as her kiss grows hungrier and heavier. His grip on her waist tightens, unaware of the faint bruises forming on her delicate skin.

But she couldn’t care less—in fact, it only made everything feel even better.

Then, Y/N slowly pulls away from Soobin, her breath still shaky as she turns to Yeonjun. With a gentle touch, she takes his face in her hand and leans in, pressing her lips greedily against his.

Soobin sits there, mouth slightly open, arms still locked around her waist. Then he inches forward a bit, pressing soft wet kisses to her neck.

If it weren’t for her sweater, god knows he’d be trailing even lower.

Instead, he tightens his hold on her, gently rocking her hips in his lap, building the friction and heat between them as she stays locked in a kiss with Yeonjun.

Her free hand slides up to the front of Yeonjun’s neck, fingers curling tight around his throat, making him moan loudly at the touch. His hands follow, slipping slowly beneath her sweater, settling over her clothed breasts.

She groans into his mouth before shifting one hand to guide Yeonjun’s hand beneath her bra, her fingers intertwining with his as he cups her bare breast, playing with her soft nipples.

With her other hand still clenched tightly in Soobin’s hair, she draws him closer, encouraging his sloppy, desperate kisses on her delicate skin and the blooming purple marks forming on her neck.

Slowly, her grip eases on both of them, and the kiss slows, losing its urgency and settling into a slow, lingering rhythm.

Then, without warning, Y/N pulls away from Yeonjun, their lips parting with a soft, breathy sound and a thin string of saliva stretching between them for just a second.

She catches her breath, her chest rising and falling slowly as her eyes flicker between Yeonjun and Soobin. They both stare back at her, breathless. Then, she shifts, easing herself off Soobin’s lap. His hands linger for a moment as she pulls away from his grasp.

Soobin lets out a soft, almost involuntary whine at the loss of her warmth.

The room falls silent.

Both boys sit there, completely dumbfounded—caught somewhere between confusion and desire, unable to find the words. Y/N breaks the quiet with a soft, teasing tone, her voice low and playful.

“It’s getting late… I should probably head back.”

She stands in front of them, and they look up at her—flushed cheeks, heavy breaths, and lingering eyes.

And then—

That smile.

That same innocent, sweet smile, like she hadn’t just borderline orchestrated a threesome between the three of them.

She takes a step away, but Yeonjun’s voice stops her.

“Wait… that’s it?”

Soobin looks a little lost, his voice soft and hesitant. “Oh… I.."

Then he adds, hopeful, “C-can we at least have your number?”

There’s a brief pause—then Soobin’s voice lowers, almost pleading, “…Please?”

Y/N glances between them, a playful smile tugging at her lips, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“You guys study at Eastmound, right?”

They both nod silently, still trying to process everything.

“Well... I’ll see you both around campus, then.”

With that, she turns and leaves their hotel room, the door clicking softly behind her.

Yeonjun and Soobin stand there, stunned and speechless, the moment lingering in the quiet air.

a/n: this one is craaazzyyyyy omgg pls comment if yall want a full story out of thiss!! (will start working on half a spell pt 2 now hehe)

[greenxgloss]

Okay here me out!…. Tennis player reader idol any member OR à Hybe picnic type of show but this time BTS is in and you kinda document their interaction with reader(I hope that make sense I’m in my third year English class🥲)

Btw love your stuff! Love n property for your page!

A/n: i actually love the tennis idea because i’ve been craving something with the charged, subtle romance with thickkkk sexual tension like the challengers movie…. Thats what i’ve tried to capture so i hope you like it. So so so so sorry for taking foreverrrrr to get this out. It just had to be a slowburn im sorry lmao id love to write a part 2 if anyone wants it lol i realllllyyyy loved this soo much and think they deserve a good smut scene soo im totally up to write another part

Challengers (JJK)

Pairing: Competitive Softie!jungkook x Proud Tease!Y/n Summary: Tennis rivalry at HYBE turns into a slow-burning, tension-laced romance as Jungkook competes to win not just the game, but every last digit of Y/N’s phone number—and your heart. Themes: Rivals to lovers, Mutual pining, suggestive language, Slow burn, Sexual tension Word Count: 9.9k

PT2

You hear the click of a camera shutter before you ever see him. Your back is to the entrance gate, eyes trained on the fuzzy yellow blur of the ball as you serve with clean, practiced force. It hits the line—barely. You allow yourself the smallest smile.

Then footsteps. Hesitant. Soft.

You know someone’s watching. You just don’t let them know you know.

Turning slowly, you spot him by the fence—black cap low, mask tugged just under his chin, camera dangling from his hands. Jeon Jungkook. Global idol. Fitness junkie. Unexpected spectator.

Your gaze meets his. It’s a beat too long to be casual. “Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he says, voice hoarse from the chill or from silence. You walk toward the net, expression unreadable. “Then what are you doing youe?”

A flicker of a smile touches his lips. “My trainer’s late. I heard someone hitting balls and got curious.”

You stop just short of the net, resting the racket lightly against your hip. You know how you look—sweat-slicked skin, skirt hitched slightly from movement, a single strand of hair stuck to your neck. You don’t move to adjust any of it. You don’t need to.

“You always take pictures of strangers?” you ask.

Jungkook blinks, then looks sheepish. “Only the interesting ones.”

You tilt your head, watching him the way you might watch an opponent before a serve—measured. Unforgiving. A little amused.

“And what made me interesting?”

He rubs the back of his neck, chuckling under his breath. “You move like you’re dancing. And you don’t miss.”

You take a step closer to the net, voice low. “Neityou do you, right? Onstage?”

He holds your gaze this time. No nervous shifting. Just quiet admiration.

“Sometimes I miss,” he says. “Just… not when it matters.”

Your lips twitch. Not a smile—yet. But close.

You hold out a ball, spinning it lazily between your fingers. “Wanna rally while you wait?”

Jungkook looks at the court, then at you. Tyoue’s a flicker of something in his eyes—interest, yes, but more than that. A challenge accepted.

“Yeah,” he says, moving toward the sideline. “But don’t go easy on me.”

You smirk, turning your back to him as you walk back to your baseline.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

The court quiets again—save for the distant hum of traffic far below. You hand Jungkook the spare racket. He turns it over in his hand like it’s a mic before a show.

He walks to the baseline, stretching his arms overhead. His black shirt lifts just enough to show the sharp dip of his waist, skin flushed golden from the low sun. His breathing is already measured. Focused. Performer mode.

He bounces the ball once, then again. Eyes flick to you.

“You ready?” he asks.

You answer with a nod, lowering into your stance.

The serve is fast—surprisingly fast. Clean form, legs powering through, sweat flicking off his wrist as he grunts softly through the movement.

You were doing an amazing job at pretending that it wasn’t affecting you.

You return it easily, and the dance begins.

The ball cuts through the air between you, a series of controlled exchanges. Your feet move like memory: sharp pivots, calculated glides, swift recoveries. You study him more than the game—his breathy exhales, the way his shirt clings to his back, how he bites down on his lip when he misjudges his swing.

He plays hard—too hard for someone who claimed he was just waiting.

“Not bad,” you say mid-rally, tossing the words between strokes.

Jungkook laughs, breathless. “You’re smug.”

You raise an eyebrow, return a slice that forces him into a low crouch. His groan echoes off the rooftop walls as he barely reaches it. The ball skims over the net.

You return it again—harder this time.

The sound he lets out is somewyoue between exertion and disbelief. Sweat drips from his temple. His cap falls off when he lunges for the ball again, his dark hair sticking to his forehead in damp strands.

You smirk, not botyouing to hide it anymore. “Still curious?”

He pants, nodding. “Dangerously.”

The rally breaks when he hits the ball too wide, and it bounces past the boundary. He drops the racket, rests his hands on his knees, breathing deep and hard. Chest heaving. Skin flushed. Drenched in sunlight and sweat and something else you don’t name.

His shirt clinging to his chest is almost worse than if he were to not have one on at all.

You slowly walk toward the net, gripping it lightly with one hand. He mirrors you, eyes fixed on yours. For a moment, you both just stand tyoue, catching your breath.

The silence tightens.

You feel it. So does he.

Not in words, not yet. But in his jaw, clenched just slightly. In the way his fingers twitch at his sides. In the part of his lips when he looks at your mouth a moment too long.

You speak first.

“I thought idols had stamina.”

He exhales a soft laugh. “You’re… not what I expected.”

You tilt your head, voice softer. “And what did you expect?”

He looks at you, something bold flickering in his expression. “Not someone who could outlast me.”

Before the tension can snap, a voice cuts through the rooftop.

“Jungkook!”

You both blink, pulled from whatever slow-burn moment you’d been drifting into.

His trainer appears at the door, clipboard in hand, eyebrows raised.

“Sorry I’m late.”

Jungkook runs a hand through his hair, glancing back at you.

You step away from the net, picking up your racket without urgency. “Duty calls.”

He hesitates. “Will you be youe again?”

You toss him a look over your shoulder. “Maybe.”

“Can I—” He stops himself. Reconsiders. “What’s your name?”

You flash him a slow smile. The kind that lingers long after it’s gone.

“I’ll tell you when you last longer than me.”

You exit before he can reply—leaving him sweaty, stunned, and smiling to himself under the amber light.

-

The sun is sharper today, casting crisp shadows across the rooftop court. Jungkook’s in the middle of a rally, a different opponent across from him — one of his friends, judging by the relaxed trash talk between serves.

He’s playing well. Fast feet, heavy grunts, toned arms gleaming with effort under the rolled-up sleeves of his black athletic tee. His game is sharp, focused, even a little cocky. He lands a clean forehand with a growl of effort.

“Damn,” his friend huffs. “You trying to make me quit today?”

“Just warming up,” Jungkook tosses back with a smirk.

But then—

The gate opens with a quiet rattle.

Your steps are soft, but he hears them. Feels them.

You walk in like you belong tyoue — which you do, now. No words, no grand entrance. Just the soft sound of your tennis bag hitting the bench and the glide of your warmup jacket unzipping. Jungkook catches the motion from the corner of his eye — your body stretching overhead, shirt riding just enough, hips tilting slightly as you begin your slow, calculated warmup.

The ball flies past him.

“Point,” his friend calls, grinning. “You good?”

Jungkook blinks. “What? Yeah. I just—missed it.”

But he’s already faltering.

Because now you’ve turned, one leg lifting into a long stretch, arms reaching to your toes, spine curving smoothly. You roll your neck slowly, eyes catching his for a split second. You don’t smile. You just look.

And keep stretching.

He serves again, this time rushing. His footwork starts to fall apart. One rally, two, then he fumbles an easy backhand because you’ve moved into a deeper stretch — one hand behind your back, the otyou sliding over your shoulder. You’re silent, but your every motion is deliberate, sensual in its ease.

You know what you’re doing.

He knows you know. And it just felt so good to throw him off his game even just a little.

He mutters under his breath, jaw tightening. “What the hell…”

You sit to lace your shoes, head bowed, hair falling over your face. But he sees the way your lips curve. The hint of a smirk you don’t even botyou to hide.

He misses again. Ball ricochets off the court.

“Are you—are you okay?” his friend asks, not hiding the laugh. “You’re like, glitching.”

Jungkook wipes the sweat off his forehead, face flushed more than it should be.

“She’s doing it on purpose,” he grumbles.

His friend follows his gaze. “Ohhh.” He grins knowingly then chuckling, walking around the net and patting Jungkook on the shoulder firmly.

Jungkook exhales a deep groan, dragging his hand down his face.

“Yeah.”

The sound of sneakers scuffing against the court fades as Jungkook’s friend throws him a look and says, “I’ll leave you to your... distractions.” He offers you a nod, clearly amused, and then disappears down the steps.

You’re still by the bench, sipping from your water bottle, towel draped lazily around your neck. The sun hits your cheekbone just right. You glance up only when Jungkook speaks.

“Are you always like that?” he asks, sauntering closer with a cocky edge that doesn’t quite mask how rattled he still is.

You arch a brow. “Like what?”

He breathes a soft laugh, pressing his tongue into his cheek. “Quiet. Deadly.”

“I was just stretching.”

“You were orchestrating my downfall.”

He drops his racquet bag beside yours, arms folding, jaw ticking as he eyes you like you’re a puzzle he wants to figure out slowly. “I’ve never missed that many shots in a warm-up match. Not even after leg day.”

You shrug, utterly unbotyoued. “Maybe your form’s off.”

He lets out a soft scoff. “Yeah? Wanna test that theory?”

You’re already stepping onto the court. “Thought you’d never ask.”

The match starts light, a few rallies to test each otyou’s rhythm. But Jungkook's smirk disappears quickly. You’re fast — sharper than he expected, all explosive footwork and elegant, untelegraphed shots. You play like someone who’s calculated but effortless, every swing smooth, every fake just believable enough to throw him.

He’s sweating more than he wants to be.

The sound of the ball slicing the air, the grunt he gives when lunging for a low shot — it’s satisfying. Even more so when your return lands just inside the line.

“Game,” you announce, not even winded.

Jungkook squints at you, breathing hard, bent slightly at the waist. “That’s it?”

“Three sets,” you remind. “All mine.”

He checks his watch, chest still rising and falling. “I’ve got to be somewyoue.”

You tilt your head. “Already done with me?”

He wipes sweat off his neck, flashing a crooked grin. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Oh?” You toss him a towel from the bench. He catches it, and your fingers brush for the first time. It’s nothing. It’s everything.

“I’m gonna really tire you out,” he says lowly, voice rough with exertion. “And get your name.”

You sit back, unwrapping your grip tape lazily. “You could just ask, you know.”

“Nah,” he says, backing toward the exit with a grin. “I want to earn it. Gotta accept your challenge.”

Your lips curl, barely. “What challenge?” You asked, taking a long drink.

Jungkook’s eyes flick down your frame, then return to your gaze, heat and mirth flickering behind his sweat-dampened lashes. “To last longer than you, remember?”

He doesn’t wait for your reaction–not that you had one— just throws you one last glance, dark eyes gleaming with mischief, and disappears down the stairs.

You exhale through your nose, smirking to yourself, already knowing:

He’s not going to win.

But it’ll be fun watching him try.

Though on the outside you were as unbotyoued as anyone could be, you were aching on the inside. You loved the anticipation— him hinting at desperation but playing into the tension because you both knew it felt that much better.

The courts at the HYBE tournament gleamed, flawless and golden, the day unfolding with charged anticipation. Spectators milled about with drinks in hand, mingling in clusters of staff, fans, and a surprising number of idols who treated the annual friendly match like a casual holiday more than a competition.

You stood off to the side in a shaded corner, arms crossed loosely, eyes hidden behind your sunglasses as you scanned the courts. Your gaze landed easily on Jungkook—of course it did—laughing as Taehyung fake-tripped over his own feet and nearly took Jimin down with him. They were a mess, giggling like schoolboys, their rackets pointed like swords, mock-dueling in the warm-up space while Seokjin yelled something about “professionalism” and then promptly tossed his own water bottle at Yoongi.

It was chaotic. Loud. A little immature.

But… it was endearing.

You didn’t smile. Not outwardly. But the tug in your chest, the slight warm bloom behind your ribs—it was tyoue, humming steady.

Eventually the tournament began, and your attention stayed wyoue it always did: him.

Jungkook on the court was a different man. Fluid, focused, powerful. Even with his friends still cracking jokes from the sidelines, he slipped into form like second skin. His footwork sharp, the sound of the ball cracking off his racket crisp and clean. You watched his movements with a practiced eye—the bend of his knees, the twist of his torso, the way sweat gatyoued at the base of his neck.

You cheered when he scored, but not too loudly. Not enough to distract him.

You could, if you wanted to. One well-timed smirk, one drawled-out “let’s go, Kook,” and he’d falter.

But you didn’t.

Because watching him locked in, striving to impress, made something coil and twist under your skin in a way no flirtation ever could.

“You’re pretty focused,” came a voice beside you, lilting with amusement.

You glanced sideways to find Jimin approaching, casual in a sleeveless tee and windbreaker slung around his hips. His eyes sparkled with mischief, like he knew something you didn’t want him to say.

“Just watching the match,” you replied smoothly, not looking away from the court.

He hummed, unconvinced. “Sure. Watching the match. Not a certain player with a mullet and killer forehand.”

Your lip twitched. “He’s decent.”

Jimin chuckled under his breath, then leaned in slightly. “You know, he’s usually not this serious when we play. Think someone’s gotten under his skin.”

You tilted your head, finally giving him a sideways glance. “Why? Is he losing?”

“Not yet,” he admitted. “But he keeps looking over youe when he thinks no one notices.”

That earned the barest lift of your brow, but before you could answer, a loud cheer broke from the crowd as Jungkook landed a winning shot, dropping to one knee with an exaggerated fist-pump.

He didn’t look for approval from the crowd. He looked for you.

You stood still, hands relaxed at your sides, just a faint smile curving your lips. That was all he needed.

Jungkook jogged toward the fence wyoue you stood, sweat-slicked and cocky, chest heaving as he grinned at you.

“You ready?” he asked, his voice rough with exertion and playful ego. “Because after that warm-up, I’m definitely going to outlast you this time.”

Jimin made a noise behind you, a half-laugh, half-snort, before walking off to rejoin the rest of the guys. “Good luck with that,” he muttered, shaking his head.

You raised an eyebrow at Jungkook. “Still sounds like a fantasy.”

“Oh, it’s not a fantasy,” he replied, resting his hand casually on the fence. “It’s a promise.”

Your gaze swept over him—sweat glistening on his collarbones, hair clinging to his forehead, eyes burning with adrenaline and something far more wicked.

You tilted your head just slightly. “Then I hope you’re better at keeping promises than points.”

He smirked wider, running a hand through his hair. “Guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

And just like that, he turned to head back toward his team, but not before glancing back one last time—just to make sure you were still watching.

You were.

You always were.

-

The bleacyous creaked quietly beneath you as you sat at the very top row, legs stretched out in front, elbows resting on your thighs. The tournament was long over—shouts, cheers, and laughter had all faded, leaving only the distant buzz of cicadas and the rhythmic bounce of a stray ball being knocked against a far-off wall.

From your vantage point, Jungkook was the only person left on the court.

He moved unhurriedly, bending to pick up a towel, straightening to zip his gear into his duffel. His white HYBE team shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat and tracing the slope of his shoulders, the sharp lines of his muscles. He hadn’t noticed you yet.

Or maybe he had. Maybe he was pretending he hadn’t.

Your voice broke the silence. “So that’s it? You’re done for the day?”

His head turned at the sound, eyes finding yours across the span of distance between court and bleacyous. A flicker of a grin tugged at his lips, slow and familiar.

“Depends,” he called back. “Why? You hoping I’m not?”

You let out a breath through your nose, not quite a laugh, and leaned forward. “Just thought you’d want to keep your word. You know… finally tire me out.”

That pulled a soft chuckle from him, low and rough from his throat. He tossed his towel into the bag and adjusted the strap over his shoulder, then made his way toward you—each step deliberate, a little slower than necessary, eyes locked on yours like he could already see wyoue this would end.

When he reached the base of the bleacyous, he climbed, skipping the first few steps until he stood in front of you, tall and close—so close you had to tilt your chin just slightly to meet his gaze.

He looked wrecked in the best way. Hair damp and falling across his forehead, cheeks flushed from exertion, a light sheen of sweat still glinting on his collarbone. He exhaled, a little unevenly, and you noticed the rise and fall of his chest slow as his eyes flicked over your face—studying you in that maddening, undressing way he always did.

“Tempting offer,” he murmured, voice roughened by the remnants of adrenaline and heat. “But I want to bring my A-game. And right now?” He leaned in, just enough that you caught the edge of his breath against your cheek. “I’m running on fumes. I’d only last a set. Maybe two.”

You tried to hold his stare, to keep the corners of your mouth from twitching. “Excuses already? I expected more from you.”

His jaw flexed like he was biting back a grin, and he didn’t move away. Instead, he reached up to pull his shirt slightly from the back of his neck, letting it fall off his shoulder a bit, exposing the curve of a tattoo and the way his skin flushed beneath it.

“I’m just being honest,” he said, voice dipping. “I don’t want it to be over too fast.”

The words hung between you, heavy, electric. You weren’t sure if he was talking about the game anymore. And neityou of you moved.

You let your eyes flick to his mouth—just a glance—but it lingered longer than you meant to. He noticed. He always noticed.

Jungkook shifted even closer. His knee brushed yours. “See,” he said softly, “you think you’ve got the upper hand. Cool, quiet, unreadable…”

You raised a brow, pulse fluttering.

“…but I see it. Every time you look at me like that.” He nodded once, slow, deliberate. “You’re already wrapped around my finger.”

A scoff slipped from your lips, but it was breathless. Your body betrayed you with a slight lean forward, not enough to be obvious—but enough.

He didn’t press it. Instead, he backed away by a step, eyes never leaving yours as he slung his bag over one shoulder.

“I like the way you pretend not to want it,” he said with a half-smile, cocky but not unkind. “But just so you know…” He turned, starting down the bleacyous, then glanced over his shoulder with one final look.

“…I want it too.”

And then he was gone, leaving only the fading echo of his footsteps and the heat of his stare on your skin.

“Fuck.” You breathed out, sitting for a moment almost to reclaim the calm. But soon enough you were leaving, the tiniest hint of frustration that he had almost figured you out and hasnt made a move. He definitely likes the anticipation. He revels in it and it heated you up from the inside out not with anger but with sexual tenstion that you were desperate to break.

The HYBE building always buzzed with movement—stylists weaving between floors, idols slipping into practice rooms, staff juggling schedules and coffee cups. You were just passing through the main hallway, headed toward the training courts, when your gaze snagged on something—or ratyou, someone.

Jungkook.

Leaning casually against the wall near the elevators, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, hair slightly damp like he’d just come from rehearsal. His head was tipped slightly downward, a crooked smile playing on his lips as he spoke with a girl—pretty, a trainee maybe, bouncing lightly on you toes with that nervous energy people got around him.

You watched for all of five seconds.

Then your mouth tugged into a small smirk, and you kept walking.

No sting, no tightening in your chest. Just... amusement. You knew his game. Knew how easily charm dripped off his words and how many people likely mistook it for something more. That wasn’t your problem. If anything, it was cute how oblivious the girl was—like youhad no idea who youwas talking to, not really. Not the version you’d seen on the court. The version that unraveled a little when you were close.

And maybe that was why, just as you turned the corner, Jungkook’s eyes flicked up.

Caught you.

Held.

You didn’t stop. Just met his gaze with a bored glance and raised brow, then disappeared down the hall without a word. If he wanted to chase, he’d know wyoue to find you.

-

You were already lacing up your shoes when you heard the court door creak open again.

You didn’t turn around. Just stretched your legs out furtyou, focused on your breathing.

But you knew it was him.

Heavy steps, slower than usual. The sound of his duffel hitting the bench. A long pause. Then—

“You always stretch like that,” Jungkook said behind you, his voice casual, “or are you trying to make me lose focus?”

You tilted your head, giving him a sidelong glance. “Maybe I’m just getting old. My joints creak if I don’t warm up properly.”

He laughed softly, but it didn’t reach the air between you.

When you finally stood, the shift was immediate. Gone was the teasing distance from earlier days. This time, the tension was louder than your words—palpable, almost embarrassingly obvious. It hung in the way your eyes met across the net. The way your feet moved, not to play, but to orbit each otyou. You hadn't touched a racket yet.

“You play already today?” you asked, circling toward your side of the court.

“No.” He bounced a ball lazily in his palm. “Didn’t feel like it.”

You arched a brow. “So why are you youe?”

He hit the ball once—light, easy—letting it roll off his strings. “You know why.”

The silence that followed stretched. Heavy. Not uncomfortable, just charged.

You picked up your racket, letting your fingers curl around the grip. He did the same.

But neityou of you served.

Instead, you met at the net, no words. Just eyes locking, the stillness between you burning hotter than the heat from the lights above. You didn’t say anything about the girl in the hallway. Didn’t ask why he followed you youe. Didn’t need to.

Because this time, tyoue was no pretense.

You were waiting for him. And Jungkook had only shown up to see you.

-

The net between you crackled with more than tension—it was a battleground of restraint, of carefully measured glances and the push-pull of control neityou of you was quite ready to give up.

Jungkook leaned against the net post, arms crossed, dark eyes scanning you with a familiarity that shouldn't have felt so earned yet. His hair was tousled from the breeze that filtered through the slightly open windows, shirt clinging just enough to hint at the way his chest rose and fell—steady, focused, like he’d come youe on a mission.

“So,” he said finally, voice low. “You always look that smug walking past guys who are talking to someone else?”

You smirked, stepping closer, letting your fingers graze the edge of your racket. “Only when the guy is pretending he wasn’t watching me leave.”

He huffed a soft laugh, but didn’t deny it. “I wasn’t pretending.”

The honesty startled you for a second—just enough to blink.

“You looked,” he continued, his tone quiet but confident, “like you already knew exactly what I’d do.”

“I did.”

His brows lifted. “Cocky.”

You met his gaze, sharp and level. “Calculated.”

That earned you a real smile. The kind that curled his lip just slightly, revealing the tip of his tongue between his teeth. “I’m starting to think you’re not as unaffected as you want me to believe.”

“I think you’re starting to confuse mystery with interest.”

“Hmm,” he said, tilting his head. “And which one are you?”

You didn’t answer.

Instead, you walked backward toward your side of the court, racket tapping once against your thigh. “Guess you’ll have to play to find out.”

That was all the invitation he needed.

The first few volleys were slow, like foreplay—probing shots, smirking glances, testing each otyou's reactions. You didn’t rush to win. He didn’t rush to dominate. Tyoue was something different about this match; it wasn’t about scoring. It was about staying in it, about pushing each otyou just enough.

Grunts and the sharp sound of sneakers skidding over the court filled the air. The ball moved like a magnet between you, neityou willing to let it hit the ground. It went on longer than any of your previous games, bodies glistening with effort, breaths getting shorter, glances longer.

Jungkook wiped sweat from his brow with the hem of his shirt, and you couldn’t help but let your gaze linger.

He noticed.

“Distracted?” he asked, panting just enough for it to feel intimate.

You rolled your neck, feigning casualness. “You sound winded.”

He smirked through the next serve. “Still standing, aren’t I?”

The game pressed on, and with each passing minute, you felt your muscles start to burn. Jungkook was relentless—not overpowering, but persistent. He was focused now in a way he hadn’t been before. His jaw tight, hair damp, eyes locked on you like this was more than just play. Like it was personal.

Finally, after one particularly long rally that ended with your shot slamming just a little wide, you held your hand up and called, “Time.”

You were bent slightly, palms on your knees, breath heavy. Jungkook stepped forward, bouncing the ball lightly, arms glistening and veins showing as he gripped his racket.

“Well?” he asked, chest rising and falling. “Calling it?”

You glanced up through your lashes, your smirk returning with just a hint of surrender.

“Fine,” you said. “You outlasted me.”

He exhaled, part in triumph, part in disbelief. Then he jogged toward the net, both hands bracing it as he leaned in slightly.

“And?” he prompted.

You tilted your head. “And?”

“Don’t you owe me something?”

You stared at him for a beat—heart still pounding from the game, from the tension, from him—then stepped forward and offered your hand across the net.

“I’m Y/N.”

His grin split wide and easy as he shook your hand. “Knew you’d crack eventually.”

You tugged your hand back slowly, a brow raised. “Don’t flatter yourself. You haven’t earned much.”

“Oh?” He crossed his arms, the glint in his eyes sharpening. “What’s next then?”

You turned, walking toward your bag with a nonchalant shrug. “You want my number?”

“I definitely want your number.”

You glanced at him over your shoulder. “Then earn it.”

His chuckle echoed across the court. “And how exactly do I do that?”

You didn’t stop walking, just tossed back, “Surprise me.”

-

The corridors of HYBE buzzed with the quiet chaos of artists and staff going about their day, but Jungkook wasn’t paying attention to any of it. His eyes scanned the floor like a hawk, boba in one hand, hoodie tugged low over his forehead to stay somewhat incognito — as if the tattoos and purposeful stance didn’t make him stick out anyway.

Then he spotted you.

Down the hallway, near a side conference room, flipping through a clipboard and nodding at someone from PR. Jungkook slowed, just enough to watch the way your mouth moved — focused, smooth, always a step ahead — and smiled to himself. Like clockwork, yousensed him and looked up.

Their eyes met. And yousmirked. Not a greeting — a challenge.

Jungkook veered toward you with the grin of a man with nothing to lose.

“You stalking me now?” youasked as he leaned against the wall beside you, arms crossed, confidence oozing but somehow never smug.

“I’m doing recon,” he replied, licking the straw of his drink. “Trying to figure out what kind of person would deny me you number after I literally gave my soul on the court.”

“You cramped halfway through a backhand,” youdeadpanned.

He gasped. “Emotional damage. That’s low.”

“You’ll survive.” youturned back to the clipboard.

“Okay, hear me out.” He leaned in closer. “What if I guess the last four digits of your number?”

You didn’t look at him. “You have 10,000 combinations. Good luck.”

“I’d take those odds.”

“Then you have way too much time.”

He grinned. “What if I earn each digit? Like… do something impressive for every number.”

you brow arched, finally turning to him. “Like what? Hit a trick shot into the CEO’s office?”

Jungkook laughed, then suddenly got serious. “Say I win anotyou rally with my eyes closed. That’s worth at least one digit.”

You didn’t blink. “You’d miss.”

He leaned closer, enough that the warmth of him curled around you arm. “You’d give me a second chance.”

A beat passed. Then youturned slightly toward him, close enough that someone walking by might’ve mistaken them for more than just a game.

“I’ll give you something better than a digit,” yousaid.

His eyes lit up. “Yeah?”

youreached into you tennis bag, pulled out a single clean white wristband, and pressed it into his chest.

Jungkook looked down at it like it held divine answers. “What’s this?”

“A consolation prize.”

He stared at you, slack-jawed as you turned away and disappeared down the corridor without another word.

He stared after you, one hand clutched over the wristband like it was a relic.

“I’m so in trouble,” he whispered to himself.

-

For the next few days, Jungkook turned the HYBE building into a battleground. Not of idols or music or rehearsals. No — it was a quiet war. One of wit, glances, and near-misses. And you? You were always one step ahead, always watching… always winning.

The first time he tried to impress you again, it was in the cafeteria.

He appeared beside you in line, balancing a bottle of water on a tennis ball with perfect stillness. He didn’t say a word — just waited until you looked over. When you did, he raised a brow.

“Skill level?” he asked, not even glancing at the precarious balancing act.

You eyed it for a second. “One digit worthy.”

He beamed, only for you to pluck the bottle off, take a sip, and walk away.

“Still at zero,” you called over your shoulder.

The next time was outside a practice studio, where he had snuck in a folded paper. When you unwrapped it, it was a sketch — a surprisingly decent caricature of you hitting a forehand, drawn with exaggerated intensity.

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched.

“Still at zero?” he mouthed through the glass window of the studio.

You held up a single finger. Then slowly turned it down. Zero again.

By the time Friday hit, Jungkook had brought you coffee twice (exactly how you liked it), helped untangle a cord from your bag, and even offered a piggyback after you mock-limped post-practice. You refused, of course. But the corner of your mouth lifted. He caught it. He always caught the little things.

-

You sat back on the same upper bleacher where you first shared real tension — legs crossed, arms draped lazily over the bench. From a distance, you looked like you had no care in the world. But your eyes tracked him like a hawk.

Jungkook was pretending to scroll through his phone by the baseline, but he kept glancing up. Every time he did, you were already looking away.

Eventually, he jogged up to you, slinging a towel around his neck and exhaling dramatically. “You’ve been dodging me.”

“You’ve been making it easy,” you replied coolly.

He placed a hand on the bench beside you, leaning close, voice low. “Come on. One digit. I’ve earned at least one by now.”

You tilted your head, gazing at him with the calm of someone who enjoyed dragging him through every second of it.

“Okay,” you said after a pause. “Pick a number between 0 and 9.”

Jungkook’s eyes lit up. “Five.”

You leaned forward just slightly, breath brushing past his jaw. “Wrong.”

He groaned and dropped to sit beside you, hands in his hair. “You’re a menace.”

“You love it.”

He looked at you, and something shifted.

He wasn’t grinning now. He was just watching you — like you were something rare, something brilliant. And you felt it. You felt that look all the way to your fingertips.

But instead of showing it, you leaned back again, gaze to the sky. “Still tired from our last rally?” you asked. “You haven’t challenged me again.”

“Because I’m strategizing,” he said, turning toward you. “Next time I win, I want a digit and a date.”

You laughed, soft and low. “Desperate much?”

He grinned, shameless. “What are you doing to me?”

The words hung there, between a chuckle and a silence that said too much. And when he stood, he didn’t ask for anything else. Just tapped his racket against yours once.

“See you on the court, Y/n.” He said your name like he loved using it— like he wanted you to imagine it falling from his lips like a plead— breathy, gasped, maybe whined or whimpered.

You watched him walk away — not smiling, not swooning — but something warm curled just beneath your ribs.

-

The sun hangs low over the court, casting long golden shadows across the lines as you slip your wristband on. It’s a private match, meant to be low-key—just a few friends, no crowd. So when you see him, all lean muscle and mischief, leaning against the fence in a black sleeveless top and a too-confident grin… you roll your eyes, but your chest tightens.

“Don’t tell me you joined this match just for the thrill of losing,” you call out as he steps onto the court with a racket slung lazily over his shoulder.

Jungkook smirks, but it’s softer than usual—like the edges of him have been worn down in your orbit. “I like a challenge,” he replies. Then, more seriously, “Been training harder. No matches lined up, no sponsors breathing down my neck. Just… wanted to win against you.”

You freeze for half a second. It’s subtle, the way he says it—like he’s not expecting anything back. But the words hang between you like something weighty and delicate, something that might slip through your fingers if you don't acknowledge it.

He shrugs a little. “Guess I figured if I earned it—really earned it—you’d finally give me your number.”

You try not to smile. You really do. But it creeps up anyway.

This match was never about endurance. It wasn’t a matter of who could last longer—it was about winning. A definitive outcome. If Jungkook won, you’d give him the first digits of your number. If you won, he’d be left to pine a little longer. You were almost tempted to let him take it. There was something about him—something in the way his once-cocky confidence had softened into sincerity, how his flirtation had transformed from vague suggestion into quiet, unwavering confession—that stirred something volatile inside you.

You were restless. The slow burn between you, the chase that once thrilled you, had started to feel like too much—too long, too hot. And yet, you couldn’t just give it to him. He had to earn it, just as much for your sake as his. You realized that the day he stopped asking for your name. The moment he accepted that you wouldn’t give it freely and decided to wait, to earn, was the moment the game changed.

You hadn’t known how much you liked the dynamic until then. Until it stopped being about teasing and started meaning something. And that’s why you fought so hard today.

You swung with intention, dropped low into position, sprinted from one edge of the court to the other. You grunted with each hit, your breath heavy, legs aching. Still, it wasn’t enough.

1–0 turned into 6–4.

You lost.

But you weren’t upset.

Satisfaction settled in your chest—not joy, not defeat. Something calmer. Steadier. You let it show in the curve of your lips, in the deliberate neutrality of your expression. Not excitement. Not disappointment. Just... acceptance.

You shook his hand, breathless and aching in places that shouldn’t ache for someone who played tennis every other day. But your smile—small, controlled—betrayed just a little pride.

You’d lost the match. But not the game.

-

“The caricature you drew of me at the café?” you ask, eyebrow raised. “I said it was awful.”

He grins. “Yeah, but you kept it.” More of a statement than a question like he knew you tucked it into your duffel bag that same day.

You flush and look away, mumbling, “It was better than I gave you credit for.”

There’s a pause. The wind picks up, brushing your hair from your face.

“Fine,” you say, pulling a pen from your bag. You scribble something on the inside of his wrist tape, slow and deliberate.

He glances down.

‘97’

His eyes flick up to yours, bright with something like victory, but not smug—just… hopeful.

“You’re giving me your birth year?”

“No,” you say with a small smile. “I’m giving you the first two digits. You’ll have to keep earning the rest.”

Jungkook chuckles, boyish and warm. “You’re ruthless.”

“And you’re ridiculous,” you shoot back. “But maybe not hopeless.”

He steps back onto the other side of the net, tossing the ball in the air. “Let’s see if I can earn the next two.”

You roll your shoulders, ready to serve. “Try me.”

-

The water is warm against your skin, lapping softly at your shoulders as you float near the edge of the HYBE building’s rooftop pool. It’s late—later than it should be for anyone else to be around. Most of the lights inside have already gone dark, the hum of the building reduced to a low, ambient whisper. From the in-ceiling speakers, some mellow R&B pulses faintly, its bass just audible beneath the sound of rippling water.

You close your eyes, heart still steady from your last set of laps, arms resting along the pool’s edge. It’s peaceful.

Until you hear the soft squelch of sneakers on wet tile.

You open your eyes, and there he is.

Jungkook.

He’s shirtless, his lean frame wrapped in shadows and moonlight. Swim trunks sit just above his knees, clinging slightly to his thighs, and his damp hair hangs messily over his eyes like he forgot to style it—or didn’t bother, because he didn’t expect to see anyone here.

Especially not you.

His eyes land on you immediately, widening—just for a moment. Then his mouth quirks, gaze unapologetically slow as it drags from your bare shoulders to the tops of your thighs. The flicker of something hot and unspoken flares in his expression before he smooths it over with a grin.

“Well,” he says, voice low and a little rough, “didn’t realize the pool came with such... scenery.”

You arch a brow, tilting your head lazily. “Is that so?”

He nods, stepping closer to the edge, water already beading on his skin, shimmering in the low light. “I thought I was just coming for a swim, but... now I’m the one drowning.”

You scoff, even as your stomach flips violently. “That was terrible.”

“I wasn’t talking about the pool,” he says with a wink, stepping in. The water barely covers his thighs, and the sight of it—of the droplets trailing down his torso, clinging to the curve of his shoulders, his abs, his sharp collarbone—makes it suddenly very difficult to breathe evenly.

You make a show of glancing him over. “Hmm. Bold of you to talk about scenery when your swim trunks are holding on for dear life.”

He laughs, genuinely, and moves toward you, the water cutting around him as he closes the distance. “You don’t look away.”

“Neither do you.”

He stops a foot from you. The water around him settles.

His voice drops. “Can’t.”

The air between you pulses, dense with heat that has nothing to do with the temperature of the pool. His hand lifts, barely brushing your waist under the water. It’s subtle, but it sparks something deep in your belly—something that coils and tightens and begs for more.

You feel it before it happens—his hand rising, his body closing in, his gaze dropping to your mouth. The intent is clear. This is it. This is finally it.

And for a heartbeat, you want it more than anything.

But then—

You lean in, just enough to feel the whisper of his breath on your lips, and then stop.

His brow twitches. “Why’d you—”

You smile slowly, tilting your head.

“I haven’t even given you my full number yet,” you murmur, voice low and wicked, “and you think you’ve earned a kiss?”

He blinks—caught between frustration and admiration. And desire. Lots of that.

You press your palm to his chest, firm but playful, pushing him just slightly back. Then you turn, effortlessly hoisting yourself out of the pool. Water slides off your body, and you don’t miss the way his eyes follow every drop.

You glance over your shoulder with a smirk, grabbing your towel.

“Earn the rest,” you call over your shoulder, “and maybe I’ll let you finish what you started.”

Then you walk away, leaving him standing waist-deep in water, lips parted, pulse racing, and hopelessly, deliciously ruined.

-

It took just over a month—an excruciatingly drawn-out one—for Jungkook to earn your entire phone number. Or almost. He had managed all but one elusive digit.

At that point, he had to get inventive.

You had already exhausted tennis. Though the two of you still played regularly, it had become predictable—Jungkook was consistently outplaying you, and the thrill of the game had dulled. You decided it was time to raise the stakes. Tennis, you declared, was now off-limits. If he wanted the final number, he would have to earn it through more imaginative means.

Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—you and Jungkook were equally competitive. He had learned early on that grand gestures or sentimental gifts weren’t your style. You didn’t want flowers; you wanted a challenge. Luckily, he agreed. In fact, he found such displays unbearably cliché. Instead, he devised small competitions scattered throughout the HYBE building, each one tailored to surprise and test you.

He knew your habits well by now—your most frequented floors, preferred corners, and after-hours haunts—so he prepared accordingly.

Week One: Table tennis in the game room. A warm-up round. Jungkook won 21–18, and smiled like it barely cost him effort.

Week Two: Mini-golf, crafted entirely by hand, sprawled across the third and second-floor hallways. Ingenious and a little ridiculous. Still, he won, five under par to your one under.

Week Three: Bowling. He’d constructed a makeshift lane in the shared dance studio using tape, foam bumpers, and borrowed equipment. Slightly more challenging—he edged you out 110 to 100.

And now, Week Four.

You had dared to hope that he was running out of ideas. That maybe this week would pass without a new challenge. But at 9:26 p.m., as you descended to the pool, towel slung over your shoulder, you stepped inside to find not solitude—but a scene.

The other members of BTS were there, scattered along the pool deck, laughing and helping Jungkook set up. Lane ropes, stopwatch, even printed time sheets. A race.

Your eyes widened slightly. This was bold—even for him.

Swimming was the one thing you were indisputably better at than tennis. Jungkook knew that. He’d heard it directly from your former coach. And yet, here he was, challenging you in your own element.

It was risky. There was little else he could organize without leaving the building—anything more elaborate might start to resemble a date. And that, by unspoken rule, had to be earned.

So he improvised. He strategized. He adapted.

In the days between each competition, he would vanish into his own process: dreaming up the next challenge, constructing it, training. He was a fast learner—annoyingly so. Even in sports he’d never touched before, he managed to become a decent competitor within four days of self-directed practice.

You stood there, the corner of your mouth tugging upward, trying not to let the affection bloom too obviously across your face.

But it was no use.

You smiled—genuine and a little bashful—because no one had ever worked this hard just to earn the last digit of your phone number.

And something about that made your heart stutter.

The energy in the HYBE pool was surprisingly electric for a spontaneous 9:30 p.m. race.

As you stepped inside, water still glistening from the overhead lights, the sound of laughter bounced off the tiled walls. The other BTS members had taken over the space, sprawled across lounge chairs or pacing along the deck, barefoot in sweats or shorts, drinks in hand as if this were a scheduled show.

You offered a half-smile as you walked in, tying the strings of your black bikini tighter, towel draped casually over one shoulder.

“Finally,” Jimin called from across the pool with a dramatic wave. “She arrives. I told them you wouldn’t bail.”

You walked over and gave him a brief hug, earning a teasing whistle from Taehyung.

Jimin grinned, lowering his voice as he leaned in, “I knew something was going on since that HYBE tennis match. Don’t try to deny it, Y/N. You let him win.”

“I never let him win,” you replied smoothly, smirking as you pulled away.

“Oh, so he earned the number?” Jin piped in from his spot by the stopwatch, raising a brow. “Spicy.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks warming slightly. “He earned most of it.”

That earned a collective “Ooooooh” from the boys.

Then, finally, you approached Jungkook.

He sat at the edge of the pool, feet already dangling in the water, arms resting loosely on his knees. His hair was damp, pushed back slightly but still clinging in curls to his forehead. He was wearing sleek black swim trunks that clung to him in all the ways you were trying very hard not to notice.

When he looked up at you, he didn’t grin. He just smiled—small, soft, and tired in that quiet kind of way that said he was nervous. Hopeful.

“Hey,” he said.

You sat beside him, nudging his arm lightly with your elbow. “Hey.”

There was a beat of silence between you, filled only by the low slap of water against the tiled edges.

“You really planned all this?” you asked, voice low.

He glanced over at you, nodding. “All week. I had to bribe Jin with extra vocal warmups to time us, Tae brought the music, Jimin cleared the pool schedule. Hoseok helped me with my butterfly stroke, Namjoon... mostly gave moral support and broke a kickboard.”

You smiled, shaking your head. “All this for one digit?”

“No,” he said. “All this for you.”

Your heart jumped. You looked away before he could see it on your face. “Let’s see if you earn it then.”

He stood and offered you a hand. “Let me explain the rules.”

You took his hand and followed him to the starting side of the pool.

“Four laps. Freestyle. No flips—Jin’s judging,” Jungkook said, voice shifting into something more official. “Winner gets bragging rights… and, depending on how generous the loser feels, maybe a very important number.”

He met your eyes then, hopeful and devilish all at once.

You walked to the edge, took your stance, and tried not to think about how badly your hands were shaking—not from nerves about the race, but about what would happen after.

Jin raised a hand. “Swimmers ready?”

The boys were lined along the pool deck like rowdy high schoolers, all of them tossing playful commentary around like bets at a horse race.

“My money’s on Y/N,” Namjoon muttered, arms folded, eyeing your form as you adjusted your goggles. “She’s been a swimmer longer than she’s been a tennis player.”

Taehyung scoffed. “Bro, it’s been a month. No way Jungkook lets her win now. Not after all this. His soul is in this.”

“He trained,” Hoseok nodded. “Hard. He had nose plugs and everything.”

“She’s literally a fish,” Namjoon deadpanned.

“I’m just here for the post-race drama,” Yoongi added from the far end, already filming with his phone.

Jin raised both hands dramatically. “On my count… Three. Two. One—Go!”

The splash cracked through the air as both bodies dove cleanly into the water.

The first length was even. You were focused—tuned into your own pulse, the beat of the water in your ears, your strokes slicing cleanly. Jungkook was right beside you, strong and quick, though you noticed his form still held small tells: the extra breath, the subtle drag of his kick. You had the edge.

Turn. Second lap. Still neck and neck.

The boys were screaming now, some of them pacing along the side, shouting your names.

Third lap. You surged ahead, barely, but he caught up—his reach suddenly more precise, his rhythm sharper. You weren’t sure how, but he was pushing himself in a way that even you hadn’t expected.

Final turn.

The fourth lap burned.

Water blurred everything. You were kicking harder now, lungs screaming, arms threatening to give. Beside you, Jungkook was a shadow—steady, brutal, unwavering. You caught a flash of his shoulder, then nothing but the sound of your own breath and the race between two hearts that had spent a month circling each other.

You reached the edge—

Smack.

It was a photo finish.

Both of you gasped for air, arms over the edge of the pool, panting.

Silence.

Then Jin, from the edge, squinted at his stopwatch.

“…Jungkook. By half a second.”

Groans, cheers, and exaggerated wails erupted behind him.

Jimin launched a towel into the pool. “Are you kidding me?!”

Namjoon shook his head in disbelief. “Damn it. I really thought she had it.”

Taehyung leapt into the air. “LET’S GOOOOO!”

But you didn’t move. You stared at Jungkook, water dripping down his temples, his chest heaving, his smile slow to appear—but when it did, it was a whole-body kind of smile. A little stunned. A little euphoric.

You couldn’t help it. You laughed, breathless and bright, your hand drifting up to push back your wet hair.

He looked at you then. Really looked.

And somehow, he didn’t say anything.

He didn’t have to.

Water streamed from your limbs as you hoisted yourself out of the pool, muscles sore but humming with something sharper than fatigue. Jungkook climbed out just behind you, shaking droplets from his hair with a quick pass of his hand, his grin still practically glowing under the overhead lights.

You didn’t look at him at first. You just stood there catching your breath, towel slung lazily over your shoulder.

Then, finally, you said, “You know, I could’ve let you win.”

Jungkook turned toward you, raising a brow. “Could’ve?”

“Mhm.” You smirked. “Would’ve been very sportsmanlike of me. A generous final gift, even.”

Behind you, Jimin—who had clearly been eavesdropping—walked by, shaking his head as he looked directly at Jungkook. “She is definitely trying to compensate for the fact that she lost fair.”

You scoffed, flicking a little water his way, and Jimin laughed as he joined the rest of the group now spread out at the far end of the deck, all of them wrapped in casual towels, half-distracted, chatting and joking amongst themselves.

Now alone with Jungkook, your eyes flicked toward him. He looked like a storm settling—still catching his breath, chest rising beneath the curve of a wet tank top, eyes soft and unreadable in the glow of the pool lights.

“So,” he said, voice lower now. “Do I get the last digit?”

You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes playfully. “Hmm. I don’t know. You did win. But then again… maybe it’s funnier if I don’t give it to you. Really keep the legend alive.”

He took a step closer. “Y/N.”

You bit your lip, weighing the joke on your tongue—but when you looked at him, really looked, all that teasing resolve dissolved.

With a low sigh, you reached for the pen you had tucked into your towel knot. Leaning down, you grabbed the corner of his palm and slowly wrote the last digit across his skin in clean, careful strokes.

He stared at it like it meant something—like it was something. Sacred. Earned.

“Finally,” he breathed, eyes not leaving yours.

Then, softer: “Can I kiss you now?”

You blinked, something catching in your chest.

The anticipation had been building for weeks, but now, on the other side of all the teasing and tension and unspoken confessions, his question made you go still. Not because you didn’t want it. But because of how he asked.

“Yeah,” you murmured, “you can.”

He kissed you gently.

No cocky grin. No aggressive pull. Just lips pressed to yours in a way that was surprisingly reverent—warm and slow, almost unsure, as though he’d been dreaming of it for too long to rush it now. His hand found the edge of your jaw, thumb brushing just beneath your ear, anchoring you there in that perfect stretch of silence.

When you broke apart, barely, your voice came out breathier than you meant: “That was… softer than I expected.”

Jungkook tilted his head, smiling slightly. “You expected teeth?”

“I expected fire,” you said, eyes flicking to his mouth again. “That was… something else.”

Just then, a collective “OHHHHH!” erupted from the far end of the pool. The boys had clearly seen it—and they were absolutely losing it.

Taehyung jumped up, pumping a fist. “FINALLY!”

Jin clapped loudly, yelling, “Took you long enough! I was about to start charging rent for all this tension!”

Yoongi just smirked. “She gave you the number and the kiss. Call that a grand slam.”

You and Jungkook both burst out laughing, shoulders shaking as the warmth between you finally loosened into something familiar. You leaned into his side just a little, the smell of chlorine and summer clinging to your skin, and for the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel like you had to guard the look on your face.

It was all there.

Earned.

And written clearly across your smile.

The fluorescent lights of the locker room buzzed quietly overhead, casting soft glows against the damp tile as you stood beneath the rinse-off shower. Steam curled around your limbs as you lazily pushed the chlorine from your skin, fingers combing through wet hair.

Jungkook was a few stalls over, towel hanging low on his hips, water cascading in rivulets down the sinewy slope of his back. You didn’t look. Not directly.

“Still thinking about that kiss?” he called, voice casual but smug.

You snorted. “Still rinsing off your defeat, maybe.”

He laughed. “Right. That’s why you wrote your number on me like it was a trophy.”

You glanced over, catching just a sliver of him through the frosted glass, his outline sharp, body lean. “I didn’t know skin counted as paper.”

Jungkook hummed, the sound smooth and close. “Guess it depends what you’re writing.”

You rolled your eyes, smile tugging at your mouth. “You always this flirty when you’re half-naked?”

“I’m always this flirty when I’m winning.”

You tossed your towel over your shoulder and stepped out, water dripping from your hair as you padded toward the lockers, wrapped now in soft cotton. “Let’s not pretend I didn’t go easy on you.”

“I’ve been easy for you for weeks,” he said under his breath, stepping out of his stall just as you passed him.

You froze mid-step, lips parting. Then, quietly: “Did you really just say that?”

He smirked, raking his wet hair back with both hands. “Only fair you know the playing field.”

You clicked your tongue and turned away, trying not to let him see the smile curling at your lips. “I’m going to change. Try not to think about it too hard.”

“Too late for that.”

You shot him a look over your shoulder—one that said behave, and don’t you dare stop.

By the time you emerged, dressed in a loose black tee and faded jeans, Jungkook was already waiting outside the locker room, hair damp, hoodie half-zipped, keys dangling from his fingers.

“I’ll drive you home,” he said, voice quieter now. Less teasing. More intent.

You cocked your head. “Finally seeing me off-campus, huh? Hope it’s not too weird for you.”

He grinned, stepping aside to let you pass. “Weirder would be not seeing you at all.”

-

The drive was filled with a quiet sort of buzz—the kind of silence that wasn’t awkward, just heavy with everything that had passed between you. City lights flickered past the windows, music playing low on the stereo. His hand stayed on the wheel. Yours toyed with the hem of your shirt, fingers tracing shapes into the fabric.

When he pulled up outside your place, the engine idled for a moment before he shifted into park.

You both stepped out, moving slowly, like you didn’t really want the night to end. The air was cooler here, brushing across your damp skin as you leaned back against the car.

Jungkook joined you, close but not touching, eyes scanning your face like he was memorizing it.

And then—quietly, without a word—he leaned in.

This kiss wasn’t like the one by the pool.

This one was deeper.

Slower.

His hand found your waist, fingers pressing into the space where your shirt lifted slightly, just enough to feel the warmth of your skin. His mouth moved against yours with the patience of someone who’d waited long enough and didn’t want to rush a second of it. You kissed him back with equal weight, breath hitching slightly when he tilted his head just right, when your fingers curled into the front of his hoodie and pulled.

You only broke apart when the need for air forced you to, both of you breathing heavy, foreheads resting against one another.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” you breathed, eyes fluttering open. “That felt… overdue.”

He laughed softly, eyes tracing your lips. “So what now?”

You smiled, brushing your thumb against his jaw. “Now? You text me. Because you finally have my number.”

And when he laughed again, warm and rich and real, you realized just how much you’d wanted this—not the chase, not the clever banter or stubborn pride—but him.

And this—whatever it was—felt like just the beginning.

Later that night, your phone buzzed with a message that simply read: Worth every digit.

a/n: when i was writing this i reaslized that i was using she/her instead of “you” so i ctrl+f and changed is and didn’t realize it would change the sequence “her” and “she” so words like “bother” are now “botyou “ sorry

➽ Kpop Masterlist ➽ Main Masterlist ➽ Yoongi Masterlist ➽ G Dragon Masterlist ➽ Buy Me a Coffee

[swappedandtrapped]

Swapping Research - Part 2

Read part 1 here Read part 3 here

The first shower was the worst. Marcus stood frozen in Tyler's bathroom, avoiding the mirror, peeling off unfamiliar workout clothes from an unfamiliar sweaty body. The smell, a mix of cheap deodorant and Tyler's sweat, was inescapable. He kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling as he stepped under the water, trying to ignore the strange dimensions of his new form. Longer legs, broader shoulders, muscles that shifted differently beneath the skin.

Impossible not to touch, though. Impossible not to feel. Every movement reminded him he was piloting someone else's flesh. Soaping Tyler's body almost felt like touching someone else with all that thick hair and unfamiliar mass.

After, he studied Tyler's face in the mirror (the slight chip in the front tooth, the stubble that grew…). He tried a smile and flinched at how wrong it looked, how the expressions didn't match the musculature.

He wanted to believe that from looking behind Tyler's eyes you could still tell it was Marcus in the pilot seat. But those eye resembled nothing other than Tyler's Brown eyes.

His phone, Tyler's phone, buzzed with notifications. Basketball practice in an hour. A text from someone named Jas with just a winky face. Three missed calls from "Dad."

"Shit," Marcus muttered, the curse sounding natural in Tyler's voice. His own parents emailed weekly for updates. Tyler's father seemed to be calling multiple times daily.

The phone rang again. Dad.

"Hey," Marcus answered cautiously.

"You watch the Gonzaga vid I sent? Their defense has that weak spot on the baseline when they double-team. You need to exploit that tomorrow."

"Uh, yeah. I saw that."

"Don't 'uh yeah' me. This is your future, Tyler. Those scouts won't come back if you play like you did last time."

Marcus held the phone away from his ear, understanding blooming about Tyler's desperate academic measures.

"I'll work on it," Marcus said.

A heavy sigh. "Just don't throw away everything we've built."

---

In Organic Chemistry, Marcus was caught off-guard when he saw Tyler sitting at his desk. Realizing what he needs to do, he sat at Tyler's assigned desk, hyperaware of how differently people treated this body. Girls smiled, guys nodded in recognition. The professor barely glanced at him. The invisibility Marcus had as a serious student was replaced by a strange social spotlight that felt simultaneously flattering and exhausting.

The professor started the exam. Marcus began working through complex molecular mechanisms with ease. Tyler's hand felt clumsy gripping the pencil, but the knowledge remained intact, for now. He finished early and noticed people glancing at him with surprise.

Outside after the test, a teammate clapped him on the shoulder. "Yo, Reeves, we're grabbing lunch before practice. You coming?"

The old Marcus would have declined, retreated to the library. But something in Tyler's body responded differently. A pull toward social connection, a need for movement and interaction rather than quiet study.

"Yeah," he heard himself say. "I'll come."

---

Later on, Tyler sat in Marcus's Advanced Physiology class, experiencing an entirely different reality. For the first time in his life, the professor's words didn't scramble in his mind. He took notes, each letter staying exactly where he placed it on the page. He raised his hand to answer questions, the information flowing effortlessly.

The professor stopped him after class. "Excellent contributions today, Marcus. That connection was insightful."

Tyler felt a rush of pleasure he never knew he could have. "Thank you, sir."

In the library afterward, Tyler opened Marcus's planner and studied the color-coded schedule. Med school interview prep sessions. Study blocks. A family video call on Sunday. He ran his fingers over the neat handwriting, experiencing the peculiar sensation of being organized from the outside in, rather than constantly fighting his own brain.

He took out his phone, Marcus's phone, and called Alex.

"Any adverse effects?" she answered without greeting.

"It's incredible," Tyler whispered. "I can read anything. First try. No reversals, no swimming words. Alex, I never knew it could be like this."

"The transfer is temporary," she reminded him. "Don't get too attached."

Tyler touched the textbook in front of him, the words remaining stable on the page. "Yeah," he said. "Temporary."

He hung up and noticed Marcus had scheduled a meeting with his academic advisor for tomorrow. Tyler had his own advisor meeting—one that would determine his academic probation status.

After a moment's hesitation, he rescheduled both to a later date.

---

Basketball practice was a nightmare. Marcus had played casually in high school, but navigating a collegiate practice in Tyler's body was like being thrown into a professional orchestration with no knowledge of the music.

"Reeves! Where's your head today?" Coach Barrett shouted when Marcus missed an obvious pass. "Run it again!"

The team's offensive sequence required multiple cuts and screens that Marcus couldn't anticipate. Tyler's body knew where to go. He could feel the muscle memory trying to take over. But his conscious mind couldn't surrender control.

Most disturbing was the pain in Tyler's right knee, a persistent ache that worsened with each cut and jump. In the locker room afterward, Marcus discovered a carefully hidden brace and prescription anti-inflammatories in Tyler's bag.

Tyler had never mentioned any injury.

---

Three days had passed. Marcus paced Tyler's apartment, anxiety building. The 24-hour deadline had come and gone with Tyler making excuses: Alex needed more data, one more day would help their understanding, the neural pathways needed to stabilize.

Worse than the delay was how Marcus's sense of self had begun to blur. He'd catch himself speaking with Tyler's inflections, laughing at jokes he normally wouldn't understand, craving foods Tyler's body was accustomed to. Last night he'd dreamed in Tyler's memories—fractured images of a childhood basketball court and a father shouting at him.

His phone buzzed. A text from Alex: Meet at lab at 7.

When Marcus arrived, Tyler was already there, wearing Marcus's body like he'd been born to it. The sight still caused a visceral wrongness, watching his body move with someone else's mannerisms.

"You missed another check-in," Marcus said. "And you canceled my medical school interview prep session."

"Rescheduled," Tyler corrected, sitting with a straight-backed posture Marcus recognized as his own. "This was more important. Alex is seeing unprecedented neural adaptation. Our minds are actually reshaping our borrowed brains."

"That's not comforting," Marcus snapped. "We had an agreement. Twenty-four hours."

"I needed more time," Tyler said quietly. "You don't understand what this is like for me."

"And my interview? It's in four days."

"I'll handle it."

"You'll—" Marcus stared. "No. Absolutely not. We're switching back. Now."

Tyler exchanged a look with Alex. Something passed between them that sent a chill through Marcus.

"What did you do?" Marcus demanded.

Tyler sighed. "I asked Alex to modify the procedure."

"Modify how?"

"The reversal process is more complex than anticipated," Alex interjected, not meeting his eyes. "The neural pathways have begun permanent adaptation."

"Permanent?" Panic surged through Marcus, his heart—Tyler's heart—hammering. "That wasn't the deal. You promised twenty-four hours!"

"I was drowning," Tyler said, Marcus's voice cracking with emotion. "Every day. Words jumbling, professors thinking I'm stupid or lazy. Do you know what it's like to have the answers trapped in your head while everyone looks at you like you're worthless?"

"So you're stealing my life? My future?"

"I'm borrowing it," Tyler insisted. "Just until after the semester. Then we'll figure something out."

Marcus looked between them, realization dawning. "You never intended to switch back, did you?"

The silence was his answer.

[theseh00perscanh00p]

Coaching Violation: Part 2

paige x azzi

a/n: mannn to the anon that gave me this suggestion thank youuuu because i'm truly hooked on this dynamic

word count: 4.9k

Early Morning – Film Room

Paige’s POV

The film room was cold. Fluorescent lights buzzing. The only sound was the click of the remote and the occasional squeak of a sneaker from the court down the hall.

Paige sat alone, hoodie sleeves pushed up, pen tapping against her legal pad as she watched the same baseline out-of-bounds set for the fourth time in a row.

Click. Rewind. Play. Pause. Scribble.

Click. Rewind. Play. Pause. Cross out. Start again.

The notes weren’t good enough. The angles weren’t right. The rotations were late. Or maybe she was just late — to everything. To this job. To letting go. To moving the hell on.

She leaned back, shoulders tense, eyes flicking toward the top of the screen.

There she was again.

#35.

Azzi, moving through defenders like water, setting the pace, seeing things before they unfolded. Controlled. Confident.

Too confident.

Click. Pause.

The screen froze on Azzi mid-cut, head turned slightly toward the camera. The edge of a smirk barely visible.

Paige stared at it too long.

Her jaw clenched.

She tossed the remote on the table and rubbed her eyes with both hands.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered under her breath, as if hearing herself say it might snap her out of it.

But it didn’t.

Because now she could hear her voice again — Azzi’s voice — from the day before, soft and dangerous in front of the press:

“I’m gonna do everything I can to be the best player for Coach P.”

And she’d meant it. Not just in the way a player says something for media points. No — it was laced with something real. Something Paige hadn’t let herself feel since—

Vegas.

Damn it.

She didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to remember the flicker of candlelight from the hotel bar, the click of the door shutting behind them, the way Azzi’s laugh sounded when it was muffled against her shoulder.

Or the way her fingertips had skimmed across Azzi’s ribs in the dark — slow, reverent — like she was tracing a play she didn’t know how to run.

The gasp Azzi made. The heat of her skin. The way Paige had wanted to stay.

She blinked, hard.

No.

She shoved the image out of her head, stood up too quickly, her chair scraping loud against the tile.

There was no room for that. Not here. Not now. Not with her coaching this team and Azzi in a Sparks jersey, looking at her like—

Like that night hadn’t ended in silence.

Like Paige hadn’t walked away.

She picked up the clipboard, flipped her drill plan to a fresh page, and started over from scratch. Again.

Third rewrite this morning.

Didn’t matter.

She’d work it out. She always did.

Even if her hands were shaking just a little when she gripped the pen.

Pre-practice Locker Room

Azzi’s POV

Her jersey hung in the locker like it belonged there.

#35 stitched in clean gold and purple.

A new start.

A new city.

And still, the same ache sat in her chest like it had unpacked with her.

Azzi tugged on her compression sleeve, then peeled it off again — too tight. Or maybe she was just restless. Something in her body wouldn’t settle. Not since that first practice. Not since the look Paige had given her like she was just another player, just another job.

She wasn’t supposed to care.

They weren’t supposed to even speak again, let alone orbit the same facility five days a week.

And yet, here they were.

Azzi sat on the bench, elbows on her knees, eyes fixed on the floor as players drifted around her — lacing sneakers, sipping pre-workout, tossing jokes back and forth.

She wasn’t in the mood.

Because none of them knew what it was like to have seen Paige.

Not the version who stood at the front of the gym clipboard-in-hand, posture perfect, voice steel.

The other one.

The one who had kissed her slow. Whispered between breaths. Traced her ribs like she was something precious. The one who had made her laugh so hard she had to pull a pillow over her face just to quiet down.

Azzi swallowed hard, a rush of heat pressing behind her eyes.

God. Why do I still care?

They’d had one night. One damn night.

But Paige hadn’t faked it. She couldn’t have. Not with the way she’d looked at her afterward — like she wasn’t sure whether to stay or run.

And now she was running at full sprint, clipboard-first, pretending like it never happened.

Azzi bit the inside of her cheek.

She wasn’t even sure what she wanted anymore. An apology? A second chance? Or just some acknowledgment that Paige hadn’t walked out of that hotel untouched.

Because she hadn’t.

A voice broke through the fog — one of the assistants calling for stretch.

Azzi stood, rolled her shoulders back, tucked her hair into a bun.

If Paige thought she could hide behind plays and drills forever, she was wrong.

Azzi had seen through her once.

And if there were still cracks in the armor?

She was going to find them.

Paige’s POV

Whistle in hand. Clipboard tight to her chest. Voice low, direct.

“Drill two. Half-court motion. Full contact. Let’s clean it up.”

Paige didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. Her tone did the work — sharp, composed, impossible to misread.

She kept her eyes on the movement. The floor. The rotations. The drills.

Not on Azzi.

Not even once.

Which was harder than it should’ve been.

Because Azzi was flawless again — flowing through sets with ease, voice clear on switches, every step purposeful. She wasn’t showboating. Wasn’t smirking. Wasn’t performing for attention.

She was just… locked in. Quiet. Present. Dangerous.

And somehow that was worse.

Because if Azzi had cracked a joke, Paige could’ve snapped back. If she had smirked or said something smart under her breath, Paige could’ve disciplined her and moved on. But this?

This calm. This discipline. This poise?

It felt like a dare wrapped in grace.

And it was working.

The gym pulsed around them — sneakers on hardwood, the faint echo of bounce passes and shoe squeaks and shouted screens.

But there was a second silence layered under it all.

Azzi hadn’t said a word to her today.

Not one.

No Coach P.

No smug glances.

No flirtatious edge in her voice.

It was like she’d flipped a switch, and Paige… hated how much she noticed.

She shifted her clipboard to her other arm and walked the baseline slowly, correcting foot placement here, calling out spacing there.

She still didn’t look at #35.

But she felt her.

Every time she moved. Every time she shifted her weight. Every time her voice cut clean across the court to direct a play.

It was haunting.

The silence between them wasn’t absence — it was weight. Everyone felt it. You could see it in the way players kept glancing between them, waiting for something to snap, or spark, or shift.

But Paige wouldn’t give it to them. Wouldn’t give it to her.

This was her team. Her court. Her rules.

And if that meant biting her cheek until it bled just to keep her face neutral?

So be it.

Scrimmage was live.

Tempo was high. Bodies colliding. Voices overlapping.

It was exactly how Paige liked it — loud, messy, real basketball. The kind that showed you everything a box score couldn’t.

She paced the sideline, whistle tucked into her hoodie collar, eyes sharp.

“Talk through the weak side! Don’t wait for the rotation — anticipate it!”

The second unit was running hard. Rickea was giving Azzi hell on-ball, trying to impress. Paige clocked it. It was good energy.

But even before the play unfolded, she saw it happening in slow motion.

Rickea pressed too high. Azzi pivoted, protecting the ball. Cam rotated late on help — not malicious, just overeager — and stepped straight into Azzi’s drive.

Bodies tangled. Contact hit hard.

Azzi went down with a loud slap of skin and hardwood.

The room held its breath.

And Paige — before she could think, before she could breathe — was already moving.

She was halfway onto the court before she caught herself, a sharp “Hey—!” already halfway out of her mouth.

Azzi sat up slowly, face unreadable, hand pressed to her shoulder where she took the brunt.

“Sub out,” Paige said, sharper than she meant to. “Now.”

Cam froze. “Coach, it was clean—”

“I said out.”

Silence fell. Paige exhaled through her nose, sharp and controlled.

Azzi got to her feet on her own, brushing herself off, giving Paige a quick — almost unreadable — glance.

But Paige saw it.

Saw the flicker of surprise. And something else. Something softer. Like thank you hidden under pride.

Shit.

She turned on her heel, calling the next set like nothing had happened.

But her pulse was loud in her ears. Louder than the sneakers. Louder than the ball.

You can’t do this. You can’t react like that. Not with her.

Azzi’s POV

She wasn’t hurt. Not really.

The shoulder sting would fade.

What wouldn’t fade? The look on Paige’s face the second she hit the floor.

For a moment — just one — Paige looked at her like she did that night.

Like she still cared.

Azzi’s lips twitched, almost a smirk, but she buried it.

So Paige could pretend all she wanted. Coach voice, coach rules, coach distance.

But she saw it now.

Beneath the hoodie and the whistle and the ice?

That woman from Vegas was still in there.

And Azzi? She wasn’t letting her go that easy.

Post-practice Locker Room

The locker room was a little too quiet for post-scrimmage.

There was music playing — something low and vibey off someone’s playlist — but it felt like background noise to the tension Azzi still hadn’t shaken.

She sat at her locker, towel around her shoulders, hairline damp, shoulder stiff.

The fall wasn’t serious, but the reaction? That was the part echoing in her head.

Paige crossing half the court without thinking. The sharp edge in her voice when she called Cam out. The way her eyes had locked on Azzi like she was the only one that mattered.

Azzi’s skin still tingled from it.

She rubbed her shoulder absently, trying to play it cool, when Rickea slid onto the bench beside her.

“You good?”

Azzi nodded. “Yeah. Just landed wrong.”

Rickea raised a brow. “Didn’t look like Coach thought it was that casual.”

Azzi looked over, caught the teasing glint in her eyes.

Rickea leaned in just slightly, lowering her voice. “What’s going on with you two?”

Azzi paused. Just for a breath.

Then she smirked — easy, practiced, not quite real.

“Nothing.”

Rickea snorted. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Azzi shrugged, turning back to her locker, voice lighter than she felt. “I’m just here to hoop. Not get into drama with the boss.”

It was technically true.

It just wasn’t the whole truth.

Because Rickea didn’t know what it felt like to have had that mouth on your neck and that voice in your ear and then be coached like you were just one of twelve. Didn’t know what it was like to go from being held to being ignored — coldly, carefully, professionally.

Azzi stared down at her shoes, jaw tight.

She wasn’t stupid. She knew the stakes.

She’d never jeopardize Paige’s job. Or her own.

But the part that scared her?

She wasn’t sure how long she could pretend this was just basketball.

Practice Facility – After Hours

The gym was dim, lit only by the overhead emergency lights and the glow from the scoreboard clock, frozen at 00:00.

Everyone else had cleared out an hour ago. Trainers. Teammates. Staff.

But Azzi stayed.

She always stayed when her mind was too loud and her chest too tight — when the only thing that made sense was the feel of the ball in her hands and the sound of it kissing the rim.

She took another shot. Swish. Caught the rebound. Reset. Shot again.

Her shoulder still ached from the fall, but she didn’t care. The pain kept her grounded. Reminded her this was real. Not a memory. Not a dream. Not Vegas.

She turned, caught the ball, and froze.

Paige stood in the doorway of the coach’s office, clipboard in hand, hoodie sleeves pushed to her elbows.

Azzi’s pulse tripped over itself.

They stared at each other across the half court line — too much air and not enough space between them.

Neither of them spoke.

Paige stepped onto the court, her sneakers echoing softly. That same silent intensity. Controlled. Lethal. It made Azzi’s stomach twist.

Azzi let the ball fall into her hands again, spinning it slowly under her fingers. “Forgot something?”

Paige didn’t answer right away. Just nodded toward the bench. “My clipboard.”

Azzi tossed a look over her shoulder. “You always grab it like it’s a shield.”

Paige’s eyes narrowed. “You always stay late like you’re trying to prove something.”

“Maybe I am.”

Silence again.

Paige moved to walk past her, just barely brushing Azzi’s arm. Skin grazed skin — a whisper of contact. Barely there.

But it was enough.

Enough to set off a spark in Azzi’s chest that spread too fast. Enough to make Paige stop in her tracks, just for a second too long.

Azzi didn’t look at her. Couldn’t.

Paige stayed still for a moment, breath shallow, her body just inches from Azzi’s. The heat from their brief contact still lingered, coiled beneath her skin like a live wire.

Her eyes flicked down for the briefest second — not to Azzi’s shoulder, not to the ball, but to her mouth. Then back up.

A war waged just behind Paige’s eyes. You could see it. Feel it. Like she was counting every reason not to lean in.

She finally spoke, voice barely above a whisper.

“This can’t happen.”

Low. Controlled. Ice beneath fire.

Azzi’s breath hitched. She turned her head, eyes burning into Paige’s profile. “Then stop looking at me like that.”

Paige didn’t flinch, but something cracked in her eyes — a flicker, small but real. Her throat moved like she wanted to respond, but nothing came out.

Azzi didn’t look away. “You think pretending it didn’t happen makes it easier? Because it doesn’t. Not for me.”

The silence wrapped around them, thick and hot and unbearable.

Paige blinked hard, like she could force the memory away — that hotel room, that laugh, that impossible softness.

Then she finally tore her eyes from Azzi’s.

Paige’s jaw clenched. Her grip on the clipboard tightened until her knuckles whitened. Her entire body seemed frozen in place, like she wanted to move forward but couldn’t.

She said nothing. Just turned, too fast, and walked away.

No explanation. No softening. No second glance. Just the sound of her footsteps fading into the quiet.

Azzi stood alone, chest rising too fast, the echo of Paige’s presence still heavy in the air.

She shot once more. Missed.

Behind her, a phone buzzed on the scorer’s table. Her phone.

One new message.

P. (You Know the One)

Don’t stay alone in the gym after hours. Not with your shoulder like that.

Azzi stared at the screen.

No emoji. No softness. Just concern disguised as control.

She glanced at the contact name — P. (You Know the One) — and hated how honest it still was.

And it was exactly the version of Paige she couldn’t stop wanting.

Sparks Training Facility – Weight Room, Morning

Paige’s POV

The weight room was humming — plates clanking, trap bars thudding, breath short and sharp as players moved through their lifts in focused circuits.

Paige stood near the racks, clipboard in hand, checking reps off as she moved from station to station. Her expression was calm. Blank. Professional.

Except she couldn’t stop tracking #35 in her periphery.

Azzi was across the room spotting Cam on trap-bar dead lifts, focused and efficient. No laughing. No joking. No reason for Paige’s pulse to be doing what it was doing.

But it was.

Azzi’s braids were tied back tight. A soft sweat glinted at the base of her neck. Her shirt had ridden up just slightly, revealing the sliver of a scar near her ribs. And suddenly Paige was back in Vegas — fingertip to skin, breath caught, laughter half-muffled under hotel pillows.

Damn it.

She looked down, scratched through a line on her clipboard that didn’t need scratching, and moved to the next station.

“Split stance rows, four sets — let’s stay clean with the back angle!” she called out.

KK walked up beside her, sipping from her stainless bottle. She didn’t look up from the athlete she was watching when she spoke.

“You good?”

Paige didn’t flinch. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

KK shrugged, still tracking motion. “Your eyes keep drifting like you forgot which side of the gym you’re on.”

“I’m watching the floor.”

“Mmhmm.”

Paige didn’t answer. Just checked another name off, a little too fast.

KK stepped closer, voice low but pointed now. “You know I don’t care what happened before this job. But if it’s bleeding into your drills? I do.”

“It’s not,” Paige said flatly.

“Then why you gripping that pen like it’s holding you back from doing something dumb?”

Paige said nothing.

KK leaned in just a fraction more, dropping her voice like a scalpel: “You can lie to the team. You can lie to her. But don’t try it with me, Bueckers.”

Then she walked off, calling out rep cues like nothing happened.

Paige stared at her clipboard, jaw tight.

Across the room, Azzi caught a clean hang clean and reset her stance. She didn’t look over.

Not once.

Which somehow made it worse.

Coaches’ Office – Midday

The hum of the projector ran in the background, casting muted movement on the wall like it might distract from everything Paige didn’t want to talk about.

It didn’t.

She stood at the whiteboard, marking up transition schemes with one hand and gripping her coffee like it was the last tether to reality with the other.

KK was leaning back in one of the office chairs, legs stretched, arms folded. Watching her. Not even pretending not to.

Paige kept talking. “I want to adjust our rotation cadence next scrimmage. Rickea and Cam need more reps running the secondary transition, especially if we’re going to see a guard-heavy defense in preseason.”

KK blinked. “Cool.”

“But I wasn’t asking about the rotation.”

Paige didn’t turn. “Didn’t think you had to.”

KK stood, stretching with a slow, exaggerated shrug. “Just saying. You look like you’re coaching through a panic attack.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

Paige finally turned, arms crossed. “Are we gonna talk about basketball or feelings, KK?”

KK gave her a look — the kind that made rookies shrink and veterans shut up.

“You know I don’t do feelings,” she said. “But I do do problems.”

Paige said nothing. Her shoulders were too square. Her jaw too tight.

KK stepped forward, dropping her voice. “Look. I know what happened last year messed you up. You put your whole life in one lane and the universe ripped it out from under you. I get that.”

A pause.

“But if you think you can fake your way through coaching and pretend you don’t give a damn about the woman you left in a hotel room, you’re gonna get yourself caught up real fast.”

Paige blinked.

The silence that followed was heavy — not loud, but dense. Like everything in her head had collapsed inward.

“I’m not—” she started, then stopped.

KK raised a brow.

Paige swallowed. Looked at the wall like it might give her an answer.

“She’s just doing her job,” she finally said. “I’m doing mine.”

KK stepped back, letting her off the hook — for now.

“Keep telling yourself that, Coach,” she said. “But figure it out before she starts doing more than her job.”

Then she turned and left, the door swinging shut behind her.

Flashback – Las Vegas Hotel Room

The light crept in soft and golden through the edge of the blackout curtains, casting long shadows across the rumpled sheets.

Paige lay still on her side, hair mussed, one arm tucked under her head, the other stretched across cool sheets.

Azzi wasn’t there.

Not entirely, anyway. She was at the edge of the bed, back turned slightly, blanket low on her spine, scrolling lazily through her phone. Her bare shoulder rose and fell with each breath, soft and unbothered.

Paige’s eyes traced the line of her neck. The curve of her waist. The same ribs her fingers had followed the night before, slow and quiet, like they were learning the shape of something they’d never forget.

She hadn’t meant to stay.

That was the thing.

It was supposed to be one drink, one night, one mistake you tuck into your past like a receipt in your back pocket.

But she’d stayed.

And now she didn’t know what the hell to do with herself.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. She turned over carefully, grabbed it.

A text from her agent:

Front office’s calling early about pre-camp media. We’ll need you back by Monday.

Another buzz — a WNBA alert. A push notification about contract restructuring. The world, inching back in.

She felt the ache of it low in her ribs — the pull of reality, sharp and heavy.

Azzi turned over slightly, eyes half-closed, still sleepy. “You always wake up this early?”

Paige blinked, shoved her phone face-down. “Habit.”

Azzi smiled, lazy and real. “That’s sick.”

Paige chuckled under her breath, but it felt tight in her chest.

There was a pause — not awkward, but close.

Azzi propped herself on one elbow, looking at Paige like she was something worth staying for. “So…”

Paige looked back at her.

Then Azzi asked it — soft, tentative, but not small:

“What is this?”

A beat.

A breath.

Everything tightening at once.

Paige stared at her. At the woman who had let her in last night. The woman who touched her like she wasn’t broken, like she wasn’t just one more walking headline with too many eyes watching.

And then Paige did what she always did when something felt too much like truth.

She shut down.

Her voice was quieter than she meant it to be.

“It was just a night, Azzi.”

Azzi’s expression didn’t shift right away — just held, still, like a dropped glass that hadn’t shattered yet.

“Oh.”

Paige looked away.

Azzi didn’t ask anything else.

And Paige didn’t stay long after that.

Return to Present Day

The memory burned through her as she stood at the film board again, marker in hand, lips tight.

She blinked hard and crossed out the same line of notes she’d written three times already.

Behind her, the door creaked open.

A voice: “You good for media this afternoon?”

Paige didn’t look up.

“Yeah,” she said.

And her hand shook just slightly when she picked the marker back up.

Sparks Facility – Private Team Dinner

Azzi’s POV

The dining room was loud in the way only good teams could be — food clattering onto plates, laughter bouncing off the walls, music thumping low from someone’s speaker in the corner.

It was the first time all week they’d felt like a team instead of twelve women trying to outrun the roster cut list.

Azzi sat with one leg tucked under her at the end of the table, a half-empty plate in front of her and a bottle of water she hadn’t touched. Her hoodie sleeves were pushed up to her elbows, and her braids were still damp from a post-practice shower.

She wasn’t tired, but her smile was.

Across the room, Paige was seated next to KK, posture clean as always, shoulders square, face unreadable. She was laughing at something — or at least giving the polite version of it — but her eyes weren’t in it.

Not once had she looked Azzi’s way.

Not that Azzi was counting.

“Hey, Fudd,” Rickea called from a few seats down, eyes glinting. “What’s it like playing under your former rival?”

The table laughed — low and teasing — not mean, just curious.

Azzi blinked.

She leaned back slowly, lips curling just slightly. “Let’s just say… she still knows how to keep me on my toes.”

A few scattered oohs floated through the air.

Paige didn’t react. Not obviously.

But Azzi saw it — the slow lift of her eyes. The flash of tension in her jaw. The half-second pause in her hand before she took another sip of water.

Their eyes met. Just for a moment.

Azzi held it. Just long enough to make it count.

Then Paige looked away — back to KK, back to her perfectly untouched plate.

Azzi bit the inside of her cheek, heart thudding.

She hadn’t meant to say anything that would press. But the truth was — it was hard to be this close to someone you once held with both hands and not want to test the distance.

Parking Lot – Just Outside the Sparks Facility

She hadn’t meant to linger.

Everyone else had peeled off in pairs, jackets slung over shoulders, laughing as they disappeared into the night. Azzi stood just outside the side exit, leaning against her car door, scrolling through nothing. The kind of stalling that didn’t need a reason.

The heavy door clicked open behind her.

Footsteps. Measured. Familiar.

Paige.

Azzi didn’t turn around right away.

“You always the last to leave?” Paige asked, her voice even but quieter than usual — like the dark softened her.

Azzi tilted her head slightly, offering a shrug without looking. “Someone’s gotta close it down.”

There was a pause.

“You really don’t know how to shut off, do you?”

Azzi smiled to herself, finally glancing back at Paige. “That’s rich coming from you.”

That pulled a breath of a laugh from Paige — soft, but there. And still, her eyes lingered.

Azzi added, more lightly now, “Besides… it’s quieter when no one’s around. Easier to think.”

The words hung between them. They both knew what it echoed.

FLASHBACK – All-Star Weekend, Vegas

Bar, late. Just the two of them leaning in close.

“I don’t date much,” Azzi had said, swirling ice around her glass. “Everyone either wants the version of me they see on TV, or they’re intimidated by it.”

Paige had looked at her then, really looked. “Same. People always say they can handle the schedule, the pressure, the travel. But they never stay.”

Azzi’s voice had dropped. Honest. Hopeful. “Maybe it’s different when someone else actually gets it.”

Paige hadn’t replied right away.

But the way she’d reached out, fingers brushing Azzi’s knuckles — that had said enough.

BACK TO PRESENT - Parking Lot

Now, Azzi’s voice carried a playful edge, even as her chest felt heavy. “I figured if I kept staying late, eventually someone might stay too.”

That landed harder than she meant it to.

Paige’s mouth opened, then closed again. She didn’t have a clipboard this time. Nothing to hide behind. Just her hands shoved into the front pocket of her hoodie and eyes that looked like they wanted to say something — but didn’t.

Instead, she gave a small nod. Almost imperceptible.

“Goodnight, Fudd.”

And then she walked off into the dark, the soft thunk of her car door the only sound left behind.

Azzi stood there, heart racing for reasons she didn’t want to admit.

She should’ve said more.

Or maybe Paige should’ve.

But it was always like this now — full of almosts.

And no one ever stayed.

Azzi’s Apartment – Late Night

The city outside her window was still — the kind of stillness that made every thought louder.

Azzi sat curled into the corner of her couch, knee tucked under her, hoodie pulled over one shoulder, wine glass dangling loosely between two fingers. Her playlist hummed in the background, something mellow and moody that only made her chest feel tighter.

She should’ve gone to bed.

Instead, she replayed the way Paige had looked at her in the parking lot — the flicker in her eyes, the pause before her goodbye, the way she remembered something so small from that night in Vegas.

Something Azzi had never forgotten.

I figured if I kept staying late, eventually someone might stay too.

She hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

And Paige hadn’t meant to let it show on her face.

Her phone buzzed beside her — a teammate dropping a group pic from dinner. She ignored it.

Because the thread she had open was the one that mattered.

P. (You Know the One)

Still pinned. Still untouched.

Still holding the weight of everything unsaid.

Her eyes drifted to the last message.

Don’t stay alone in the gym after hours. Not with your shoulder like that.

Professional. Impersonal. Barely.

But that wasn’t what Azzi remembered.

She remembered fingertips and tension and words whispered in a hotel room when no one else was listening. She remembered Paige agreeing that their world was lonely — and maybe, just maybe, they could make it less so.

But now Paige was her coach.

And Azzi was still waiting for her to break.

She exhaled, long and shaky, then typed:

You ever gonna stop pretending it didn’t mean anything?

Paused. Deleted.

You still look at me like it did.

Backspaced again.

Another sip of wine. Another deep breath.

And then—

Azzi

This probably breaks like… eight rules, but I can’t stop thinking about your hands.

Send.

She stared at the screen.

No typing bubble.

No read receipt.

Just silence.

And suddenly, the quiet outside wasn’t nearly as loud as the one inside her.

If Paige didn’t answer…

That would hurt.

But if she did?

That might be worse.

[demie90s]

MASTERLIST PT.2

NAVIGATION (Much Easier)

MASTERLIST PT.1

{ WBB & WNBA IMAGINES }

(Pink & Black Edition🖤🩷)

{ l hate a weak!reader with y/n cringe moments. My readers never soft. They crash outs. We pissed. Nah I'm playing but enjoy}

~~~~~~~~~~~~~LSU~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Flaujae x You

• This ain't just a chain

→ She let you wear it once. Now it's yours. On your neck during warmups. In the studio. At press. The chain with her initial on it.

• Dirty South, Deeper Love

You’re a rising southern rapper from Baton Rouge, all iced grills and slow-burning confidence. She’s never touched a basketball, but she’s made a name spitting heat—and people keep comparing her to Flau’jae.

• Mics Up & Outta Pocket

• Mic'd Up & Outta Pocket Pt.2

~~~~~~~~~~~~~PHOENIX MERCURY~~~~~~~~~~~~

Diana Taurasi x You

• Tweets with Tequila and Don

→ You’re a little tipsy, a little too bold, and a little too obsessed with WNBA legend Diana Taurasi. One night, the tequila talks—and your Twitter fingers get reckless.

• Say Less, Pt.2

→ You weren’t born a prodigy. You were overlooked, counted out, told to try another sport before you even had a chance to believe in yourself. But when you came back, you came back different.

• Just Read the Line, Dee

→ You force a very grumpy, very confused Diana to do a TikTok trend.“we listen and we don’t judge”. Diana’s not feeling it—at first.

• Candy

Diana doesn't do TikToks. She doesn't dance. Doesn't act. Doesn't play around... until you came into the picture. Somehow, you convince her to do the "Candy Remix" challenge.

Britney Griner x You

Kahleah Copper x You

• Youngin

Natasha Cloud x You

• 2 Kills, 1 Vlog

→ You’re not a pro baller, but you’re hella known—YouTube, IG, TikTok, the works. And today? You’re linking up with your longtime “friend” Natasha Cloud.

• Soft Launch

→ Natasha Cloud is bold on court, loud on social, but private where it matters. You? You’re the reason.

• Whoop, There It Is

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~SEATTLE STORM ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sue Bird x You

• Not So Lowkey

→ You and Sue have been keeping things quiet. You’re a rookie, she’s Sue Bird, and no one needs the media or the team blowing things up. But one casual date night—hoodie, hat, sushi—and the WNBA internet loses its mind after someone posts a blurry pic.

• Control Issues

→ You’re a cocky, arrogant, mouthy star on the court—a guaranteed draft pick with an ego that stretches baseline to baseline. No one can check you, emotionally or physically. But then Sue Bird walks into your practice.

• Two Years Too Patient

→ You’ve been mentored by Sue for two years. Respectfully. Quietly. Obsessively. But tonight, after one too many looks and just enough skin, you stop pretending you can wait any longer.

• Dog Off the Leash

→ You’re the rising star in Indiana—raw talent, zero filter, always one comment away from a fine. Legends like Sue and Diana were only brought in to help “tame” you. First mistake. You don’t do tame.

• Mad For What

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~USC ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Juju Watkins x You

• Caught Slippin’ (But Make It Cute)

→ You’re that influencer—pretty, unserious, and always online. Thirsting over Juju Watkins for months on your socials, convinced she’d never actually see any of it.

• Whipped Doesn’t Even Cover It

~~~~~~~~~~~~U of I ~~~~~~~~~~~~

Caitlin Clark x You

• She’s Only Sweet to Me

→ You’re that girl—model-pretty, sharp-tongued, New York raised with a mouth that could make a ref cry. Caitlin’s the only one who gets a different version of her.

• Shameless Rivalry Part 2

→ It started with a viral interview. Asked for your top 5 celebrity crushes, you answered without hesitation—Paige Bueckers and Caitlin Clark, tied for #1.

• What You Need

You and Caitlin Clark share a dorm. She has a boyfriend—Connor. But you’ve been in her space too long, too close, too bold.

• Halftime Show

Kate Martin x You

• Quiet Meets Chaos

→ Kate Martin is the WNBA's soft-spoken sweetheart-talented, calm, and loyal to her routines. You're the city's most unfiltered "It Girl".

• She’s Not Me

→ Kate Martin’s doing her best to be loyal—to smile through the dinners, take the photos, and pretend she doesn’t hear your voice every time she closes her eyes.

• Sticky Finger Soft Eyes

~~~~~~~~~~~UCONN~~~~~~~~~~~~

Paige Bueckers x You

• That Doesn’t Stop the Show

→ You and Paige were a secret, quiet thing. But when things ended, they ended. You didn’t speak on it—not until the heartbreak turned into lyrics.

• She Got That Dog In Her

→ You’re known in the underground dance scene for tearing through freestyle battles like it’s personal. Paige is known for being one of the most composed players in college hoops. But when she shows up to your Red Bull-style comp and loses all chill…

• Call Her Guard(ian)

→ You’re used to attention. You’re famous, pretty, and constantly photographed—but not every kind of attention is wanted. One night out turns uncomfortable fast when some guy won’t take a hint.

• She Don’t Even Talk to Us Like That

→ The team’s doing a lighthearted post-practice video segment—favorite moments caught on camera. Until Paige pulls out a private video of reader singing to her while she’s half-asleep in bed.

• Shameless Rivalry

→ It started with a viral interview. Asked for your top 5 celebrity crushes, you answered without hesitation—Paige Bueckers and Caitlin Clark, tied for #1.

• Onto You

→ She’s Paige Bueckers—UConn’s golden girl. Lights follow her everywhere she goes. And me? I’m just a face in the crowd.

• Too Late to Love Me Right

• Legends and Lesbian’s

Azzi Fudd x You

• 10 Things I Hate About You

→ Everyone loves Azzi. She’s sunshine, discipline, pure gold with a jumper. And you? You’re the complete opposite.

Nika Muhl x You

• How Much Was It?

It starts as a joke TikTok trend. Nika mouths “So how much was it?” and you, the rich, soft-launching menace you are, casually reply “$15,000.” You try to keep a straight face. Really.

• Still Mad. Still Yours. , Part 2

→ Nika messed up. Nothing unforgivable-but enough to leave you quiet, closed-off, and ice-cold in your own penthouse. What she doesn't know is you forgave her the minute she apologized.

Kk Arnold’s x You

• Caught

→ You and KK have been dating on the low for months. Nobody knows. Paige— on live, bored and nosy—grabs the phone to go find you.

Whole Team x You

• Coach, I Swear It Was an Accident (It Wasn't)

→ You've been testing Geno's patience since the moment you stepped on UConn's campus. You're talented, unbothered, and just enough of a smartass to keep your scholarship hanging by a thread. But deep down, you're his favorite headache.

• I Don’t Know How to Wish Anymore

→ You’ve always been the glue—the light, the calm, the one who makes the team laugh and makes Geno’s life easier. But what they don’t see is how lonely it feels to be strong all the time.

• Where the Hell Is She?

→ Reader’s always around. Always clinging to someone, stretched out across a teammate’s lap, braiding hair during film. But today? She’s gone.

• Don’t Get Comfortable

→ During a joint scrimmage with another top program, reader shows out. Cool, confident, hitting shots like it’s nothing—and naturally, the other team starts noticing. Compliments turn to flirting. A few players get a little too bold.

• Dance Break, Baby

→ They did not know she could dance like that. When halftime rolls around and reader hits the court in full glam with a majorette squad or professional dancers at her back, the team loses their minds.

• Not One Damn Was Given

→ Reader throws hands on the court after a player body-slams her teammate. Fists fly. The team’s in shock. Hours later, reader hits IG Live and drags the other team with career-ending energy.

• She’s Always Been That Girl

• Halftime Unleashed

→ At halftime of a heated UConn game, the big screen surprises everyone by cutting to locker room footage of the women bonding.

• Bleed Blue…Literally

→ Everyone knew #17 was fine. What they didn't know— at first-was that she's covered in ink under that uniform.

• She Plays For Us

→ You are fine, flirty, and a little too good at everything-on and off the court. When UConn plays USC, things get heated fast.

• Micd Up & Outta Pocket

→ UConn vs LSU. The lights are bright, the tension is real-but #17 is focused on two things: Flaujae and Angel Reese.

• Pretty Hurts Until She Plays

→ Everyone thinks she's just the team's cheerleader with a jersey. Glossy lips, soft voice, and an untouched warmup suit. That is... until Nationals.

• More Then A Teammate

→ You’re the heart of the team. The one who always plays it cool-never too emotional, never too soft-but always there.

• Zumba Queen

→ During a chill team trip to the mall, reader mysteriously disappears—until Geno and the squad hear loud music find her leading a full-on Zumba class.

• Nationals Chaos

• You Can’t Take Her Nowhere

• Main Character

• Soft Spot

• Practice Wife

~~~~~~~~~~~~~LVA ~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sydney Colson + TP

~~~~~~~~~~~~~ DW ~~~~~~~~~~~~

Paige Bueckers x You

• Clear As Day

→ Paige hits her head, says she has a headache, and Coach doesn't blink. You've always been calm-quiet, focused, dependable. But Now?

• Front Row

~~~~~~~~~~~~~ TCU ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Olivia Miles x You

• Loyal

You got a man. But you also got a weakness. Olivia Miles

[noorpersona]

Rivalry: Iwaizumi Part 2

The office door clicked shut behind you, tension coiled tight in your shoulders like a spring ready to snap. The argument with Iwaizumi had dragged on longer than either of you expected, every word exchanged like a verbal spar, blades dulled by professionalism but no less sharp.

Coach Fuki Hibarida sat behind his desk like a man who’d already fielded more than his share of chaos before lunch. His fingers steepled under his chin, his gaze sharp as it flicked between you and Iwaizumi. The air in the office was thick enough to choke on.

“I appreciate both of your passion,” he said finally, voice flat and uncompromising. “But if you keep at it like this, the only thing we’re going to accomplish is splitting the damn team in two.”

You leaned forward in your chair, back ramrod straight, the fire in your voice only barely tempered. “With all due respect, Coach, I’m not trying to split anything. I’m trying to protect these athletes from outdated training philosophies that completely disregard their medical history.”

Iwaizumi’s jaw flexed, arms crossed so tight across his chest it looked like he was trying to restrain himself from lunging across the room. “And I’m trying to prevent injuries before they happen. Without a baseline of strength, flexibility means jack shit.”

“Tell that to Sakusa’s ACL.”

He scoffed, sitting forward just enough that your knees almost touched. “You think I don’t know their files? I’ve worked with these guys longer than you’ve even been part of this team.”

“And yet your ‘expertise’ almost put Yaku back in a brace.”

“Enough!” Hibarida barked, and the room dropped into silence.

His eyes moved from Iwaizumi to you and back again. “You’re both right.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and begrudging.

“I’m signing off on your proposed changes,” he continued, nodding toward you. “Flexibility and personalized conditioning will take precedence moving forward. But Iwaizumi—your job is to ensure the training stays rigorous and strategic. Adjust programs for injury history. No exceptions.”

There was a long pause.

Iwaizumi’s voice, when it came, was stiff as granite. “Understood.”

Hibarida’s chair creaked as he stood, clearly eager to be done with the two of you. “I want the updated plan submitted by Friday. Together.”

You stood without looking at Iwaizumi. But as you passed him, shoulder nearly brushing his, you said under your breath, “Try not to screw this one up.”

His grunt of irritation followed you out the door.

--

Iwaizumi stood at the front of the gym, clipboard clutched tightly in his calloused hands, the glossy finish damp where his fingers curled. The fluorescent lights hummed above the Olympic training gym, casting cold, clinical shadows over the rows of elite athletes stretching and rotating through warm-ups. Despite the early hour, the place buzzed with restless energy.

But Iwaizumi wasn’t paying attention to any of that.

His eyes tracked every movement with practiced detachment, but his thoughts were far from the court. A dull headache had taken up residence behind his eyes, and the usual rhythm of morning practice only aggravated it. The pressure building in his temples had nothing to do with lack of sleep—and everything to do with you.

He was still pissed.

“We’re holding off on the strength circuits until the new plan is finalized,” he said, voice clipped, tone leaving no room for discussion.

Heads turned.

Atsumu blinked up from the mat where he’d been balancing his ankle on his opposite knee. “Wait, what? We’re not lifting today?”

Bokuto, halfway through a forward lunge, perked up instantly. “What happened to ‘no excuses’? Did we slip into an alternate universe or something?”

Even Sakusa raised a brow. “Did she win the argument?”

Yaku’s smirk was slow, subtle. “Feels like she won.”

Iwaizumi’s jaw clenched so tightly it made the muscle near his ear twitch. “I said they’re on hold,” he growled, tone sharpening. “New guidelines. End of discussion.”

“Wow,” Suna muttered, droll as ever. “He’s actually mad.”

“I will make you run drills until your legs fall off,” Iwaizumi snapped, voice a low bark. “Stretch. Now.”

That shut them up.

A beat of tense silence passed before the team shifted into their warm-ups. The sounds of light chatter and sneakers resumed, but the atmosphere was noticeably stiffer. The undercurrent of curiosity and amusement didn’t go unnoticed by Iwaizumi, but he shoved it down beneath years of discipline.

The rest of the session moved efficiently. Too efficiently. Every minute felt like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

By noon, the players filtered out of the gym in loose, staggered groups, sweat-darkened shirts clinging to lean muscle and jerseys half-hanging from relaxed shoulders. The air in the locker hallway was humid with effort, and banter floated lazily through the corridor.

Bokuto swung a towel behind his neck like a cape, laughing at something Suna had deadpanned. Sakusa lingered by the door for a beat, casting Iwaizumi a thoughtful glance before slipping out.

“Wonder if she’ll sign my cast when he snaps,” Aran muttered, nudging Hinata, who bit back a laugh.

Iwaizumi said nothing.

He turned on his heel, movements stiff, and marched toward the small office tucked off the side of the gym.

The door shut with more force than necessary.

He dropped the clipboard onto the desk. Papers slipped free, fluttering to the surface like discontent made manifest. The training revisions glared up at him.

And all he could see was your face.

The way you’d challenged him in Hibarida’s office—calm but cutting, your words sharpened like scalpels. The way the coach had leaned in your favor, as if your voice carried a gravity his didn’t. It wasn’t that he couldn’t accept change—he wasn’t stupid. He knew you were right about the numbers. About the science. About the goddamn knees.

But it burned anyway.

It was personal. He couldn’t separate the two. Not when you looked at him like that, like every disagreement was some gleeful test of willpower. Like you were waiting for him to crack so you could claim the final point.

Iwaizumi dragged a hand through his hair, sighing harshly. His shoulders were still tight from holding his voice steady all morning.

He sat down with a grunt, chair creaking beneath him as he opened his laptop. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, poised but reluctant.

He didn’t want to change the entire system. Didn’t want to concede. But the damn truth was already there, glaring back at him from between the numbers and patient logs.

So he typed. Adjusted. Modified.

And when he hit send, the sting of it settled low in his stomach.

The phone lit up before he even closed the tab.

You.

Of course.

He stared at the screen, jaw tight, teeth grinding as your name lit up the caller ID.

Twice it rang. He let it.

On the third, he answered—no greeting, no softness. Just barked, “What now?”

“This revision is still garbage,” came your voice, flat and scathing. “Komori’s and Hyakuzawa’s circuits are identical. One has chronic shoulder fatigue, the other doesn’t.”

“The adjustments are proportional,” he snapped back, voice low and sharp. “That’s how progressive loading works.”

“Progressive loading my ass. You copy-pasted three damn circuits and called it a day. You didn’t even touch their mobility metrics.”

“I factored in what matters.”

You laughed. Cold. “What matters is that Hyakuzawa won’t last another month if you keep pretending his joints aren’t glass.”

His hand slammed against the desk before he could stop himself, palm stinging. “You’re not his goddamn physical therapist.”

“No,” you snapped. “I’m the idiot burning her day off trying to keep him out of a hospital.”

He froze for half a beat.

Your words landed hard, scraping under his skin.

And god, you weren’t done.

“I’m not playing translator for whatever bullshit this is. If you want my sign-off, you’re getting it the right way. You clearly don’t understand the changes, so I’m coming in to explain them. In person. Like a teacher walking through homework with a slow student.”

He tilted his head back, jaw ticking, breath exhaling like steam. He glared at the ceiling tiles like they’d give him strength.

“Fine,” he bit out. “Thirty minutes.”

“Good,” you hissed. “Try not to screw anything else up in the meantime.”

The line went dead.

Iwaizumi stared at the phone for another second, his thumb hovering above the darkened screen.

The silence afterward rang louder than your voice.

And under his breastbone, the pulse of it—his rage, his pride, the heat of your words—all of it throbbed, slow and persistent.

Like something ready to burn.

--

You stormed into Iwaizumi’s office like a gust of controlled fury, not bothering to knock.

He barely had time to glance up before your voice cut through the air like a scalpel.

“It’s my day off, Iwaizumi. You know that, right?”

His brows lifted, clearly caught off guard—not just by your tone, but by your clothes. Joggers clung snugly to your hips, your tank top fitted and dipped in a way your usual business-casual never did. A jacket hung loose around your shoulders, unzipped, and your hair was tied up messily, strands falling out in a way that was entirely unfair.

Still, he bristled at your tone. “You didn’t have to come in.”

“Then maybe don’t make me rewrite your entire plan for you,” you snapped. “I told you Hyakuzawa’s shoulder range isn’t compatible with Komori’s. And you still sent it over like I wouldn’t notice.”

“I adjusted for mass and range—”

“You adjusted by copy-pasting,” you cut in. “Do you even read the assessments I send you?”

His jaw flexed. “I read everything. And I know how to train a team.”

“And I know how to prevent torn rotator cuffs.”

A sharp silence settled between you. You stood with your hands on your hips, breathing hard, Iwaizumi staring at you from behind his desk, every muscle in his arms coiled with tension.

He should’ve barked at you to leave. Should’ve snapped something back just as biting.

Instead, he stood.

“I’m not arguing with you in here,” he said, voice tight. “Let’s go.”

“To the gym?” you asked.

He nodded once, already stepping past you. “You said you’d show me. So show me.”

--

The weight room was empty save for the two of you. Echoes of distant foot traffic from the other side of the facility drifted in and out through the thick walls. Overhead, a single bank of lights buzzed faintly.

“Start with the squats,” you said, tossing a pair of 40-pound dumbbells his way.

He caught them with ease. “Loaded squats? Really?”

You folded your arms. “Humor me, Captain.”

He rolled his eyes but turned to face the mirror, feet shoulder-width apart, and dropped into his first rep. His form was solid—predictably—but your eyes tracked the subtle tremors in his posture, the way his shoulders bore tension even during a movement that should be driven by legs and core.

“Pause,” you ordered.

He straightened slowly, setting the weights down.

“You’re bracing too much in your upper back,” you said. “You’re engaging traps when you should be isolating quads and glutes. Komori compensates the same way, which is exactly the problem.”

You moved behind him, slid your hand down between his shoulder blades, pressing lightly.

“Here,” you murmured. “You feel how stiff this is?”

His breath hitched, almost imperceptibly.

“Try it again, but keep this area loose. Let the legs drive.”

He picked up the weights again and dropped down, this time more controlled.

You circled him once, sharp eyes on every joint.

“That’s better,” you said. “Still not perfect.”

He huffed through his nose. “Then what is?”

Your lips twitched, eyes gleaming. “I’ll show you.”

You stepped forward, picked up a lighter set of weights, and took your stance in the mirror. Your movements were deliberate, slow, each line precise. You dipped into a squat, spine long, and spoke as you moved.

“This is full isolation. Core tight. Knees over toes. Glutes firing.”

You looked at him through the mirror.

“Here—” You set the weights down and grabbed his wrist, tugging him forward. “Put your hand here.”

You placed his palm on your thigh, just above your knee.

“That’s the difference between alignment and load. You feel that tension? That’s what Hyakuzawa can’t hold for more than five reps. So when you give him a template that pushes twelve, you’re training him into injury.”

His fingers twitched where they rested against your leg.

You didn’t look up. Neither did he.

But the silence was loud.

You finally moved, stepping back, letting the contact fall away. His hand lingered for half a second before he pulled it back and flexed his fingers into a fist.

“Alright,” you said, exhaling. “Shoulders next.”

He didn’t speak, just nodded tightly and picked up a new set of dumbbells.

“This one’s more relevant for Komori. Upright rows. Don’t use momentum—go slow.”

He stood tall, lifting the weights to chest height with steady control.

You stepped in again, brushing your fingertips along his forearms as he moved.

“Good... Now hold.”

His muscles tensed, veins stark beneath tan skin, the curve of his biceps flexed just enough to make your breath catch.

You swallowed hard, refocusing.

“Lift from the delts, not the biceps,” you murmured. “They’re stabilizers here.”

Your hand moved to his chest, palm flat over his pec. The contact startled him—just enough for his eyes to flicker up and land right on the exposed line of your cleavage through your tank.

He froze.

And you saw it. That split second of his eyes widening before snapping back up to yours like he hadn’t seen a damn thing.

Your brow rose. “Focus, Iwaizumi.”

He gritted his teeth. “I am focused.”

You pressed a little firmer into his chest. “Then stop compensating here.”

His breath came a little heavier now.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t have to.

The tension snapped taut between you. Neither of you moved, the air thick with something sharp, electric.

Then—

“Ah—sorry!”

The door creaked open.

You both jolted, stepping back so fast you almost tripped.

A janitor stood in the doorway, expression blank. “Didn’t realize the room was still in use.”

You cleared your throat. “We were just wrapping up.”

Iwaizumi grabbed a towel, wiping the sweat from his forehead, still avoiding your eyes.

The janitor nodded and disappeared.

Silence returned.

You slung your bag over your shoulder, trying not to show how fast your heart was racing. “I’ll expect the revised plan tomorrow.”

Iwaizumi didn’t answer.

He was still staring at the spot where your hand had been.

[solspina]

We Should Stick Together (2)

sanguinius ⋆˙⟡

hello! remember this that i wrote like 3 months ago? flooding my inbox worked, and i gift you all the part 2 that you harassed me for (affectionate). i hope you enjoy, and please feel free to drop more writing ideas in my inbox if you have them!! i have work in 6 hours so i am very sorry for spelling or grammar mistakes :)

as the race to the imperial palace comes to an abrupt end, sanguinius confronts his greatest fear, and finally discovers whether this is a battle he wins or loses to his perfect phoenician brother.

word count: 1.5k

warnings: n/a

(part 1)

Sanguinius turned back, ensuring that Fulgrim had become a mere speck in the distance, even to the sharp and trained eyes of the avian mutant.

Five minutes… He had five minutes at most before the Phoenician stormed into the imperial palace and attempted to track down the woman he knew was his brother’s desired bride. Although much slower than the angel, Fulgrim was still a primarch, and therefore incomprehensibly faster on foot than the average human. The duo had only ventured about three miles away from the palace to begin with, and though Sanguinius could cover that distance in half the time his brother could, he still worried for the little time he had.

The angel landed rather clumsily, his feet failing to obtain a proper stance on the floor before his wings had folded in upon his back. He stumbled, unable to catch himself before his clothes and feathers were covered in the dusts of holy Terra just as his hands had been.

In flight, his appearance had become quite disheveled, and was now accompanied by the filth of the ground. His hair had become frizzy from the abuse upon it by the wind, and his loose feathers stood on his wings in a way that made them rather itchy. He would deal with that later. No time to lose right now.

His stagger to his feet was near immediate. One moment of hesitation meant one moment Fulgrim would inch closer to the imperial place.

Sanguinius was most concerned with finding her before the phonecian ever even got the opportunity, but the thought that he had not prepared a speech lingered in the back of his head like a quickly spreading disease. The great angel was and always had been an artist of impeccable detail, a poet of unimaginably beautiful words, a man who spoke to inspire the masses. And yet despite all of this, so was his brother, whom no doubt had much more time to prepare for the exact upcoming moment.

Pale white wings trembled ever so slightly at the thought, yet they caused the angel to more hastily sprint through every room that a baseline could possibly hide in. What if, even if he had been here first, Fulgrim’s speech was more captivating and practiced? What if she cared more about the display and grandeur than the intentions of her suitor? Did she know that Fulgrim had been married before? That he would have infinitely more experience when it was time to bed he-

Not the time to think about that.

Sanguinius turned another corner as he searched for the person he so desired, but again he found nothing. Thus began his endless chase of navigating this imperial labyrinth. He turned another, and another, and another, and another, until he finally found himself gazing into one of the imperial palace's many greenhouses.

There he saw his dearest beloved sitting elegantly by a pond filled with fish of many species. Greenery, a lovely assortment of flowers and, golden sunset light adorned her body in an impossibly perfect halo. The water that poured from the elaborate fountains complimented the melody in her voice like a song made only by nature's most beautiful things, meant to cleanse his very soul.

The scene would have been a dream if not made a nightmare by the pompous and flamboyant voice of Fulgrim, drowning out what should have been Sanguinius' idealized solace.

The Phoenician let out a pretentious laugh at something the baseline said, and the angel physically cringed at the way she placed her hands over her stomach to ease her own mirth. The sight should have been something glorious, enchanting to the eyes of the ninth. It had been so many times before, yet he only felt his blood begin to boil.

only I should make you laugh that way.

He did not know what emotion flooded his heart the most. Envy? Or perhaps sorrow? rage? resentment for his silver haired brother?

What he did know, however, was that he had lost.

Somewhere amongst an incredibly confusing concoction of emotions, the angel was beyond certain that a searing heartache was included in the most prevalent of them.

He may have been able to disguise his current visage as nervousness, were anyone of importance to ask why his mood had become morose. Social interaction with a passing custodian or serf had become the least of his worries. He did not care much, at this point, if someone saw him sulking in the doorway to the garden, grieving a baseline as if he had - for lack of a better comparison - lost his lover.

Not that a soul would come through to the conservatory anyway.

"Brother!" The palatine phoenix called. His voice was loud, deafening almost. High and mighty as ever, and calling upon all eyes that could see to face the angel in his horrent state of embarrassment. "Come! We have awaited your presence."

The smile of the third was hideously genuine. The stretch of his lips when his eyes met those of the human was so sweet it was sickening to Sanguinius - so much so that it sent a chill up his spine that caused his feathers to fluff and clatter against each other when he reacted to the sensation.

"We were just discussing you." The Phoenician beamed as the angel mournfully walked forward.

"Ah." Sanguinius replied. His cheerful personality had become lost somewhere deep in his chest, and what little of his voice he displayed had become somber and quiet. Quite truthfully, he was not in the mood for any type of social affair. He especially did not want to take part in the type of conversation that had likely already seen his would-be espouse become betrothed to his perfect, handsome, non-mutant brother.

"I was just about to ask this lovely baseline of ours a very important question~"

Oh?

About to?

Fulgrim hadn't asked yet?

The angel swore he saw the third wink at him before he started to begin speaking again. Something in those shiny violet eyes beckoned the angel as they stared deep into his ruby red gaze. An opportunity, he thought, a wordless promise. - "ask her now. last chance."

Before the phoenix could fall gracefully onto one knee, the golden primarch hastily plucked the red-diamond ring - a gem color choice Sanguinius found ironic - and fell to both knees. He firmly grabbed both of the human's small hands with his own and placed them gently to his forehead, unmistakably in a position of prayer.

"Please!" He cried. His voice rang almost in protest, if not for the tears forming in his eyes alongside the exasperation in his breath and the sobs in his voice. "Listen not to a word Fulgrim says! You should marry me! Me!" He paused, only to take one pathetic gasp of air and look up into her eyes.

"Brother..."

"You have not one idea how long I have waited, how hard I have worked to find the perfect gift! And now I am rushed! I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

"Sanguinius!" The phoenician shouted. "I was going to ask her if she had eaten yet today. So you could have done this over dinner."

The angel paused; his crying ceased. "What...?" Two crimson eyes both widened, and then dulled in embarrassment as he looked back up at the baseline. She looked at him in complete and utter stupor.

"W-wait. I can explain." He stuttered out.

She sighed in response, but followed the fading of her shock with a grin and gentle laugh.

Sanguinius did not know how he felt, regardless of her pleasant reaction. She gently removed her hands from his, taking her hand and wiping away tears from his pathetic, wet face. "Ask me again over dinner."

Her smile did not fade. Not even for a moment.

The ninth shared a sigh of his own, before giving a nod and a kind smile of his own in approval. He hoped he hadn't looked as bad as he thought, despite his disheveled hair, wings browned from terran dust, and now burning red cheeks.

"I will clean myself up, and do this properly." He promised. He bowed slightly to her, taking her hand and giving the back of it a soft and proper kiss. "Wear your nicest clothing. I will treat you to whatever you wish, as an apology."

"To tonight, then." She gracefully returned his bow. Her face was covered in a gentle blush of its own, her eyes just as upturned and full of joy as they had been earlier. Perhaps now even more so.

The angel turned to search for Fulgrim, hoping to give him a gaze that asked whether or not this was a good thing.

When his eyes finally found his brother, though, he was already making his way out of the greenhouse. Shaking his head and indulging in some giggles of his own.

Solspina's Scribellum✎ (❁ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈) ༉‧ ♡*.✧

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[sweetflanfiction]

Assymetrical Symphony - Part 12

Universe: Arcane (LOL)

Pairing: Viktor x reader

Summary: You had been on the rooftop with Jayce and the Herald and somehow you were sent to a place where things can be different with your help

Disclaimers and Warnings: If you want me to tag you on the chapters let me know! Also leave a comment with your thoughts :D Not finished, not proofread. English isn't my 1st language. All I know about LOL is from google and all I know about Arcane is taken from the show, so inacuracies will be plenty. I have a sort of idea on how to I'm gonna go with magic and runes, so bear with me. The reader will be written as GN (going by they/them) to get everyone involved, but if you see any discrepancies let me know.

A.N: Still on vacations!

Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4 • Part 5 • Part 6 • Part 7 • Part 8 • Part 9 • Part 10

• ··········· • ············ •

In a very proficient succession of moves, Viktor had grabbed his keys from his bag, locked the front door—something he wasn’t supposed to do because of the council’s shenanigans, but Viktor hardly ever did what he was told—and had opened the door, holding it open for you.

Shaking your head at his antics, you made your way to the room and short of going inside. A butterfly had flapped its wings somewhere down the space and time lines, and what was once a spacious room was now nothing more than a broom closet.

“I know it is not ideal, but…it’s this or the hexcore room.” You heard behind you and cleared your throat.

“This is… um… fine…” You nodded and walked to the back of the room, which was exactly a small step forward, and turned back to the door.

Viktor walked behind you and closed the door, leaving both of you in darkness. He shuffled to get himself in a comfortable standing position, his cane leaning on the shelf behind you.

You knew if you could see anything but the soft glow of the room outside from under the door, you’d be face to face with his chin, having to still tilt your head up to look at him whenever you were in close quarters. You shook your head and cleared your throat to get your mind back on track. He took half a step back, completely oblivious of your thoughts, and you did the same, the shelves behind you carving a dent into your back. 

“Alright. The baseline for your starlight rune is about fifteen minutes.”

“Starlight rune?”

“I told you I wasn’t good with names…Do the rune with the new variant.”

The glove came off with a practiced tug, and the small room was slightly illuminated by the blue glow. You saw Viktor's hand immediately shoot up to touch it again, his never-ending curiosity getting the best of him. Your hand twitched in anticipation of the contact, and he stopped short of actually touching it.

“Sorry, it’s not you…it’s…” You started but couldn’t finish when you realized that it was in fact because of him.

“Don’t worry. It’s my fault…Learn not to touch anything before checking it’s safe... Truly, it’s the worst... I have a few scars to show for it.” He used the glow of your hand to touch a few small scars on his palm.

SVRCINA - Astronomical

You laughed quietly, tracing the rune for the tiny lights in the air, adding the small symbol on the top right of it. A flick of the wrist and up they went. Viktor tapped his fingers on his thigh, counting the time, his neck stretched up to look at the ceiling.

The endlessness of darkness is hovering. The sound of the silence is deafening. Ten billion decibels shattering

The opportunity presented itself to look at him in detail. On the forefront of your mind was the need to find any difference from your Viktor. On the back of it, the hope that there was none. 

The shimmering lights gave his already pale skin an even white tinge, but you could see the small freckles and skin marks he had running behind the collar of his shirt. His jaw was still sharp and angled, and his cheeks high; you peeked at the beauty mark under his eyes, and he still chewed on the inside of his mouth when he was thinking hard. Your eyes shifted down to take notice of his breathing. Closing your eyes, you listened to it. Clean, no wheezing, no strain. 

I'm drawn to the unknown where shadows hide. A slave to the powers that magnetize There's something inside of me I can't fight.

The smell of mint and cinnamon filled your nostrils. You had forgotten the height difference, the gentle way his breathing would make his chest rise and fall on his better days. You’d forgotten the time before he became consumed with legacy. You’d forgotten he was once flesh and blood and warmth.

You heard the shift in breathing before you heard the quiet laugh and looked up at him. True to his word, he had a hand outstretched, touching the tiny specks of light floating above you.

Weightlessness forsaking me. This pull is astronomical.

“Fascinating.” He murmured, his long fingers swirling around the shimmer. “It’s cold, but…not unpleasant.”

Viktor’s smile never faltered, a pleasant sound coming from his throat. The floating orbs just floated around the tips of his fingers, like smoke around a tree branch.

He moved his fingers to grab one of the lights, and your breath got caught in your throat. You really should stop him, but the gentleness of his long fingers as he swirled them around the smoke, nudging the smaller nodes away to grab a bigger one, left you hypnotized and mute.

Viktor’s fist closed around a glowing marble, and it burst like a soap bubble, breaking into tiny wisps of glitter and regrouping again after they passed his fist.

Can anybody... Anybody... Can anybody stop me?

You looked at his face; the usually warm golden eyes have taken a paler palette with the white cold light reflecting on them. His lips were curled up in a soft, wondrous smile that reminded you of a child; his long neck was stretched upwards, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed his amusement. It was new... this was new...

It hit you like a ton of bricks that even though you’d seen this man in almost any state of mind, this childish wonder was something you never noticed. You were far more preoccupied with keeping him alive than finding something that gave him this type of feeling. Even if in the end, whatever feelings he had were gone.

Ooh, this pull is astronomical.

“You’re staring again…” He snickered, and you nodded.

“You remind me of someone…” 

“Hopefully a good someone…”He looked down and smirked at you.

“Heh…He had his moments... You cleared your throat. "Shall we test the other theory perhaps?”

Viktor nodded and had once again craned his neck upwards. You did the rune and added the coda symbol on the same corner as the infinity symbol and flicked your wrist up.

The rune disappeared, but the stars stayed. You both locked eyes with each other and then looked at your hand, as if it was to blame for the lackluster results.

“Maybe it’s the symbol? Or the intention?”

“Perhaps…what have you been setting as the intention for this one?”

“Just…light up. The first time it appeared, I was in a dark room, so light seemed the best option.”

“Maybe think…dark…or…off.”

Shaking your shoulder to release some tension, you drew the rune, drew the coda, and set it free with a very defined 'turn the light off' intention.

“Rune… intention… push forward…” Viktor repeated, his eyes darting around the darkened room. “Rune…intention…push forward…”

“I could try other symbols…”

He nodded, and you started to add symbols to the rune. An exclamation point, a dot, two dots, an X, the actual word STOP. But nothing seemed to be the floating little light from floating.

“You push it forward…” He raised a hand and placed it next to yours, palm up. The glow of your hand casting a light on the side of his hand

He drew the rune with his index and middle fingers and flicked the wrist up. By the third time he did it, you mirrored his movements, you drew the rune and the suffix you had initially given it, and flicked it up. Nothing.

The small blue brush strokes grew in brightness as you finished the drawing. The rune itself was a dainty thing, swirly with a loop and a dash. It was your favorite rune to draw, you thought at that moment.

“Rune…intention…push it forward.” You both whispered in sync as your hands danced in well-choreographed movements.

“Of course…” You heard Viktor exclaim and looked up at him, but his eyes were still on your hands.

He turned his hand so that it was hovering on top of yours without touching, his long fingers by your wrist, yours under his own joint. He drew the rune, like he was stroking your wrist. A shiver ran down your arm, but you mimicked him like before and drew your own rune. When you flicked your hand up, your fingers touched his wrist with a soft thud, but his hand did the opposite movement; instead of moving downwards—since he was mirroring your movements—he pulled back, his hand arching back.

“It makes sense…you speak the rune…” He made the motion again, you repeated. “You set the intent and…”

You both snapped your hands backwards. The rune shimmered, and the floating lights shot towards your hand, leaving the room in darkness in a blink of an eye, the only sound the slight heavy breathing from the sudden shift in brightness.

"You pull it back." Viktor whispered. 

"That's..." You thought about saying smart, but this was Viktor, one of the most intelligent people you've met.

"Unlike words, once you speak the runes, you can take them back, and everything goes back to normal."

"Words can be taken back." You said, moving your hand up and feeling his wrist still hovering there. 

You let your fingers touch his wrist, gently flattening them against his skin, your thumb softly grasping his forearm. You felt his own hand rest on top of yours. You could see the blue light engulfing his hand.

"They hurt all the same." He softly whispered.

"Pains and aches, eh?" You heard him chuckle. "The mending rune... I can sustain it now. Imagine being able to keep something from breaking."

"You have to be careful. Magic is not free. There will be a toll to pay.” His voice shifted and something mechanical. 

“I’m actually doing this…I’m learning... and adapting... and”

“Evolving…” A mechanical low voice came from where he was, but you didn’t feel it like last time.

“What?” Your eyes snapped up to where his should be.

“What?” He looked at you confused, and you shook your head, dismissing it.

A second of silence until you heard a quiet laugh come from him.

“This is... real magic. It’s just like we thought. Exactly like we thought. The books were right. The hextech is an almost exact copy of what actual magic is.” 

“Viktor…breathe…”

“I’m breathing…I’m breathing..." He moved his hand away, pushing a hand through his hair. "We are finding ways to control wild runes.”

“Don’t look wild to me. That one actually looked like it was meticulously drawn.”

“They are wild because they are natural, not because they are unpredictable.” He grabbed the door handle with one hand, his cane with the other, and pushed the door open. “I need to write this down.”

He was halfway out the door when he stopped abruptly, and you managed to stop just in time by placing your hands on his back, almost throwing him off balance and to the floor. A hand on his elbow balanced him out.

“Good gods, Vik… What the..." You started but then looked at what—or who—was staring at.

“You two kids wanna to tell me why you were inside a dark closet?” Jayce inquired, his lips curling up on one side, his eyebrow going up on the same side.

Viktor straightened up quickly, and you did the same, more flustered about the almost tumble than Jayce’s questions. 

“Nothing.” Viktor quickly answered

“Magic.” You said at the same time, with the taller man’s face snapping to yours, mouth agape at your nonchalant tone.

“What?” You shrugged as you walked past him to the table.

“What kind of magic?” Jayce’s eyebrows wiggled suggestively. 

“Jayce!” Viktor, whose gaze had been following you around the room, snapped to Jayce.

“The actual magical kind.” You pulled the glove back on your hand. “The rune one.”

“Oh…eh…that’s fun too, I guess.” The broader man shrugged.

“How’s Mel?” You retorted.

“Magical…” He sighed and then winked at you.

You looked at him, face blank, and shook your head; he gave a goofy lovesick smile, and you groaned dramatically to emphasize you were joking.

“She does have some news for us about the council…shenanigans…” Jayce straightened up and leaned on the table.

“No…no…nonono.” Viktor shook his head and strode towards both of you, a small scowl of confusion on his face. “We are not just going to breeze by this… What is happening…? When did this happen?”

Jayce looked between Viktor, you, and then pointed to himself.

“Kid who jumped places because a mage decided to save his life…” He pointed at you. “Actual Mage.”

You were happy that he didn’t add the rest of his sentence about you.

“Wait…they know about the…happening?” Viktor looked at Jayce with wide eyes.

“They do.” Jayce nodded, and Viktor turned his eyes to you.

“And he knows about the runes?”

“He does.”

Viktor looked at the ceiling of the lab, taking a deep breath, while these pieces of information all fit in his head. When he was satisfied, he looked back down to you and Jayce, nodding. 

“All right… all right…” He walked over to where Jayce was leaning on the table and you were seated on a stool. “What did Mel say?”

“They have a date for the council meeting.”

• ············ • ············ •

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[sambhavami]

yk one woman I will always feel bad for is Kripi.

Unserious reason: I'd feel sorrry for any person who has ashwatthama as a son because im an Ashwatthama hater.

Serious reason: She was probably raised very comfortably and lovingly with Shantanu, doted upon by Kripa, idk if she saw Shantanus other kids as her siblings but maybe them too, very cute, right? And then got married to drona. This makes me wonder what the circumstances of their marriage were, what did the royal family think about it? I like to think Drona liked her at least at first. And. And the first few days are fine, right? Like hey maybe shes not living in a palace but its a quaint little house and shes happy. But slowly Drona begins changing. Or rather showing his true colours. Becomes a stingy but power hungry guy and Kripi had to manage the household with those few resources... he disappears to go learn from Parshuram, when they they have ashwatthama, he's crying for milk and Drona will sit there dreaming about power and money and not even try to do anything... (taking this next part from BR Chopra idk if its in the official editions) When the Drupad thing happens he sacrifices all practicality for pride and even after he gets a job in Hastinapur he's still staying in a small hut because he wants DRUPADS money/cows... like be fr dude. And its all so messed up. And she sees her son grow up. He carries the same ambition as his father did. The cycle is repeating and all she can do is watch. It's so sad... and what did she get at the end of the war. A dead husband and a son who would be known for all eternity as the most cowardly man ever. Her son is alive but at what cost. He will outlive her like he is supposed to but at what cost. It's so sad. I'm sure I can come up with more but this is my Ted talk for now thank you for listening.

Hey, thank you so much for putting all this into words! I agree with you about 90% 😂, so, I am going to put some bullet points 😂

Shantanu all but adopts the twins yes, but he still keeps them in separate lodging (because, caste). We see Bheeshma too later speaking to Kripa with the respect of an elder, even though Bheeshma is the oldest person in the room (again, caste). Seeing that like his father, Kripa is also interested in archery, Shantanu arranges for training in that field alongside your normal theory stuff, and Kripi gets home science lessons (and some of the theory part too).

Now, when they grow up, Dr. Bhaduri's baseline assessment of Kripa is- lazy. He has grown up with the respect of a brahmin and the luxury of a kshatriya, and has never really experienced the 'hardships' of either side, which has made him extremely complacent. I mean, it takes Drona all but one month to take over his sarkari naukri! Throughout the epic [at least till Drona's death] Kripa's maximum contribution is: "Uh, what he said." He follows his muh-bola brother and brother-in-law in whatever decision the latters take. He loves his sister, but I doubt he had anything to do with her marriage this way or that way.

Kripi's marriage to Drona is fixed via a three-way agreement between Shantanu, Sharadvana and Bharadvaja. The reason for this alliance, is speculatively twofold: (1) Both Kripi and Drona's mothers come from a 'lower' caste, and they would find it difficult to marry within full-brahmin families, so this arrangement was b/w equals that way, (2) the Maudgalya brahmins, the Bharadvajas and the Kurus are all cousin lineages, and they did like to keep it within the not-immediate family.

Now, Drona does NOT want to marry her. He only agrees when Bharadvaja sort of blackmails him with a 'this is my dying wish' argument. The marriage happens, I think, shortly before/after Bharadvaja's death, at a time when Drona is too much in shock to protest. We see the ripple effects of this throughout Kripi's life [most of it behind the scenes though].

Bharadvaja was solidly upper-middle-class however. He was after all the dean of a very, very successful gurukul. He might've kept Drona in a pseudo-austere situation, but they weren't by any means hurting for cash. Drona might not have clocked it, and Bharadvaja probably did not think it very appropriate to flash money before his very impressionable kid but Drupada did that job, and the damage was done.

Throughout his childhood and youth Drona loudly complains, to anyone who would listen, that he hates his father's job, and does NOT want to become the next Bharadvaja and keep the gurukul running. He does teach at the school under his father when he's a bit older, but kicking and screaming all the way.

Hence, it's no surprise that once the old Bharadvaja dies, the parents start to withdraw their kids from his school, because why would they allow their children to toil in vain under a guy who very vocally hates the job? Bharadvaja's usp was political science, which isn't Drona's strong suit anyway, so that was the official reason for the students to leave. It is around this time that Kripi marries into the mess. She is comfortable at first yes, but she can see the future too, just is unable to stop it because Drona never listens.

Drona, however does nothing to stop the leak because baap ka maal dariya mein daal, right? He only wises up once all the savings and the students are gone, and he is well and truly penniless. It's now that he sets aside his ego, and asks his neighbours for tuition contracts, and they just say heck no! They rather suggest, "You wanted to be a kshatriya so bad, then go be a soldier under some king instead." And Drona even tries that, and all the local kings go, "I won't sin by employing a brahmin to do a kshatriya's work! Have you considered teaching?"

Now, Drona is well and truly out of options, since no one would even donate a single cow, and he was running out of ways to feed his family. Ashwatthama, he loves dearly, and it pains him immensely to see him suffer and be bullied by kids and adults alike on top of that, but he would still not accept his wife's family's help.

The milk-incident is the straw that breaks the camel's back, and Drona packs up and drags his little family all the way to Kampilya, gets insulted and then finally, to avoid being homeless with a wife and kid, he finally, reluctantly goes to stay with Kripa.

There, once he has enticed the princes, Bheeshma is finally informed that his sister and brother-in-law are here [that much of a low profile he was keeping out of shame]. Bheeshma obviously treats him with respect regardless taking him to his own quarters to have a chat mano-a-mano, and then we get this golden(?) exchange:

Bheeshma: "So Drona, how is my little sister then?"

Drona: "She's got less hair on her head, but she's kinda smart so I tolerate it."

I mean I would still like to know, what was going on in his brain for him to first think of, and then say aloud these words, to her BROTHER no less! YOU starved her for the better part of a decade, your son's voice never changed and he's got a bump on his head as a direct consequence of that, and you were expecting your wife to be what, Hema Malini?!

Bheeshma kinda glosses over that comment, because I guess ladkiwale and all that nonsense, plus I think he realized giving Drona the teaching job was the only way to ensure his sister and nephew would have something to eat the next day, because Drona would still not accept any charity, much less from him.

Bheeshma actually gives Drona an entire apartment complex's worth of four-to-five-storey buildings under the guise of arranging student hostels, and Drona, with his family actually live in a penthouse type flat in one of those buildings itself, with an army of servants and a hefty allowance that he doesn't have to touch since food and lodging are paid for already [gurudakshinas on top of that]. They are comfortable, but Drona would never admit that this turn of fate happened thanks to Kripi and her family [and also he hates teaching unless it is Ashwatthama or later, Arjuna].

Ashwatthama actually grows up relatively well-adjusted considering how most of his childhood went. He is also a better friend of the Pandavas [Arjuna in particular, and there's a bit of jealousy too, and some healthy competition] that the Kauravas. He fights on the Kauravas' side only because Drona doesn't want to be on the same side as Drupada, and Kripa will follow Drona to the earth's end [mostly because he can't bothered to make his own choice]. Ashwatthama mostly sticks around to keep his father and uncle safe, despite the fact that he HATES and is nearly coming to blows every night with Karna.

Karna too, a tactless, filterless idiot, decides that the best time to air all his grievances with Drona [all fair points which I agree with wholeheartedly], to Ashwathhama no less, is one freaking hour after his father's been brutally murdered. Time and a place, man! [Ashwathhama cuts off his janeu, declared himself not-a-brahmin and challenges Karna to a death match, but Duryodhana gets in them iddle and stops it].

Also, this is where something in Ashwatthama cracks. Due to the previous circumstances, he has a kind of an unhealthy attachment to Drona, to the point that he never even goes to rule the part of Panchala that his father crowned him for. His death unleashes something feral in the man, that we see get compounded when he sees Duryodhana dying [this, imo, meshes in his mind with the manner of his father's death, and in a way he goes to avenge Drona when he massacres the remaining Pandavas and Panchalas].

And yes, Kripi is left all alone [except for her twin], to deal with the emotional as well as physical fallout from the war. The only solace was probably that she was great-grandma to Parikshit, and we can only hope that she found some solace there.

[artspats]

Baseline

She sat on the court, legs stretched out, fingers pressing into her calves. The sky was low and gray, the kind that made the air feel heavier. Practice had ended twenty minutes ago, but she stayed, tying and retying her shoelaces, waiting for something.

Art stood near the net, rolling a tennis ball between his palms. His shirt clung to his back, damp from the session, but he wasn’t in a rush to leave either. He watched her, his eyes half-lidded, unreadable.

“You’re zoning out,” he said, walking over. “Tired?”

She shook her head. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

She hesitated, then shrugged. “Nothing.”

He smirked like he didn’t believe her, but he crouched down next to her anyway. The scent of sweat and sunblock clung to him, something oddly familiar, almost comforting.

“You played well today,” he said, tapping the ball against the ground. “Fast hands. Good footwork. We just need to work on your backhand a little more.”

She nodded, picking at the tape on her racket handle.

“You know,” Art continued, stretching his legs out like hers, “you’re at a crucial point in your career. These years? They matter. You don’t want to waste them on… distractions.”

She exhaled through her nose, already knowing where this was going.

“Distractions like what?” she asked, playing dumb.

Art let the ball roll away, brushing his palms off on his shorts. “Like parties. Boys your age” His voice was calm, like he was just stating a fact. “You’re better than that.”

She laughed under her breath. “I don’t think hanging out with people my age is a waste of time.”

Art turned to face her fully. “It is if they’re not on your level. And let’s be honest…” He gave her a look, one eyebrow raised. “They’re not.”

She looked away, jaw tightening. He always did this—made it sound like she was different. Like that was a good thing.

“I just think it’s normal,” she said, quieter now.

“Sure, maybe. But you’re not normal. You have talent. A future.” His hand landed on her knee, casual, just for a second. “And you know I just want the best for you, right?”

She swallowed, nodding.

“Good,” he said, standing up and stretching. “Come in early tomorrow. We’ll run drills before school.”

She nodded again, watching as he walked toward the locker rooms, his confidence easy, effortless.

The tennis ball he’d let go sat still in the dirt beside her, half-buried, like it had been dropped and forgotten.

Part 2: Smartie

Part 3: Needy

Part 4: Greedy

Part 5: Heady

[metanarrates]

i am soooo curious about your takes on otome isekai villainess stories and their morality + gender constructs 👀 if you'd be willing to elaborate....

so villainessekai is a BIG genre. like. big big absolutely massive genre. because of that it's kind of hard to make sweeping generalizations genre-wise just because there are so many different authors with different takes on the general premise... that being said, I have enough time to ramble about some gender stuff I've noticed. maybe ill elaborate on the protag centered morality another time - my tldr on that at this moment is just "for a genre allegedly focused on humanizing women who were considered 'evil,' there sure are a lot of common double standards when it comes to how its protagonists behave."

(part of the protag centered morality, to be clear, is just kind of a common effect of self-inserty escapist fiction, but it's... just sort of weird and noticeable whenever it crops up in this genre. like i said i might yap about it another time. penelope eckhart you live rent free in my head what the hell is happening in vadd)

but yeah! gender!

quick rundown for those not familiar with the genre. villainess isekai is a genre of manwha + manga + webnovels + light novels that shares a common base premise. the protagonist has been isekai'd into the body of a fictional character from a story (often an otome game or a novel) she knows. the fictional character plays the role of a villainess in the original novel, and is doomed to an unsavory fate. the protagonist must try to change the story she knows to prevent her untimely end.

or, at least, that's the more original premise. the villainess genre is huge, and over the years, there's been takes that ditch the isekai component completely. time travel villainess stories are highly popular right now. some deal with reincarnation from a different fantasy life, like, 200 years in the past or something. some ditch the "main character has some kind of knowledge about a doomed future" aspect of the premise entirely and just lock in on the protagonist being considered an "evil woman" without messing about with any kind of supernatural foreknowledge.

but regardless. the common thread is that the woman in question is considered a villainess, and that she is almost certainly aware that she will meet her doom if she doesn't play her cards right.

I'll say here straight up that this genre is almost completely a power fantasy genre. we're about to get into whether or not the main character is "rightfully" considered a villainess or not, but no matter what the answer to that is, the main character almost always 1. is a member of a fantasy european-ish nobility 2. commands some form of social or monetary power and 3. will eventually obtain a lover of incredibly high social status. being able to be "evil" is often a huge component of this power fantasy, but there's a baseline of power that can be obtained even for protagonists who seem completely powerless at the start. you will always end with a protagonist in a position of unbelievable wealth, comfort, social respect, and power.

this plays heavily into the genre's treatment of gender. because what are the acceptable ways for a woman to wield power, even in the alleged safe space of a fantasy?

I tend to categorize villainessekai protagonists into two broad categories, for that reason. the "actually evil," and the "unjustified victim." while there's of course a huge amount of nuance that can exist between these two categorizations, in practice they tend to be extremely rigid. what we are actually talking about here are fantasies of "unacceptable" and "acceptable" power wielding, and the protagonists tend to be constructed quite differently depending on which fantasy they cater to.

category one: the "actually evil." while these protagonists can be quite complicated and often are unjustly treated by the societies they are in, they are still women who wield a huge amount of power and take quite a lot of joy in beating people over the head with it. they're sexy, confident, and will achieve their goals no matter what it takes, even if it does mean being viewed as evil in the eyes of the world. these protagonists are actually usually not isekai'd - there is no body snatching involved. they are simply women who have had Enough with the world beating down on them, and have decided that they're going to fight back no matter what. time travel foreknowledge is common but not always necessary.

the power fantasy here is pretty clear cut to me. inhabiting the psyche of the evil, undesirable femme fatale is a fun power trip and lets the reader think about how nice it would be to just... not care about social opinion, and to effortlessly outwit and trap everyone who has ever been cruel to them. no more being niceys you can just start beating people to death with your epic magic or whatever.

villainess isekai is a romance genre. because of this, there is a layer of romantic fantasy involved as well. the fantasy that you'd be wanted because of your cruel or evil or ruthless traits, and not in spite of them. also maybe sometimes you want a man who will bark like a dog for you ok i won't linger on it but there does seem to be a fair amount of femdom undertones in a number of these

category two: the "unjustified victim." there's subcategories to this in my head, but the basic idea here is that our protagonist is Nice and does not deserve to be treated as a villainess. either she's been isekai'd into the body of someone who sucks and now has to deal with the fallout of actions she did not commit, or she (or her body host!) are being unfairly villainized and treated as a scapegoat by others. this category is populated hugely by doe-eyed ingenues. while there's a fair amount in this category who still possess some capacity for unkindness or spite against the ones who have wronged them, most of them are kind, loveable sweethearts who don't want to hurt a fly.

the power fantasy here, I would argue, is actually mostly a persecution fantasy. while there is of course nuance & a lot of authors have a ton of different takes on this, the fantasy here is one about being treated unjustly and proving the haters wrong, either by having someone step in and rescue you or by wielding power justly to defend yourself. the fantasy is about being acceptable all along, good all along, and just needing a chance to prove yourself.

the romantic fantasy element here is usually about having someone recognize your true worth. instead of believing all the shit about you being evil or cruel or whatever, someone is able to look past that and recognize that you are a beautiful and kind-hearted woman underneath. also, again, he will save you from the Haters. (the truly evil woman rarely needs a savior because the fantasy is about saving herself.)

because of this, we get two pretty clear constructions of femininity. we have a dark feminine and a light feminine. sexuality & evil, sweetness and kindness. weirdly i don't think the genre super often has much to say about this. it just simply Is. here's your power fantasy - what flavor do you like? sometimes there's some feminist reflection on this in-text but i rarely consider that like... valid... unless the entire story treats women besides the protagonist well. kinda hypocritical to reflect on the role of Evil Women and still have women who are treated as Evil Bitches by the narrative.

hey speaking of. those also are some secret other categories of woman.

i might have mentioned in another post that the villainess genre Loves to reinvent villainess tropes by recasting someone else as the "evil woman" to our "good or at least sufficiently projectable woman" protag? yeah so here they are.

there's the classic evil dark feminine, which I won't linger on because we've all seen it. she's a nasty possibly sexy conniving skank who wants to steal your man. we've all seen it. Next.

but what's interesting to me is that there's also a category of evil light feminine. these are called either "green tea bitches" or "white lotuses" by fans, and they are often (not always) the Original Protagonists of the story the actual protagonist has been isekai'd into. usually it's some kind of reveal that the entire original story was a foul unreliable narrator's trick, and the white lotus has been using her apparent innocence to torment and vex our poor protagonist.

but regardless of her role in the Original Story, the white lotus is always the same. she seems very sweet, very innocent, very pure, very acceptably feminine, but on the inside she's a living nightmare who weaponizes her femininity to hurt people.

if I'm being generous to the genre, this can be considered a valid reflection of the fact that there are some women who weaponize femininity in order to put down other women. many of us have met people like that. it happens. it might be considered a power fantasy to "defeat" that kind of woman.

if I'm being critical of the genre - which I almost always am - I would say that having defeated one boogeyman of Evil Woman by turning it acceptable, the villainess isekai genre must invent a new boogeyman to pit its protagonists against. we're just redefining the borders of which sort of woman is allowed to be relatable and good, rather than challenging the base notions of misogyny and patriarchy that lock women into eternal acceptability combat. oh no we have a fake acceptable woman who must be proven as a fraud! the real Good Woman is right here! etc.

sort of my endcap on Gender Thoughts here - i would note that almost none of these characters are anything other than extremely feminine. we have a few tomboyish or crossdressing protagonists here and there, but they almost always shed that in favor of ballgowns at some point or another. I've noticed this as an aspect of heterosexual romance, but it does feel very strange to me how much femininity is on display. as a nonbinary lesbian, the world of rofan always feels alien to me. whether antagonist or protagonist, whether the character is "acceptable" or "unacceptable" in her femininity, this is a world where being genuinely uninterested in femininity as a woman is nigh unthinkable. there is always an emphasis placed on the fact that she is in fact a woman, and one who will eventually be desirable to men, no matter what the circumstances are! you could draw a lot of conclusions from that. my personal conclusion is that het romance is kind of scary and highly based in affirming gender binaries. :(

[serpentface]

I know you've already touched on this in a few places, but I'd be really interested in a post about Wardi musical traditions! What instruments exist, and how common are they? Is music a part of any religious rituals? Are there ballads (or narrative songs more generally) about any of the folktales or historical events you've posted about? Is written notation a thing?

I haven't developed specific names for any of these instruments but here's some.

A simply made but versatile instrument, and one of the most commonly used. Most musical bows here use the mouth as a resonator (rather than adding hollow structures to the instrument itself) to directly modulate the sound, especially given they are traditionally sung into while played. The string can be struck, plucked, or bowed like a fiddle, and specialized mallets for this instrument are made to be capable of all these functions.

Most fiddles here have one string, the tone of which is modulated by fingering. Variants made from horns or plant stalks are most common given the relative scarcity of appropriate timber. The variants here with a fingerboard are a more recent adoption, with this style being introduced via intensified trade with western Inner Seaway peoples. Variants with 2-3 strings are extant here, but not as common.

Handheld and seated lyres are very popular instruments with a fairly long history here. They tend to be regarded as specifically classy instruments associated with upper class beauty and leisure, in comparison to more common fiddles and bows.

Drums here are pretty diverse, though fall along these three main shapes (in addition to some smaller percussive instruments). Out of all musical instruments, they tend to get the most priority for use of wood. They have the most fundamental importance to music and dance here in general, which tends to be built around heavy percussive elements.

Drums have the most specific integration into religious practice, in which they produce a symbolic heartbeat to influence movement of spirit. Specifically made 'heartbeat drums' used by priests are large and worn at the side via a strap, though technically any drum shape can fulfill the core function (in non-priestly contexts it's less about the form of the drum itself and more how it's used).

Their priestly use is to influence the movement of God's spirit within and throughout a ritual space (for example the drumming that accompanies the kagnoma odo is considered the physical mechanism through which troops are blessed, it moves the Odomache Face of God's living spirit through a mass of people). They are functionally considered to be icons of God (usually made explicit with the drum head bearing direct iconography) and made with physical relics of God's body (the drumskin will be derived from the relevant sacrificial animal when possible, the drapes will include relevant skins/fur/feathers either way). As such, these drums are holy objects and have restrictions upon their use and strict requirements for care and cleansing.

Other heartbeat drums are used in medical contexts (and considered related but distinct objects from the ones used by priests), in which they are one facet of healing, attempting to correct the physical flow of blood/spirit through a person's body for perceived benefits. This is usually supplementary to baseline treatments of ailments (ingestable/wearable medicines, bloodletting, and hard material interventions like bonesetting and wound cleaning), with the drumming being intended to cement or intensify their effects.

Items similar to the 7-Faced God Faith's heartbeat drum predate this religion and are fairly widespread among peoples south of the Viper, used in similar capacities where it is perceived as influencing the movement of spirit(s) and having healing capabilities.

---

In addition to the things I've drawn here, there's also harps, flutes, whistles, horns (usually actual horns or shells), bells, and a few types of rattles. Bullroarers have a history here for long distance communication but very limited place in musical/religious practice.

---

Music has pretty central religious importance both in the contexts of priests and laymen, a substantial proportion of both public and private rites require at least some form of musical accompaniment. A core underlying philosophy here treats music and dance as an analogue to the movements and rhythms of the world (seasons, weather, animals, the body, birth, death) and having the capability of exerting influence over these matters when used in a targeted capacity. It is one of the mechanisms understood to help make rituals Work (not necessary to all rites, but important to many).

A type of sung prayer called a coullagri initiates essentially any act of communion with God, whether it be a daily prayer practiced in solitude or a major public rite witnessed by hundreds. This is a summoning prayer, it functions to symbolically call God into the ritual space and begin direct interaction. This is a bit of a complicated notion given that God is functionally regarded as always present to begin with, Its living spirit (when not inhibited) flows through all things. It can be understood through the general underlying body/blood(as spirit) model- a coullagri is like inflicting a small wound to draw a bead of blood from a specific part of the body. The blood is always there regardless, but now it's directly accessible, its interactive.

All members of society are considered equipped to perform a coullagri in of itself, though Specific forms of the song are more restricted. Male heads of a family have obligations to perform the hearth coullagri when their home's central fire is lit (you Can light a hearth without your family patriarch present but it doesn't confer its intended dimensions of spiritual protection), will lead the song for any prayers performed as a group, and are reserved the right to perform it during the formal naming ceremony of a child. All officiated sacrifices have a lengthy coullagri to call God into the animal, and are accompanied by heartbeat drum to direct the movement of spirit upon release (both of these performances are specifically reserved for priests).

There's no completely solid line between spiritual and secular music. You sing while plowing fields and planting seeds to help the crops grow, you also just do it to pass the time during the labor. Loud, crude ballads sung while traveling might frighten off evil spirits, you also just sing them for fun. Most music that Has spiritual dimensions is not a particularly special or solemn affair, it's just kind of a part of mundane life.

Funerary wails are their own distinct musical tradition. These are songs that instruct the dead on how to leave their bodies and complete their journey to the lunar land, repeated in a marathon of a vocal performance for the duration of a cremation. They are usually accompanied by a drumbeat to provide guidance, but they are sung intentionally harshly, often shrieked and wailed. The din attempts to frighten off malicious spirits that might plague the dead, and offers levels of physical catharsis for the griever.

Variants on the funerary wail also have a place in marriage practices. In some traditions, a bride's mother is responsible for leading a funerary wail as the bride is first led away from the family home. This journey (in most cases quite short, across a village or to an adjacent one) is symbolically likened to the journey of the dead to the afterlife- the girl is leaving girlhood and her father's household and protection, and will be reborn as a full woman in her husband's household. This also has some of the funerary wail's functions of attempting to dispel bad luck and frighten away evil spirits that may do the girl harm during this liminal period, and also potentially as a cathartic outlet for grief (this Is functionally the loss of your child, especially in cases where they're being moved more than a short distance away).

The epic poetry tradition here is designed to be sung and performed with musical accompaniment. The most standard and basic of this is soft drumming with the hand as a mallet, more elaborate performances tend to utilize lyres in addition to (rather than as a replacement for) drums. These poems have rhythmic schemes built into their structure but no codified notation/tunes, a major facet of their recital is how each individual bard puts their own spin on their delivery. Most major historical events have associated poems (and thus songs), some of which have been adapted into shorter folk songs.

I don't have any specific ballads/folk songs/etc worked out outside of very vague concepts (it's actually something I've been meaning to work on). The one area that's A Little fleshed out is herding songs. They have somewhat unique conventions, in that they serve in part to call your animals and communicate over long distances. They tend to be sung partly or wholly in falsetto and often lack the rhythmic bounding that tends to characterize most Wardi music. A lot of older herding songs have been adapted into more conventional ballads, particularly the humorous ones or the more romantic ones (focused on eventual returns home).

I have a little more info on the specific herding song traditions in the Highlands. These fall into two main variants- cattle calls/contact calls, and walking songs. The contact calls are performed in higher tones/falsetto to carry over long distances and have practical functions, in summoning your animals and establishing contact with villages downland/other herders (usually just as a signal that you're still alive, though sometimes to communicate more complex information over a distance). Walking songs are more conventional ballads and mostly serve to alleviate boredom. These are usually performed in a baritone and fairly quietly so as to Not attract attention. The ones that don't focus on cattle tend to fall into the basic thematic categories of 'I'm in wild spirit country and there's things up here with me (but I'm being so chill about it)' and 'I can't wait to get home and fuck my wife'.

[inesbaby21]

okay i have 2 requests. could you do a fic or headcanons about kk and genos daughter who is on uconn’s dance team? and then could you do a fic or headcanons about inês and reader like how they met, cute fluffy moments, and then when she transfers how the relationship is?

Ofc, im going to do the KK one first and then the Ines one will come out later today!

SECRET LOVE SONG, PART I (its going to be a series)

1st Person P.O.V

I sat in the stands with a few girls on the dance team, watching the girls practice. I never really clicked with basketball like my dad had hoped, but once he saw how good at dance I was and how determined to be the best he began to support me unconditionally!

"Hey Y/n, what's it like having Geno as a dad" one of the girls asked, it was a question I got probably a million times but my answer remains the same.

"Just like having any other dad, he's caring, he's respectful, and had always put me first" I said eyes focused on the court. The girls were doing defensive drills, and from looking at the score the once winning team had lost, causing them to do baselines.

The girls continued to talk until I heard my name called from the court, "Y/N M/N AURIEMMA" I hear my father call.

"And that's my call ladies" put your practice uniforms and shoes on" I giggled "Hustle, Hustle" I said skipping down the stairs looking for where exactly my pa was located.

" You look gorgeous today Y/N" he said, probably to butter me up before asking a ridiculous favor from me. "So, our photographer called out again, something about her baby being sick" he said keeping eye contact with me throwing down hints I slowly began to pick up on. "So, what i'm getting from this conversation, is you want me to go back to my dorm- get my camera's, set up and take pictures of the your girls?" I said with my eyebrow raised

"If you wouldn't mind, I know you have dance things to do with your team today but we really need pictures for the media honey" he said rubbing my shoulder, and with that, I had one of the older girls go back to the dorms to get my 3 cameras and set up.

After I was done setting up I sat in the nearest chair, and began to watch. A few minutes later, my dad rounded up all of the girls (including me) after a short water break. "Girl's as you know, Jane can't be here for todays practice, and I had to find a replacement Y/N will be taking pictures for the media today" He said with his arm around his shoulder hugging me a little. "Hi, I'm Y/N" I said as one of the seniors on the dance team called for me

"Y/N/N where are youuuu" she dragged out the embarrassing nickname, causing me to lunge for her!

"Seiana" I huffed I'm in the middle of something i said as I looked back to my father who I could see (from the corner of my eye) laughing his ass off from my immediate reaction to shut the 5'11 girl up.

"SeiSei, will you make sure the girls are behaving, and SITTING court-side" I said giving her a look that told her all. "Duh, why wouldn't I" Seiana said rolling her eyes, and as more girls walked in she began to "relay" the message that "Y/N/N has daddy duties, so sit quite and let her sort this out and then we can practice"

I found myself walking back over to the group, ultimately finding a (not my original) spot next to a brown skinned girl. "So now that Y/N/N is back, we can continue ladies- any questions" my dad asked as a girl began to connect the dots. "So you're Y/N, like Y/N Auriemma" a girl who's presence would soon become something surreal in my life asked.

"That's me, the one and only" I said giggling "Alright, Alright ladies let's get back to work" my dad said as they broke off and got back to their spots.

I sat court-side with some other freshman on the dance team, snapping a few pictures of us and then a few of the girls.

A girl, which i now knew as KK ran up beside me reaching over me to get her water bottle, eventually taking a seat next to me. "Hey" she said sitting the now half empty water bottle down. "Hi, you guys are really good at basketball ball" I said like an idiot. cmon of course they're good Y/N you saw most of them play in high school when your dad went scouting my conscious said. "Your dad's a good coach" she replied catching her breath, and tearing her eyes away from the drills the girls began to run once again. "He is great at what he does" i giggled, and began to tell her all about my childhood and all of the now wnba stars I got to grow up around. " He seems like a good dad" KK said keeping contact with me.

I realize the more we began to talk, the closer kk got to me and eventually her shoulder began to bump against mines as we chatted some more. " Ouuuu Y/N/N! okay we see you girl" Sevyn (Seiana's) ridiculously loud girlfriend as as she walked in with more of the dance teams equipment. "Oh my goodness Sevyn, do NOT start with me right now". I said turning to face Seiana, and her overgrown child of a girlfriend with the meanest stank face I could conjure at the moment. Kk began to laugh and push me a little, laughing even harder- the commotion brought attention to my dad who finally (unfortunately) realized that Kk was on a much longer break than needed.

"K-KK, KK GOD GET OVER HERE" my father yelled and that was her cue to get back up, and into her spot before he started a 6 hr lecture.

A/N - this seemed kinda long/kinda ish well written (i spent maybe 25/35 mins on it so.) ITS NOT PROOF READ. and IT IS THE FIRST PART. GIVE ME SOME CANON EVENTS TO ADD/SOME MORE PLOT GUYS 😞

A/N pt. 2 - i almost only see white ocs/y/ns for kk so that's most definitely changing with this series. And tbh you guys could see Y/N as adopted (i do for like not ruining Geno's happy marriage irl) OR you could see her as his bio daughter.

A/N pt.3- I also see Y/n as black for this series( and all of my future series fym), not only that but she is a freshman in college too i didn't want to give her a crazy age gap from KK.

[freakycore]

🎧 now playing: rockstar reverie pt.2

rockstar!gojo satoru x fem!reader ₊˚ෆ

following their explosive performance, unresolved friction behind the scenes hints at deeper complications within the band.

part one

a week after their explosive performance, the band reconvened at geto‘s apartment— their unofficial practice space. the scent of takeout and faint traces of incense lingered in the air, mixing with the him of a distant baseline. gojo arrived late, as usual, sunglasses perched on his nose even though the sun had long set. he was expecting the usual: geto brewing tea, shoko lounging with a cigarette, and the faint chaos of instruments strewn across the room.

what he wasn’t expecting was you.

you sat cross legged on the couch, scrolling through your phone as if you’d always belonged there. you were out of the stage lights now, dressed casually in leggings and an oversized ba d tee, but the same magnetic energy lingered around you. gojo froze in the doorway, his usual swagger faltering.

“hey, you’re late,” geto called from the kitchen, a smirk tugging at his lips. “not like we were waiting on you or anything.”

“what’s she doing here?” gojo blurted, ignoring the jab. his tone came out sharper than he intended, earning a glance from you.

you raised an eyebrow. “good to see you too, rockstar.”

geto strolled over, mug in hand. “she’s here because she’s got a spot on the team now. figured we make it official.”

gojo whipped off his sunglasses, glaring at his friend. “official? are you serious?”

“why not?” geto shrugged, leaning against the counter. “she killed it last night, didn’t she?”

“yeah, but—“ gojo gestured vaguely, searching for a valid objection. his mind flashed back to the way the crowd erupted, the way your voice filled the venue, the way you’d poured water over yourself mid-performance, and…

"you're blushing," shoko said from her usual spot by the window, a cigarette dangling from her fingers. she didnt even bother looking up.

"i’m not blushing,” gojo snapped, running a hand through his hair. “i’m just… surprised. we don’t even know her.”

“speak for yourself,” geto said. “i’ve known her for years. she’s good people.”

you stood, crossing the room to grab a water bottle from the cluttered counter. “relax, rockstar. i’m not here to mess up your precious band. i’m here to make it better.”

your confidence was infuriating— and distracting. gojo crossed his arms, forcing himself to look unimpressed. “we’ll see about that.”

“oh, you will,” you shot back, smirk mirroring his own.

shoko exhaled a cloud of smoke, cutting through the tension. “if you two are down flirting, maybe we can actually rehearse?”

gojo’s jaw dropped. “flirting? i…i…”

geto laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “welcome to the team, rookie. looks like you’ve already got satoru on his toes.”

you grinned, raising your water bottle in a mock toast. “here’s to keeping it that way.”

gojo huffed, grabbing his guitar and muttering under his breath. but as the first notes of their set filled the room, he couldn’t help but steal a glace at you.

rehearsal kicked off in the usual chaos, with geto and shoko barely bothering to tune their instruments before launching into a rhythm. you were quick to fall into step, voice slipping into the melody like it had always been part of the band. gojo, however, couldn’t focus. his fingers fumbled over the strings, and his timing was slightly off—a rare occurrence for him.

“yo, satoru, you good?” geto asked after a particularly botched riff.

“i’m fine,” gojo snapped, though his eyes flickered towards you. you was standing by the mic, eyebrows raised, clearly amused.

“doesn’t look fine,” shoko murmured, plucking out a lazy bassline as if she hadn’t noticed the mounting tension.

you leaned into the mic, your tone teasing. “maybe he’s just nervous. y’know, performing with a rookie and all.”

gojo’s grip on his guitar tightened. “nervous? please. i don’t get nervous.”

“could’ve fooled me,” you quipped, smirking.

geto chuckled, cutting in before gojo could retort. “alright, let’s take five. don’t need you two tearing each other apart before our next gig.”

as the others drifted off—shoko to light another cigarette, geto to check his phone—gojo found himself alone with you. fiddling with the mic stand, your casual confidence still grating on him.

“you really think you can just waltz in here and keep up with us?” he asked, stepping closer. his tone was sharper than he intended, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

you looked up, meeting his gaze without flinching. “I don’t think. I know.”

your certainty was maddening. gojo ran a hand through his hair, letting out a frustrated laugh. “you’ve got guts, i’ll give you that.”

“thanks, rockstar,” you said, tone dripping with sarcasm. “but maybe save the compliments for after i’ve proven you wrong again.”

“again?”

you shrugged, smirk widening. “last week wasn’t enough proof?”

he opened his mouth to respond, but geto’s voice cut through the tension. “alright, lovebirds, break’s over. let’s get back to it.”

heat rose to gino’s cheeks as he turned away, pretending to check his guitar. but as they launched into the next set, he couldn’t shake the feeling that she was already in his head—and wasn’t planning on leaving anytime soon.

aki aftertalk: just a little blurt that’s been in my mind, i’m actually thinking of turning this into a short series :3 i’m loving this au and wanna write more and not at the same time lol

[eddiexmunsonlover]

One Step Away From You (Chapter 13)

BSF!Eddie Munson x PlusSize!GF!Reader

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Chapter Summary: You and Eddie finally give in to your carnal desires. WC: 4k Warnings: MDNI 18+ Fluff and Smut, Smut and Fluff. Unprotected piv, grinding, marking, creampie. First time I've written smut in a long time, hope it's not terrible! Series taglist: @eddie-is-a-god @siriusmaraudeers @amandahobblepot @littlexdeaths

Friday, February 28th, 1986

A smoky haze hangs in Eddie’s room long after the cherry on your last shared joint died out. It’s your typical Friday night together after Hellfire, watching a movie between breaks to taste one another's lips. With the movie over, you’ve moved from the loveseat to Eddie’s bed, laying at opposite ends with guitars in lap, your leg atop his. Fingers seamlessly matching each other’s rhythm, soft smiles thrown with red, half-lidded eyes.

If you hadn’t been inseparable before, the two of you were practically attached at the hip over the last 2 weeks since that night at Lover’s Lake, and you swear it’s the happiest you’ve been in your life. All the time spent together, every time you feel his touch or his lips on yours, you can’t describe the feeling as anything else but high, floating in the clouds. Your friends are just as happy to see you finally together, unsure of how much more of the games they could bear witness to.

You play the last shared chord of the song, the weed making the two of you all smirks and giggles as you spare a glance to each other.

“I love playing with you, babe.” Eddie begins, eyes following as you lean to take a sip of your drink from the bedside table. “We’re just… so in sync”

Your hand reaches for his, squeezing it in agreement before stealing a quick kiss from his lips.

“What do you want to play next?” You ask, settling back into your spot at the end of the bed.

Eddie readjusts his slumped position, resting his back fully against the wall.

“You know, you still haven’t played me any of your songs since you’ve been back, Miss singer-songwriter.”

“Yeah…” you draw out as shyness creeps in, tinting your cheeks in blush while you avoid his gaze, fingers toying with the tuner on your strings.

“Sooooo” his foot nudges your leg resting on top of it. “Why don’t you play me something, pretty please?” 

Turning your gaze back, you’re met with his pretty doe eyes. With a deep sigh, you give in.

“Okay, okay. But you have to promise not to judge, I never said I was good.” 

You mimic his earlier movements, setting your posture straight before adjusting your strings.

“Oh, please. I already know you’re gonna blow me away.”

You can’t help but to cut your eyes at him playfully, an unwavering boyish smile etched on his face.

You mull over the handful of songs you’ve written over the last few years, some you’re more confident in than others. Only one song sticks out the most, your most recent, your most vulnerable.

“This is um, a song I’ve been writing over the last couple months.”

He watches you in anticipation, arms crossed over the guitar in his lap. With one last look at him and his excitement from finally getting to hear your work, you bring your eyes down to the guitar in your lap. Taking a deep breath, you let yourself step into the uncomfortable vulnerability. 

You let your eyelids fall closed, tongue darting out to wet your lips before your fingers begin strumming the baseline, head softly bobbing along. Humming the missing main guitar line you’ve written with it. 

Part of you is grateful it doesn’t give you the time to hesitate before you start singing.

“Whenever I’m alone with you,

You make me feel like I am home again.

Whenever I’m alone with you, 

You make me feel like I am whole again.”

Glimpses of memories flood your mind, from that day in 1976 when your eyes first met to the events of the last few weeks, and every emotion that comes with them.

“Whenever I’m alone with you, 

You make me feel like I am young again.

Whenever I’m alone with you, 

You make me feel like I am fun again.”

Despite already being shut, your eyes squeeze closed harder as you’re overcome with the emotion of it all, your love for Eddie. Raising goosebumps all along your skin. 

Nights spent alone in your room since your return to Hawkins, guitar in lap as Eddie would linger in your mind. Your repressed love and the way he makes you feel materializing through the lyrics, falling from your lips with ease.

“However far away,

I will always love you.

However long I stay, 

I will always love you.

Whatever words I say,

I will always love you.

I will always love you.”

The feeling is indescribable, thinking back to the moments you wrote these lyrics when you thought your love was unrequited, to singing your love song to Eddie now as his girlfriend.

You hum along to the guitar solo, teeth digging into your bottom lip to stifle the wetness surrounding your eyes.

A heaviness hangs in your chest and throat with the vulnerability, you can feel your cheeks burning. Refusing to meet it but feeling his eyes on you while you sing your literal heart out for him.

“However far away,

I will always love you.

However long I stay, 

I will always love you.

Whatever words I say,

I will always love you.

I will always love you.”

With a final pluck of the last chord, the sound fades out until your ears are only met with silence. Taking a shaky deep breath, you chance opening your vision to see Eddie’s reaction.

You’re met with glossy eyes, mouth slightly agape, evidence of a single tear painted streak on his cheek.

“You-” wetting his lips, he gulps down the lump in his throat. “Did you write that for me?” he manages to ask in a hoarse whisper.

You give a small nod, chest quickly rising and falling with the anxiety and anticipation of the moment.

In a second, his guitar is off and placed on the floor before he’s crawling to you. Hand sliding to the back of your neck, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss. Feeling the dampness of his cheek pressed against yours.

Your lips part only for a second to remove your own guitar before raising yourself to your knees, hands splaying against the cotton material covering his back.

“I love you too, sweetheart.” he mumbles against your lips, stealing another kiss before parting from them again. “No one has ever done anything like that for me before…”

A soft smile plays on your lips, thumb stroking his cheekbone.

“You deserve it. You don’t know how special you are to me, Eds.”

His lips crash into yours again as his arms wrap around your waist, pulling your body flush against him. The action knocks you both off balance, pushing Eddie back and pulling you with him. Your lips never part in the fall, only becoming deeper and more passionate as you land on his pillows. 

The warmth of his calloused hand meets your lower back, sliding under your shirt as your tongues eagerly greet each other. Noses brushing while your tongues engage in a dance you’ve practiced many times over the last 2 weeks. And yet, the intense feelings that come with it do not fade with each occasion your lips have met. Soft moans rising from your throats with each twirl of his tongue around yours. Your fingers finding their new favorite place, nestled in his curls as your thigh lays across his hips, the temptation to fully straddle him and grind your core against his becoming increasingly harder to fight. You’re unable to stop your hips from pressing into his side, seeking any sort of friction between your legs. 

You’re hoping this is it, tonight will be the night you finally take things to the next step. Not left in sexual frustration after your attentions are redirected to another activity, just when you’re brought to the brink of pushing things further. Relieving yourself the second you return to your own bed. 

Having an active sexdrive is no news to you, well versed in pleasuring yourself, more often than not to thoughts of Eddie before bed every night. But since confessing your feelings to each other and spending your free afternoons and evenings with your tongues down each other's throats, your libido has only been sent into overdrive.

You have to admit the constant unspoken denial to your urges have opened the door for thoughts of doubt to creep in. You know the way Eddie feels about you, and you’d like to believe he wants you just as much. You yourself were wary of the pacing of things with Eddie in the beginning, until you realized your relationship is not like anyone else's, nor should it follow the same path or timeline designated by others either. After spending years holding back your feelings, it only makes sense things would move a little fast after they’ve finally been put into the open and reciprocated. You’d figured Eddie would feel the same.

Now it’s been 2 weeks and with multiple passed up opportunities to take things further, you’re only left in confusion. You know he’s been with others before you in far shorter of a time. You only hope you’re overthinking it all and those concerns will be a thing of the past after tonight.

Your hope is cut short when his lips part from yours. Soft pants pouring from his plump lips.

“Do you uh- you wanna watch another movie?”

Your brows raise in disbelief at him as you attempt to catch your own breath. Your frustration boiling over, your head falls onto his chest with a groan.

“I take that as a no?” he lets out a lighthearted chuckle that fades when your head tilts back up, disappointment and uncertainty displayed in your eyes and features.

“Eddie… do you not want to have sex with me?” you ask softly, feebly fighting the hints of insecurity from weaving into your voice. His eyes slightly widen while his brows furrow.

“W-What?”

A frustrated sigh falls from your mouth, propping yourself up with a hand on his chest.

“Every time we do this, every time things get heated and start to go in that direction… you just stop, divert to something else, distract me… I-I don’t know what to think.”

“Baby. Believe me, I want to. You don’t know how hard it’s been to hold myself back, it’s been downright torturous but I… I don’t want to make you feel rushed.” He takes a deep breath to collect himself and his words. “I just think about all you’ve been through, the way others have made you feel and I don’t ever want you to feel like that again, to feel used. I just wanted it to be clear that you…us…it’s more than sex for me, and I guess I thought I needed to take things slow for that.”

“Eddie… how could I ever think that about you? That you could ever be anything like him? I understand where you’re coming from but…don’t you think we’ve already taken it slow enough? Everything? All these years?”

You take a moment to read each other's eyes, his fingertips ghosting along the skin of your arm.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

You can’t help but laugh at the question.

“Eddie, I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

He wastes no more than a second to return his lips to yours, rolling over till you’re on your back and his waist is nestled between your thighs. They quickly wrap around him, holding his body against you as your mouths pick up where you left off, only now with no restraint. 

It soon becomes strikingly clear how much Eddie had been holding himself back when his hips grind into yours, a hand slowly gliding up your leg. You can feel the hard outline of his cock through his jeans, pulling a whiny moan from your lips when it grinds against your aching clit.

Your hands find the hem of his shirt, quickly yanking it off for your hands to explore the warm bare skin on his back. His mouth leaves a slow trail kisses from your lips to along your jawline. Fingers in your hair tightening to gently pull your head back, granting him full access for his mouth to explore and attack your neck. Your moans no longer muffled by his lips, they grow louder as he sucks, sending chills down your spine and straight to your pussy, desperately gripping around nothing as your thighs tighten around his waist. An airy, but smug chuckle fills your ears.

“Did I find one of your sensitive spots, sweetheart?”

You can only whimper in acknowledgement and it only makes him harder. Gently kissing and licking the quickly bruising spot on your neck as his free hand toys with your shirt.

“Let’s take this off. I wanna see you, all of you.”

He lifts himself up just enough to help remove your tank top, biting his lip watching you fumble with the hooks on your bra. You look up at him with your gorgeous eyes, removing your bra and throwing it across the room.

His eyes nearly bulge out of his head, breath hitching at not just the sight of your breasts, but the shiny metal accessorizing them. 

“Holy shit” he breathes out as his hands begin sliding up the bare skin of your hips to your waist. “When did you do this?”

“My birthday.” you answer, watching his reaction in amusement.

You lean into his touch as his hands cup your breasts, sighing in pleasure as he kneads and massages them.

“So fucking sexy…” he mutters more so to himself than you before he begins to lean in, intent on letting his tongue play with your nipples.

“Wait, Eds.” your hand presses against his chest, halting his movements. “You can’t touch them, they’re not healed yet.”

“W-Well how much longer?”

“Probably another few month-”

“MONTHS?” His head falls back with a groan as he looks up to the ceiling, as if begging god for mercy. “Why must you tease me like this?”

You giggle at his dramatics, “I think you’ll survive.”

“Hmph, barely. I guess the wait will be worth it.”

He flashes you his signature smile, leaning in to give you another deep kiss before his mouth trails south. Wet, open mouth kisses along your skin between your breasts and down your plush stomach. Biting your lip as you watch him leave small pecks on each stretch mark he sees decorating your skin, inching closer to your core, fighting your thighs from trembling in anticipation. 

As his fingers dig underneath the waistband of your tights, he glances up to you as if asking for permission. With an eager nod he pulls them down, carelessly throwing them off the bed with his eyes glued to your pussy. Mouth hanging open, his hands grip the back of your thighs, pushing them back and out, making your lips spread for him.

“Fucckkkk. Your pussy’s so pretty, baby.” he mutters, laying himself down for his face to hover above your core, looking you over in admiration. A finger slowly drags from your clit down to your soaking hole. “And so fucking wet for me.”

Your face grows even more red from the exposed position, his praises, the sexual build up in your body begging for release. Needy moans bubble out of your throat when his thumb begins circling your clit.

“Eddie, please. I need you, baby. Need to feel you inside me.” 

If you were in your right mind, you’d probably be embarrassed by your desperate pleas, but they only turn Eddie on more. Making him groan as his cock becomes painfully hard, throbbing from the confinement.

He leans back onto his heels, hurriedly unbuckling his belt and yanking down his jeans. Your thighs involuntarily close to provide some friction at the sight of his cock being released from his boxers. You’re mesmerized at the sight, nearly drooling as you admire his length and girth, the vein running along his shaft, the contrast of his metal rings against his pale skin as they glide up and down his length. Your thighs quickly spread back open for him as he crawls between your legs. He notices the way you’re staring at him, and though lust fills your eyes, he bites his lip in nervousness. 

Eddie knows you’re not a virgin, but this is only your second time. His cock isn’t the biggest in the world, but it is bigger than average.

“I promise I’ll go slow, just tell me if you need me to stop, okay?” 

The gentleness of his voice, his promise, his touch as his hand holds your cheek only makes you want him more. With a nod, his lips are back on yours, slotting himself between your legs with the weight of  his body lying on yours. Warm, bare skin pressed against each other, grinding his cock between your folds, collecting your slick along his shaft. Whimpering into his mouth with each nudge of his tip against your clit.

He can’t wait any longer, reaching down to guide his tip to your hole. Slowly teasing your entrance, sliding the tip of his cock in and out. Breathy moans against each other's lips.

When he feels you’re ready, he slides himself inch by inch into you. Warm, wet walls wrapping tight around him. The delicious burn of his girth stretching you out in ways you’ve never felt before, throwing your head back against the pillows as a gasping moan tumbles from your lips.

“Jesus H. Christ” a guttural moan bubbles from his throat, burying his face into your shoulder as he fully seats himself inside you.

He doesn’t dare move, letting you adjust to his size while trying to keep himself from cumming too quickly. Years of desire and tension threatening to be fully released far too soon. You feel even better than he imagined, much better.

With a deep breath, his hips begin to rock back and forth. With one hand holding himself up, the other cradles the back of your head as yours grip onto his back. Your slick coating his cock with each stroke, quickly easing the pain of his stretch to turn into pure pleasure. Your thighs wrapping around him, foreheads pressed together as you stare into each other's eyes. Mouths hanging open as moans fall free.

“Eddieee” a needy whimper when his tip brushes against your sweet spot.

“Do you need me to stop, sweetheart?” he asks breathlessly, halting his strokes.

“God no, please don’t stop” your heels press into his lower back, pushing his cock deep back into you. “You feel so good”

“Fuck, baby. So do you, gripping me so tight” He groans, pressing his lips against yours as he picks up his pace. The sounds of your wetness, skin slapping skin filling his bedroom, mixing in with your moans. 

Your nails dig into his back as you’re filled with pleasure, with each stroke of his cock in and out of your pussy. His eyes roll to the back of his head, parting from your lips with a whimper.

“Fuck, I don’t know how much longer I can last. Feel too good, wanted this, wanted you for so long, baby” he rambles breathlessly, eyes squeezed shut as he focuses on trying not to bust so quickly when your sweet pussy keeps sucking him in, squeezing him so tight.

“I want it, Eds. I wanna make you cum.”

“Shit, sweetheart. Where do you want it?”

“Inside, fuck, I want you to cum in me.”

“Oh my god” 

A hand slides underneath you, wrapping around your waist while the other remains cradling your head. He buries his face in your neck, searching for your sensitive spot. Hoping it’s enough to help you cum with him. The way your nails dig deeper in his back, the way you repeatedly call out his name with his mouth latching onto your neck tells him you’re close. 

“That’s it, baby. Cum for me.” he mutters against your neck, picking up the speed of his thrusts.

It sends you over the edge with a squeal of pleasure, legs shaking, your walls squeezing him tight with a death grip.

He once thought your laugh was his favorite sound in the world. After tonight, it’s dropped down to second place.

The way your pussy pulses around his cock through your orgasm finally makes him falter, groaning your name as he pushes himself as deep as he can inside you, filling you with his cum. 

Your chests heave against each other, bodies relaxing with your release. Panting to catch your breaths. The mix of your juices dripping down your ass and onto his bed sheets beneath you.

After a minute passes, lust no longer clouding his mind, Eddie raises his head from your neck to look at you.

“Did I really just..”

“I’m on birth control, remember?” You chuckle as his face immediately relaxes, head falling back to your neck.

“Oh thank god” he mumbles into your skin, arms wrapping tight around you as your fingers slip into his hair, gently rubbing against his scalp.

You rest there for a few minutes collecting yourselves, evening your breaths and heart rates.

His lips find yours again with slow kisses as he pulls his soft cock from inside you. Moving to lay next to you, pulling you to lay with your back against his chest.

He offers you your drink, quenching your dry throat from the countless moans he fucked out of you. A lit cigarette soon finds its way to your fingers and lips, wordlessly passed between the two of you.

Your head rests back against his shoulder, his arm wrapped around your waist, hand resting on your stomach.

As you lay in each other’s embrace in utter relaxation, all tension and worries fully released from your mind and body, a question of pure curiosity hangs in your mind.

“Eds, can I ask you something?”

“Of course, anything.” he answers, blowing smoke from his lips.

“When did you know? That you felt more for me than just a friend?” you ask, turning your head to peer up at him. He smiles down at you before putting out the cigarette, letting his hand fall to rub up and down your arm.

“It’s uh, hard to pinpoint an exact moment.” he begins with a sigh. “Sometimes seems like I’ve had these feelings for as long as I can remember. 

Maybe it was one of the first few times you snuck out of your trailer when your parents fought and came to Wayne’s, and I’d realized I was that person you wanted to go to to feel safe.

Or whenever something would happen, good or bad, you were always the first person I wanted to tell.

Or maybe it was one of the countless times I’d look at you and wish I could kiss you, hoping I’d always have you in my life.

Or when you left and I stopped hearing from you. The way my heart broke at the thought I’d never see or hear from you ever again.

Or every time I was with another girl… you were always just there in my mind, I’d see your face in theirs.

And when you came back, the way my heart both fluttered and sank to my ass at the sight of you…”

His eyes meet yours, hand moving from your arm to let his fingertips ghost along your jawline.

“I’ve realized I love you so many times, sweetheart. I just never imagined in all those moments… you were falling in love with me too.”

Emotions overwhelm you, a tear falling from your eye as your heart swells in your chest. His finger lands under your chin, tilting your head up to meet his soft lips, your body turning to fully face him, deepening the kiss.

“I love you so much, sweetheart.”

“I love you too, Eds.”