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buckiverse · 10 months ago

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Surrender to You

☆--- paring: sylus x reader

☆--- summary: You suggested a reluctant marriage of convenience due to your struggles in the N109 Zone. Now Sylus, will show you what it truly means to surrender both body and heart to him.

☆--- word count: 6.2k

☆--- warnings: mdni, oral sex, mating press, missionary, bit of background story (not really lore accurate), reader is a virgin, soft!dom sylus, size kink if you squint, sylus is in love fr, no protection is used (wrap it before you tap it)

☆--- a/n: the amount of time it took me to edit this was a bit ridiculous

The N109 Zone has danger lurking throughout it. From the darkest alleys to the stores, they all had one thing in common: The prioritization of information. That is your current motivation. You need more information and quick. Since the death of your beloved family members, you could no longer be complacent. It’s been hard being left in the dark. You thought you could trust the hunter’s association to be honest with you, but that was a lie.

You asked around a lot… from your hunting partner, Xavier, to your colleague Tara and even your boss, Jenna. No one could answer you honestly. Most of them barely “knew” what the N109 Zone was besides the fact that it was perilous. But that much was obvious.

You took to your own devices, relying on your resourcefulness. You looked online and did intensive research. All you could find out was that a significant catastrophe had transpired... Wander's took over, something to do with the state of protocores, resulting in a significant division between city areas. As a result, the sub-city known as the N109 Zone was established. You could not explain why, but you were sure it was due to the deaths of your parents, as well as your grandmother and childhood friend.

Initially, the plan was to invade the area, get information, meet some people, and decipher everything while remaining incognito. Unfortunately, it didn’t go that way. You were kidnapped by the most prominent organization in the N109 Zone, Onyichinus. Run by… Sylus? “Yeah, who the hell was that?” you thought aloud. You had never heard of this dude; I mean Onyichinus... Yes. But, even the Hunter’s Association defined the organization as faceless. It was an arduous task to uncover the head of the unit.

So that is how you ended up here, making a bargain with the devil. The other factions in the area had been restless since discovering your Protocore Syndrome. It was considered a hot commodity. Everywhere you turned, there was danger. This made your job to find the truth more difficult. As a result, you only partially appreciated Sylus's presence.

“Look, all I want is some information,” you said. Your eyes narrowed as you took in Sylus’s figure.

“Ah, is that so? And what exactly do you want to know? Everything comes with a price.” he replied. His head tilted slightly, a slight smirk forming on his lips.

You thought carefully, considering your following response. “It’s not your business; just know that intelligence on Protocore Syndrome has spread, and it’s impossible to handle business. So I’d like to make a deal.”

“And what would that be?” Sylus reacted with amusement.

You replied swiftly, not missing a beat. “We should marry,” you responded confidently.

Sylus arched an eyebrow, his eyes flashing with something, almost a mix of interest and amusement– that smug bastard, you thought. You attempted to hide your scour; you needed this more than you needed to get one over on the gray-haired man.

“And how does this deal benefit me?”

“That’s for you to decide and for us to discuss,” you acknowledged. A great silence overcame the room of Sylus's office. You stared at him, holding your resolve, waiting for a reply.

“Deal”, he replied suddenly. You disguised your surprise, sticking out your right hand to shake his. “Good then.” You said, recovering swiftly.

“I will handle the guests; you handle the small planning details. Utilize Luke, Kieran, and my card.” Your thoughts were threatened by disbelief. The ease with which he was complying with this was astounding. You wondered, honestly, what Sylus gets out of the arrangement. You told yourself it's nothing to do with you. Finding the truth is what matters; this is only one more step to complete your goal.

☆---

The venue you chose was stunning. The ceiling mirrored the most beautiful mosaics. The depictions of gods and angels were magnificent. You had never seen something so gorgeous. You reflected on the story presented in the ceiling. What would your life be like under this 'arrangement'? This was serious. It was real and binding. You were having second thoughts, wondering if the information was worth it all. But you encouraged yourself, "Of course, it’s worth it, y/n! How can you live the rest of your life without knowing the truth?” you affirmed aloud, looking around the venue. Everything felt real now. It's only been a few weeks at the Onyichinus base, but it has been productive intel-wise.

Moving on through your tour, you looked straight ahead at the expansive hall where the ceremony would occur. It was covered in intricate detail. The mosaic patterns worked down the walls, creating various shapes of circles and rectangles in its stead. In front of the walls was a white display of roses. The flowers were delicately spread throughout the venue, covering the reflected pattern on the marble floors. You moved your feet, looking to where the audience would be. Your heart plummeted when you realized you would only know Sylus, Luke, and Kieran. "It is just business, y/n," you said to yourself, adjusting your expression.

You truly outdid yourself; aside from the grandeur of the ceiling and walls, the remainder of the venue echoed the luxurious color schemes of white and black, with gold touches throughout. It was beautiful, but it was purely professional. Despite the vibrancy around you, you could not help but feel the sterility of the place. You kept your guard up, even to yourself. This is a warzone, and you have allowed Sylus to invite danger.

As you walked to the reception area, you could not help but admire the luxurious atmosphere. The black marble floors mirrored the massive tree in the center of the room. Chandeliers dangled from the strong branches, illuminating the space. You wandered around the white gold seats and tables, admiring the centerpieces. A glass foundation supported large bouquets of white roses in the center of the table. Each table had the right tableware and a black tablecloth folded into black swans. Reminding you of the rationale for your decision, you must persevere to achieve actual change.

You looked up as you approached the grand double doors at the end of the hall and noticed Sylus watching you silently. "I trust you managed the guest list," you remarked, jerking out of your thoughts. “Of course, sweetie. Only the most important people. Though I did include a few surprises—what is a wedding without some fun?" he quipped. You rolled your eyes at that. Why is he always insisting on pet names? This is not meant to be authentic.

“This is supposed to be a business arrangement, Sylus. ‘Fun’ wasn't exactly part of the plan.” You sighed harder than you wanted to, and Sylus simply responded with a slight smirk and laughter.

“Whatever you say… sweetie.” He then turned and made his way out of the wedding venue, leaving you standing there in shock. “Well–are you coming? Assuming you’re hungry, should I let you continue standing there looking lost?” You felt your face flush.

“Fine,” you said, quickly moving through the grand double doors. You slipped outside, watching as Sylus opened the car door for you.

☆---

A few days later, you found yourself in the venue's dressing room, staring yourself down. “This is fucking crazy,” you exclaimed. The realization struck once more: this is happening.

You were wearing the most stunning gown. It was covered in thousands of tiny diamonds, sewn individually into the dress. The neckline reminded you of a wide v-neck as it rested between the valley of your breasts. Pushing them out just enough–you looked amazing. The dress was perfectly fitted to your curves, and you turned to admire your backside, noticing the cutout of the dress. The fabric rested just above the crack of your ass, but you could not help but admire your good looks.

‘One thing Sylus definitely can provide is unlimited money,’ you laughed out loud. Turning back to face yourself, you admired the mermaid bottom of the dress accentuating your curvy body. You felt like a whole new person.

Your swirling thoughts were cut short by the knocking on the door. “Yes?” you replied, swiftly turning towards the sound. Luke and Kieran opened the door and made their entrance. "Wow," they said in unison. "You look so beautiful, y/n!" Luke said. "The boss will undoubtedly love this dress on you," Kieran remarked. "And off," Luke added, getting pushed in the arm by Kieran. Your cheeks warmed at the statement; you had not considered consummating the marriage.

Because once again, this is business, you convinced yourself. Even though Sylus is beautiful, his eyes, nose, and plump lips… “Anyway, this note is from the boss. We’ll see you out there, y/n,” said Kieran. You took the note from him and watched as they both walked out.

A shudder ran down your spine as you held the note in your palm. You looked up to see Mephisto, who "cawed" at you as he flew through the open door.

“He’s probably running to tell Sylus I got his note,” you commented, side-eyeing the door. The note had a red wax seal on the front of the black envelope. You opened it, and a little pop revealed the white note. You pulled it out with shaking hands.

“I promised you forever, and I don't break my promises.”

You felt your face flushing by the second. This note was so sudden, so why did it feel like he was talking about something deeper than these words reflected? You ran your hands over the words on the page, interrupting your thoughts, and you heard your song start.

“You can do this, y/n,” you said, leaving the dressing room. Now is where the real work begins.

You stood at the end of the aisle and looked around. You recognized some of the biggest names in the N109 Zone. At least Sylus kept that promise, you thought. The piano rang the most angelic symphony, bringing emotion forth in you.

You began your walk, stride confident, keeping your head high. Sylus stared at you, his smile widening as you worked your way before the steps. He reached down, grabbed your hand, helping you up the steps to the altar. The officiant began to address the crowd, but it felt like it was just you and Sylus. Why was he looking at you like that? You pondered.

“I’ve waited for this moment longer than you know,” Sylus whispered for only your ears to hear. You cocked your head slightly, you were going to ask what he meant by that, but the officiant addressed Sylus, stating the vows, “Do you take y/n to be your wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward.” Sylus’s red eyes flickered as he looked down at you. “For better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and health, to love and to cherish, ‘til death do you apart?”

"I do," Sylus responded, his big hands attempting to secure the large rock to your finger. Your eyes watered slightly at the sight. Why is this so intense, you wondered, as the officiant recited the vows to you. Of course, you responded with an "I do."

“You may kiss the bride.”

Your heart skipped a beat. Sylus didn't hesitate. He stepped closer to you, his hand reaching out to cup the side of your face, his thumb grazing your cheek. His touch was gentle but possessive, almost telling you that now you’re his.

He kissed you firmly but slowly and deliberately. Sylus doesn't rush his kiss with you, almost like he is savoring the moment. The way his lips moved against yours sent warmth coursing through you, pulling you deeper just for a moment.

For a second, you hesitated, thinking you should pull away and make distance. But then Sylus slid his hand around your neck, pulling you closer and deepening your kiss. And you went with it, kissing him back, slowly at first and then increasing the intensity.

The world around you faded. It felt like it was just the two of you. Allowing the kiss to linger on longer than it should have. When Sylus pulled away, his lips parted slightly, and you felt his warm breath against your skin. He whispered just for you to hear:

“If you wanted more, sweetie, all you had to do was ask.”

You felt your chest tighten, and you swallowed hard at his statement. You hated that he could make you feel like this. You forced yourself to look away. “Don’t get used to it,” you muttered quickly, knowing your heart raced at the kiss you shared.

Sylus smirked while looking into your eyes. “We’ll see about that.”

☆---

The reception truly went off without a hitch. Some people you’ve never met made elegant speeches, wishing for happiness and prosperity. This was so fake you fought the urge to roll your eyes at the theatrics displayed before you. You glanced at Sylus, admiring his features as the current speaker discussed alliances and protections.

When Sylus leaned into your ear, “Is my face more interesting than the speech, sweetie?”

You rolled your eyes at him and returned your attention to the speaker. “He’s so cheeky,” you thought. Despite your harsh admissions, you secretly enjoyed his playfulness. It made this whole ordeal feel lighter.

After serving food and drinks, Sylus walked you around the room. The reception hall buzzed with conversation. The guests mingled about discussing business deals disguised as casual conversation. Sylus worked the room effortlessly. His hand rested on the small of your back, sending tingles up your spine as he made contact with your bare skin.

“Ah, there you are,” Sylus said smoothly, flashing a charming smile. “I want you to meet Mr. Blackthorne. He’s one of the key players in the project we’ve been discussing.”

Mr. Blackthorne turned to face you, offering a firm handshake. His gaze lingered over you, measuring you up. You returned the handshake, nodding politely. “It’s a pleasure,” you said.

Truthfully, your mind was already wandering. The prospects of the evening had been exhausting. The smiling and pretending were weighing on you, and Sylus’s insistence on blurring the lines between you wasn't helping. Focusing was so hard your mind constantly drifted back to the kiss you shared just hours before.

Mr. Blackthorne spoke about contacts, future meetings, and something else—but you couldn't tell what. Your eyes continued to drift around the room, searching for a distraction. You tried your hardest to avoid looking at the white-haired man beside you.

After a few moments, Mr. Blackthore excused himself. “I hope you both enjoy the rest of your evening. We'll be in contact soon, " he said, nodding and walking away.

A smile became present on Sylus’s face. “Sweetie, I think you missed that entire conversation,” He teased, his voice amused. “I could see it on your face—completely checked out. What were you thinking about, hmm?”

Your face heated instantly, and you shot him a sharp look. “I was listening.”

“Really?” Sylus raised an eyebrow, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping to a hushed murmur. “It looked to me like your mind was somewhere else entirely. Let me guess… still thinking about that kiss at the altar?”

Your eyes widened at his assertion. “It was just a kiss, Sylus,” you said curtly.

He chucked at your discomfort, “Sure if you say so. But next time, you might want to pay more attention when I introduce you to someone important. We wouldn’t want them thinking you’re too distracted by your new husband to focus on business, now would we?”

Your pulse quickened the way he said, “Husband.” “I’ll try to keep that in mind,” you shot back. You felt like a firecracker inside.

Sylus grinned at you. “Good. Because I have a feeling I’m going to be keeping your attention quite a bit from now on, " he said, grabbing your hand as another guest approached the two of you. The conversation was a perfect invitation to shift your mind from his teasing.

The wedding ended quickly after that. When you looked up, you felt that the wedding had ended, and you were in the backseat of an old luxury car, staring directly at Sylus. The mood was slightly lighter than at the wedding, yet it felt heated. And he could not take his gaze away from you; he was blatantly checking you out, making the ride seem shorter.

“You planned the perfect wedding, but tonight is where the real deal begins, sweetie,” Sylus suggested. The driver maneuvered the luxury car to the massive private gateway of the Onyichinus base. The base itself was vast and Gothic. You had never really stopped to appreciate the building's grandeur before. You reminded yourself that this was only temporary.

Entering the gate revealed a primarily gray and black building spanning at least a few hundred acres. The arches rested so high in the sky that they broke through the beautiful tranquility of sunset. Large windows, elegant arches, detailed carvings, and the crow resting at the highest peak of the building. How had you not realized the beauty of this place amidst the chaos of the N109 Zone?

Distracting you from your realizations, Sylus reached for your hand, pulling you out of your thoughts and the car. This felt different now. Sylus led you into the great corridors, walking for what seemed like miles. You walked through the two doors into Sylus's bedroom.

The room was dimly lit, and soft candlelight cast shadows across it. The wedding had been a blur, but now the evening had ended. It was just the two of you.

His room smelled so fucking good. A simple vanilla musk? But it was so amazing that you wanted to bury your face in his sheets. You heard the doors click behind you, bringing you to the present. Sylus leaned his upper back against the oak doors, his giant chest moving up and down, the only sound in the room being your breathing.

“You’re safe with me, no matter what,” he said, moving off the door and towards you, standing by his bed. Your heart pounded in your chest; it felt so loud that it drowned out the silence. You knew this moment might come, but now you stood before Sylus.

“You’re nervous,” he said softly, his voice lower now, less playful than it had been all evening.

You swallowed, and your throat felt tight. You didn’t know what to say. The air had a thick, unspoken tension. This was supposed to be part of the deal—another step in this arrangement. But now you feel vulnerable in front of him.

Sylus stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate, giving you time to feel every bit of space he closed between you two. His hand came up, gently brushing your hair out of your face. The touch was tender, and it made your breath hitch.

“You don’t have to be,” he murmured, his thumb lightly grazing your jawline, tipping your chin upwards so your eyes met his. “I’m not in a rush.”

Your chest tightened. You knew Sylus for his confidence, his teasing—proficiency at getting under your skin—but now, there was something different in his eyes. A softness you didn't know he possessed.

“I—I don’t know what to expect,” you admitted, your voice almost a whisper. You felt so exposed; your inexperience was so evident. It was increasingly hard to maintain your usual composure.

His smile was slow, warm, knowing. “You think too much, sweetie.”

He leaned down, brushing his lips against yours—not demanding, not forceful, just soft and testing. The kiss was meant to calm you and reassure you, yet you found yourself responding. He slid his hand to the back of your neck, slightly deepening the kiss.

When he pulled back, Sylus’s red eyes searched for yours. “Tell me if you want to stop,” he said, his voice quieter, more serious now.

You bit your lip, your heart still racing. You were nervous, but some of you also wanted to trust him. How he looked at you, and his touch sent sparks through your skin… you wanted him.

“I don’t want to stop,” you admitted, barely loud enough for him to hear.

He kissed you again, but this time with more intensity, his lips moving against yours with a deliberate, intoxicating rhythm. Each brush of his mouth sent a warm shiver through you, and instinctively, you rose onto the tips of your toes, your hands pressing against his chest as if to steady yourself. His heart beat strong and steady beneath your fingertips, grounding you as your pulse raced.

The kiss deepened, his tongue softly parting your lips in a request for more. You hesitated only momentarily, then parted them, inviting him in. His tongue brushed against yours, teasing and coaxing, his every movement confident and controlled. It was overwhelming and perfect, a mix of dominance and tenderness that left you breathless.

Sylus pulled back slightly, his breath warm against your swollen lips. He was grinning now, his eyes dark with desire and amusement. “Why don’t you let me help you with this?” His voice was a low murmur, and before you could respond, his hands slid to your waist, his fingers curling possessively around your hips.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he turned you, his body pressing against yours from behind. Your back pressed to his chest, and your breath hitched as you realized what he was doing. He had positioned you in front of a mirror. Your wide eyes met your reflection, and you could see Sylus’s smirk in the glass, his gaze fixed on you with a heat that made your skin tingle.

“Look at yourself,” he whispered in your ear, his lips brushing against your neck as his hands moved to the fabric of your dress. “So beautiful when you’re nervous.” His fingers began to undo the delicate fastening at the back, his movements slow, deliberate, as if he was savoring every second.

The sight of him undressing you in the mirror, the way he watched your every reaction, sent a thrill through you that you couldn’t entirely suppress. You felt vulnerable and exposed, but there was something undeniably magnetic about the way he controlled the moment, making it impossible for you to look away from the reflection of your shared desire.

Sylus leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your bare shoulder as your dress began to loosen under his touch. “Let me show you how good this can be,” he murmured, his voice a silken promise that sent heat pooling low in your stomach.

And as his hands continued their slow, teasing exploration, you realized you were already too far gone to resist. His movements caused the straps of your dress to loosen, but you held the fabric against your chest, not letting it fall.

He pressed soft kisses against your earlobe. “Let it fall,” he commanded tenderly. Your breath hitched at his command, but you complied, allowing the dress to fall forward, revealing your nipples.

“Beautiful,” he said. Reaching his large hands to cup your breasts. Sylus pulled your body back till you were flush against his broad chest. He was moving his hands to play with your nipples. He rubbed them softly, allowing them to harden between his fingers and tugging them forward firmly. He watched your reaction in the mirror as your face contorted slightly to tug your bottom lip between your teeth.

He grinned, removing his hands from your nipples to the back of your neck. He dragged his middle finger down to just above your ass, where the fabric of the dress ended. You tilted your head slightly at the movement of his hands. You missed the warmth of his hands on your nipples, but you didn't dare ask for them back as you wanted to see what he was doing next.

Suddenly, you heard the hidden zipper opening the rest of your dress. You stepped forward out of the dress just in panties, turning around to fully face Sylus. “You’re so beautiful,” Sylus murmured, a satisfied smile playing on his lips as he gazed down into your eyes. He pulled you in for a soft, lingering kiss—just enough to make your heart race. You flushed under his gaze, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks but not daring to look away.

“Let me help you, Sylus,” you said, your voice barely a whisper. “I can’t be the only one left like this.” You reached up, gripping his tie and giving it a playful tug, your eyes gleaming with mischief.

His smirk deepened, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Take it off then,” he challenged, his voice low and teasing, daring you with his trademark confidence.

Your hands moved to unwork his tie, pulling him closer to you, causing him to chuckle slightly and grab your bare waist. You shuddered slightly under his touch, continuing your steady exploration. You discarded his tie to the floor and began unbuttoning his perfectly fitting shirt. It was a red button-up. You slowly unbuttoned his shirt, revealing Sylus’s beautifully sculpted body. You innocently peered up at his intense stare. He watched your every movement so close that the only sound in the room was your shared breaths. You drew your finger from his collarbone down to his navel, where you watched him flex slightly at your touch.

You slid his shirt off, letting the fabric fall to the floor before lowering yourself to your knees in front of him. Sylus raised an eyebrow, a smirk curving his lips as he looked down at you.

“And what exactly do you plan on doing down there?” His voice was rich with amusement and teasing but edged with something darker and more intense.

You glanced up at him, a slight pout forming on your flushed face. “Helping you undress,” you replied softly but with playful defiance.

Your hands moved to the front of his pants, your fingers steady as you unbuckled his belt. The sound of the leather sliding through the loops was the only thing breaking the tension in the room.

You looked up at Sylus, licking your lips. You pressed your hand against the bulge in his briefs. Your eyes widened a bit, realizing his size. It’s so big.

Sylus’s hand reached down, his fingers threading through your hair gently but firmly. He tugged you up to your feet with one swift motion, pulling you close until your chest pressed against his. His eyes, dark and heated, locked with yours as his other hand slid around your waist, securing you against him.

“That’s enough of you on your knees, sweetie,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous with a hint of a smile on his lips.

Without another word, he tilted your chin up, capturing your lips in a heated kiss, leaving no doubt who was in control of the moment. His touch was possessive, but there was a gentleness in how his fingers trailed over your skin, as if he was savoring every inch of the contact.

He laid you back gently on the bed. You looked up at him, patient and waiting, propping yourself up on your forearms.

The noise in your mind was silenced as all you could focus on was Sylus. He dragged his large hands languidly down your body, stopping at the waistband of your underwear. It was a lacy white piece that beautifully complimented your skin. He hooked his fingers underneath it, tugging the fabric down the length of your legs before discarding them behind him.

You held your legs together, not daring to let them fall apart. Sylus’s hands worked between your knees “Kitten, relax for me”, he said softly, looking longingly into your eyes. You allowed yourself to relax a bit as he pulled your legs apart. “That’s my girl,” he drawled.

“Fuck, you’re drenched” He knelt before you, his hands coming to rest on your thighs as he leaned in, his hot breath fanning over your cunt. His fingers traced slow circles teasing you, his eyes locked on yours.

“Do you want me to taste you, sweetie?” The question tested your resolve, and he waited for your response.

“Y-yes,” you whispered. Your hands moved up to cover your face.

Sylus’s lips curved into a smile, his eyes gleaming at your permission. He leaned in, his fingers parting your folds before pressing a single, languid, wet kiss against your core. The sensation of his kiss caused you to arch your back, “Oh god, Sylus.”

“mhm, you taste so sweet,” he murmured. His voice was thick with desire as he continued to tease you. The sound of his voice, the noises from his mouth as he made out with your cunt, made you wetter.

You felt his rough hands hold under your knees, pushing your legs further apart, splaying you open for him.

“Tell me how it feels, Kitten. Tell me how much you want me to make you cum for me.” Your back arched off the bed, your hands moving to grip his hair. You felt heat moving through you.

Sylus took his time, drawing out your pleasure. He was focused on bringing you to the edge. He spent time learning you, tasting you.

“Please… p-please, Sylus, I want to come.” This was the first time you've ever been touched like this, and you loved it. You had never felt anything like this before. Touching yourself could never compare to what Sylus was doing to you.

Sylus’s tongue flicked faster, and his fingers moved, pressing that sensitive spot inside you. His eyes opened and locked onto yours, his gaze fierce. He was testing your reaction and pressing the little spot inside you firmer.

You squirmed against his face, and your moans escaped you. You gripped his hair harder, pulling his mouth closer to you.

“Say it again, sweetie. Beg me to let you cum.”

Fuck, his mouth is filthy.

His tongue swirled around your clit, drawing your orgasm nearer.

He wanted to hear it, wanted you to surrender completely to him, to trust him. His lips closed around your clit, sucking down on your nub hard, driving you closer and closer to the edge. His fingers joined in, working your insides as he stroked your slick cunt with his mouth.

“Say it, kitten. Say you want to cum for me.”

“I want to come for you, please!” you shouted. Tears threatening to fall off your eyelashes.

Sylus’s lips curved into a satisfied smirk, his eyes glinting with triumph as he felt your body tremble beneath his touch. Your orgasm crashed over you, and pleasure flooded your senses. Your legs spasmed as you came on his tongue.

He held you down while you came, allowing you to ride out your pleasure. His tongue lingered until the very last moment, leaving you quivering and desperate for more.

You lay against the bed, your body slowly coming down from the high. You couldn't find the words for a moment, your mind still swimming from what he’d just done.

Finally, you managed a shaky breath, your voice soft but laced with disbelief. “I… didn’t know it could feel like that.” Your cheeks flushed at the admission.

Sylus hovered above you, and you could feel the heat radiating from him. His eyes lit up with satisfaction as he looked down at you, watching you try to catch your breath, your flushed cheeks, and parted lips.

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as his hand slid up your thigh, sending another shiver through you. “I’m just getting started. Trust me, it can feel even better.” His tone was both a promise and a challenge, daring you to let him take you further.

A shaky breath left your lips, and a wave of heat ran through you from his words. A small smile fell on your lips. “I guess I’ll have to trust you, won’t I?” you whispered, your voice barely audible as you turned your head to meet his eyes. Your tone was still nervous, but your body’s response to him showed how you felt.

You leaned in, brushing your lips against his, your heartbeat thundering in your chest. “Be careful with me… just for now,” you said, smiling slightly, allowing yourself to be a bit vulnerable with him.

His hand slid to your waist, fingers curling around your hip as he pulled you toward him again.

“Oh, sweetie,” he murmured, his voice a smooth, velvety purr, “you don’t just ‘have to’ trust me… you’re going to want to.”

His fingers traced slow circles on your skin, sending shivers through you. “Trust me,” he whispered, “I’m very good at making you want more.”

At that, you turned him towards the bed, pushing him down on his back. You straddled him, and you felt his clothed bulge pressing against your naked pussy, leaving a wet spot on him. You laid your hands on his chest, rubbing your hands down his hard body. Your heart was pounding through your chest. You moved your hands to push down his briefs, feeling his cock in your hands.

Sylus flexed his abs at your touch. His lips parted slightly, his breath catching in his throat. You wrapped your fingers around him; he felt heavy in your palm.

Sylus watched you through half-lidded eyes. Waiting for your next move until he switched your positions. You were now underneath him, his cock hard and ready, resting against your thigh.

He sat up and positioned himself at your entrance. His eyes trained on where you’d be connected. The head of his cock rubbed against your arousal, catching on your sensitive clit. Your breath caught as he moved to press his erection inside.

Fuck. You felt your walls stretching to accommodate his thick cock. You saw the flush forming on his cheeks through your teary eyes.

He bottomed out in you, finally looking into your eyes. “Breathe for me, kitten.” And you did. His hands came down by your head, caging you in. His hips moved backward, pushing back into you slowly.

His mouth parted slightly as he looked down at you, “You feel so good.” he grits out.

His thrusts were slow and deliberate, his eyes locked onto yours. You stayed there, not daring to look away. Your breath hitched, and your heart pounded out of your chest. You could feel him throbbing inside you, causing your walls to clench around him.

Sylus moves by repositioning your legs on his shoulders, allowing him to move deeper within you. Your tits bounced up and down at the power of his thrusts. He moved his hands to pinch your nipples. The pinch of his fingers shot heat to your core, making you squeeze around him again.

“Fuck” he purred out, his eyes closed at the feeling of you wrapping around him. He moved his hands in between your legs, settling on your clit. He rubbed it steadily, flicking it between his thumb.

Your mind was empty from Sylus fucking you. He was hitting that sensitive spot inside your pussy over and over. You felt your body tensing up again, the wave of pleasure starting to work through your body.

“Come for me one more time, kitten. Let me hear you.” Sylus whispered into your ear, pressing your legs back by your head. You felt him kiss the shell of your ear. You could feel your sensitive nipples rubbing against his chest, his thumb playing with your clit.

“Come for me, Wife.”

You gasped, body trembling as the tension in your core built until it snapped. “Sylus…!” you cried out, your voice breaking as your body twitched uncontrollably in his arms. He held you firm, grounding you as his thrusts remained slow and deliberate, each one pushing you further into bliss.

“Look at me,” he gritted out through clenched teeth. You forced your eyes open, locking onto his. His beautiful, red gaze never wavered, even now. The look in his eyes was more than lust—it was a connection, raw intimacy that seemed to transcend the physical. It made your heart skip a beat, just as much as the sensation of him inside you.

His pace faltered then, his movements growing erratic as he drove into you deeper, harder. “Fuck,” he growled, his lips parting in a low, primal sound that sent shivers through you. His body tensed, muscles tight as he pushed as far into you as he could, his release crashing through him.

With a final groan, Sylus collapsed forward, his weight settling over you as you both came down from your highs. His breath was warm against your skin, his heartbeat slowing in time with yours.

He lifted his head, eyes softening as they met yours again, a tenderness replacing the intensity from moments before. “Thank you for trusting me, y/n,” he whispered, brushing a thumb gently across your cheek.

“You’ve given me every reason to,” you said, smiling at him gently.

☆---

yall this idea was stuck in my head for a solid two weeks. i blame twitter l&ds stans for this. I SWORE i did not fuck with sylus like that up until a couple weeks ago...

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mzenins · 6 months ago

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❛ gloria, i wanna take you to euphoria ! ❜ ✶ ࣪˖࿐ * sakadays multi characters

꒰ ⋆ ˚｡⋆ ──── contents: suggestive, gn reader, making out, spitting, dry humping, hickeys┆ `✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹ how they kiss you…

꒰ ⋆ ˚｡⋆ ──── featured on this disc: yoichi nagumo, natsuki seba, shin asakura

╰⪼┆nagumo kisses you like you’re both in a constant game of cat and mouse. it’s competitive and intoxicating with a strong surge of adrenaline bustling through your veins but oftentimes it’s fleeting.

he allows for his bottom lip to gently graze yours then retracts himself from your vicinity with the mere purpose of seeing the dazed look on your face that was anticipating more. he enjoys the shocked gasp and reprimand that comes from you, followed by a murmur of “dickhead.” which he classically retorts with, “hey, that’s not nice!”

the roles switches up constantly, something he indulges in, but a sick part of him can’t help but bask in the sight of you desperately grinding down on his clothed crotch with your forehead littered by sweat as you incoherently rasp in his ear for him to kiss you harder. his mouth twists up in a sadistic manner against the column of your neck, “hm? want more neck kisses?” he feigns innocence.

his playing dumb act grinds your gears to the fullest and makes you want to choke him out till your heart’s content but he’d probably brush off your actions with a snippy comeback.

you loudly groan in frustration and his eyebrows pull up at your outburst, your hips halt against his pelvis, “god, do i have to spell everything out for you?” you grab a fist full of his noir hair to perfectly align his head with your face, “kiss me properly, nagumo.. on the lips.”

he likes seeing you all riled up. he tauntingly smirks, “ah! you should’ve just asked, silly.” before you can argue on that’s what you were doing in the first place, he encloses the space, humming contently. your lips moves together in sync, rapidly harmonizing in a sensual way. his tattooed hands slip under your shirt caressing the bare skin but the small delight comes to a pause once he uses his teeth to gently pull at your bottom lip, teasingly letting it go out from his hold. he drily chuckles at you chasing after his lips for more.

╰⪼┆natsuki kisses you like a pornstar in love. it’s lewd but intimate, igniting an untamed flame in the pit of your stomach, rapidly flickering waiting to be extinguished, but your heart beats erratically against your chest with warmth blooming around the organ.

it can be messy at times with his saliva smearing onto your chin and drippling off, or, it can be sweet and memorable leaving you smitten with butterflies for the rest of the day; pick your poison, he doesn’t mind either way.

he likes to sneak up on you— at first it was an occasional habit he’d done unintentionally but now he uses his airy footsteps to his advantage. slithering his toned arm around your stomach to pull you closer to his broad chest and grips at your jaw with his calloused hand to tilt your head upwards to somewhat face him

“open your mouth.” he calmly instructs, as if what he planned to do next was just a run-on-the-mill activity. you comply and suddenly feel a warm droplet of spit land onto your tongue, your eyes widens and before a squeal could erupt from your throat he captures your lips with his.

natsuki pants heavily against your mouth his hot tongue hastily collides with yours as he subconsciously begins to rut himself into your figure, his eyebrows deeply furrows together. his lips are soft on yours but has intensity far too hot to handle. “s-slow down natsu…” your meek voice trembles in between the heated kisses.

his usual nonchalant complacence crumbles apart. his plump lips glistens once he pulls away, a small string of saliva connecting the two of you. “can’t. sorry. you just taste so damn good.” some darken strands of hair stick to his forehead; he’s dizzy but pushes through to quench his thirst.

╰⪼┆shin kisses you like he’s almost afraid of you. he’s not and he swears by it but the way his body stiffens with his shoulders nearing his ears and rigid lips stilled has you thinking the former. he touches you as if you’re a porcelain doll glossed over with iridescent medium, and that sometimes translates into his fear of messing up.

he gets in his head a lot and stays there. but as the relationship progresses, he gains his confidence within his abilities to please you and once that layer of skin grows, that’s all he dedicates himself to. he’s rough which causes teeth to clash but he’s also sweetly passionate with his movements.

an extremely slow day at sakamoto’s store leads to you on top of the store counter with him between your legs. he disregards the opportunity to flip over the closed sign— the thought of being caught fuelled something dubious inside of him.

his large palms roam from your thighs to grazing over your chest eliciting a choked up gasp from you. he’d become too cocky, perhaps for his own good. his lips moved with delicious vigour against yours, slowly increasing the tempo with every passing second. soft grunts and huffs comes from the blond mixed in with your panting.

“is this too much?” he asked as he departs from your space with antsy eyes. you whine restlessly, “it’s not enough.” you tug at the belt loops of his baggy jeans, pulling him back in your vicinity and his face plants in the crock of your neck instead. suckling and nipping at the delicate skin and swirling his tongue around the area. your whimpers fills his ears like a lullaby.

eventually, his ministrations cause a darken bruise to appear. he ogles at the sight that encourages him to continue but an unfamiliar intruding thought enters his mind. a customer outside was planning on coming in and purchasing pockys. and while shin knows it would be morally ethical to put a stop to your activities, he can’t find the strength to do so. he’s completely and utterly drunk off by your smell and touch; what a bad influence you are.

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uncuredturkeybacon · 1 month ago

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𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which you coach her game and quiet her mind

part two - part three - part four - part five

You met Paige Bueckers on a Tuesday afternoon in late September, your sophomore year at Hopkins.

It’s open gym. You aren’t technically supposed to be in there—you’ve already finished your weight training hour and your basketball season doesn’t start until winter—but the hum of a bouncing ball is too rhythmic to ignore. There’s a familiar comfort to the hollow echo of sneakers and grit on hardwood, something that calls you in like a whisper.

You open the gym door quietly, backpack still slung over one shoulder, and that’s when you see her.

Blonde ponytail swaying. Wide stance. Shot pocket high. Paige freaking Bueckers.

You’d heard of her, of course. Everyone at Hopkins had. Varsity freshman starter. Handles like a string puppet master. Shot like a dream. Girl had already been ranked nationally, and people couldn’t stop talking about her like she was some prodigy out of a sports movie. You thought it was all hype.

Then you saw her move.

And the thing was—she wasn’t just good. She was smooth. Every step calculated, but casual. Every pivot like muscle memory. She dribbled like the ball owed her rent.

She doesn’t notice you at first. Just keeps shooting from mid-range, the ball sailing through net with that soft, cotton-candy swish. Over and over and over.

You step in farther.

She stops, finally turning her head slightly, eyebrows raised. “You lost?”

You blink. “No. Just… didn’t know anyone else was in here.”

She nods once, grabbing her rebound. “You hoop?”

You shrug. “Yeah. But I train more than I play now. Strength and conditioning stuff. I work with Coach Cosgriff sometimes.”

Paige bounces the ball slowly under one hand, studying you with that squint she always seems to wear. “So you're, like, a trainer-trainer?”

You laugh once. “A sophomore trainer. I’m certified in watching YouTube videos and correcting people’s forms at the gym.”

She smirks. “Sounds legit.”

“Totally. Olympic-level.”

There’s a pause. You think she’s gonna go back to shooting, but instead she spins the ball toward you with a flick of her wrist. You catch it without thinking.

“Rebound for me?” she asks.

That’s how it starts.

You don’t say much that first week. You mostly pass the ball back to her and correct her foot placement when she does too many fade aways in a row. She doesn’t seem to mind your notes. In fact, she listens. Eyes narrow, brows drawn together. She nods when you speak. Adjusts. Tries again.

By week three, you’re staying after school just to watch her shoot.

By week five, she’s asking you to run drills with her. “I need someone who won’t go easy on me,” she says. “You look like you play defense like a demon.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You calling me aggressive?”

She grins. “I’m calling you annoying. Like a mosquito.”

You end up training together every week after that.

It’s past 6:30 PM, and the gym lights are humming like they’re tired of you both. You’ve run suicides, jump-rope footwork ladders, and back-to-back spot shooting. She’s collapsed on the baseline with a towel over her face.

“You trying to kill me?” she mumbles.

You grin, stretching near her. “You wanna be the best or nah?”

She lifts the towel just enough to peek at you. “I was the best like three years ago.”

“Complacency,” you shoot back, rolling your eyes. “That’s the first sign of career death.”

She snorts. “You sound like a Nike ad.”

“I sound like someone who’s keeping your ass in shape.”

“Yeah,” she mutters, tossing the towel aside. “You do.”

There’s something unspoken in the air. The gym is empty. Just your water bottles clinking, the soft squeak of shoes as you shift. She looks at you a beat too long.

“You ever think about going into this for real?” she asks suddenly. “Training people?”

“I already am,” you say. “I’m applying to kinesiology programs. Sports science. I wanna do this for a living. Maybe NBA. Or… WNBA.”

“You’d be good at it,” she says, and there’s no teasing in her voice.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You make people better without making them feel like shit. That’s rare.”

You blink. She’s never said something like that before—not with that tone. And something flickers in her eyes like she didn’t mean to say it aloud.

“I’d want you to keep working with me,” she adds quietly. “If I go to UConn. Or wherever.”

“You planning on bringing me with you?” you joke, nudging her shoe with yours.

She doesn’t joke back.

“Yeah,” she says simply.

The dorms are stuffy and the air smells like ramen and underachieving. You moved in early because Paige wanted to start pre-season training before official practices began. You aren’t on the team. You aren’t on staff—yet. But Paige made some calls. And they made an exception.

You’re the one in her corner before the season even starts.

You run her drills. Chart her shot percentages. Track her fatigue, time her sprints, log every mile she runs.

But you also learn her.

The way she hums under her breath when she’s shooting threes. The way she swears under her breath when she’s not getting it right. The way she pulls at the hem of her shorts when she’s overthinking.

The way she looks at you when she thinks you’re not looking.

You see it more now. The lingering. The heat behind her glances.

And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t look too.

You’re lying on your back in her dorm room after a long night of training, the air between you quiet but charged.

“You ever think this… all of it… happened too fast?” Paige asks softly, turning her head toward you.

You meet her eyes. “Basketball or…?”

She doesn’t answer for a second. “Everything.”

You inhale slowly. “No. I think some things happen when they’re supposed to.”

She smiles faintly, shifting closer.

“And what if this—us—is one of those things?”

You glance down between you. Your hands are almost touching.

You don’t pull away.

Neither does she.

“Then I guess we’re right on time.”

It’s weird how easily your dynamic translated to college. She still listens to you. She still trusts your eyes more than anyone else’s.

“Step on your left harder after the spin,” you tell her during an individual session. “You’re floating too long. You’re not getting enough power.”

She nods and tries again. Nails it. Of course.

Afterward, she walks with you back to your apartment, as she’s been doing for weeks now.

"You coming to the scrimmage Saturday?" she asks, kicking a pebble down the sidewalk.

"Obviously. I'll be sitting next to Coach. Telling him what he's doing wrong."

She laughs and bumps her shoulder into yours. "You're cocky."

"I'm right."

“You’re something,” she mutters.

You don’t ask what she means. You don’t need to.

But you can feel it growing. The way she lingers when she talks to you. The way she watches you when you speak with someone else. The way she listens too closely. Stands too close.

And then it happens.

It’s after a game—a blowout win. You’re the last two in the practice gym, her icing her knee, you jotting down some movement notes in your tablet.

She asks, “Do you ever think about us?”

You stop mid-type.

“Us?” you repeat.

“Yeah. You and me. Not just trainer-player.”

You blink. Slowly. “All the time.”

She’s quiet, like that answer knocked the wind out of her. “So what do we do?”

You swallow. “We try.”

She smiles, soft and quiet. “Cool. So… kiss me?”

You walk over, heart thudding like you’re about to play in front of a sold-out crowd. But this moment—this kiss—is private. Gentle. A quiet victory.

Dating Paige Bueckers is exactly what you expected and nothing like you imagined.

She’s a goof. Always humming Drake songs and using you as a weighted vest when you’re trying to do push-ups.

But she’s also laser-focused, and sometimes that means 3AM texts. My jumper feels off, help. So you drag yourself to the gym with bedhead and bad breath, and she lights up like the scoreboard when she sees you.

The chemistry you have—on and off court—is unmatched.

“Let’s try that pin-down cut again,” you say during a workout. “But sell it harder this time.”

She wipes sweat from her brow. “Why don’t you just play defense on me? That’ll make it real.”

So you do. And she doesn’t get past you the first three tries. Fourth try, she fakes right and spins left—you’re gone.

“God, I love when you push me like that,” she says, out of breath, laughing.

You grin. “Yeah?”

She walks toward you, playful. “Yeah.”

Paige kisses you there, right in the middle of the gym floor, hands on your hips like you're her anchor.

And you are.

You always have been.

There are tough days. Days she doubts herself. When the pressure builds and she doesn’t want to talk to anyone but you.

“I’m not playing like myself,” she says one night, curled on your couch.

You rub her thigh gently. “You’re in your head. You need to come back to your body. You need to play with joy.”

She looks at you, teary-eyed. “How do you always know?”

You shrug. “I’ve always known you, Paige.”

There’s a long pause. And then she says, “I think I want to do this forever.”

“Basketball?”

“You.”

It’s not flashy. There’s no grand gesture. No candlelit dinner. But it’s her. And it’s you. And it’s exactly enough.

It’s senior year now. She’s a legend. You’re her official trainer.

And people still call you Bueckers’ shadow, but now it comes with respect. Because they see it now. That you’ve helped shape her, sculpt her, kept her balanced.

On her senior night, she gives a speech.

She thanks her coaches. Her team. Her family.

And then, looking right at you, she says, “And to the person who’s been here since day one… my first pass, my best read, my forever one-on-one partner—thank you for never letting me forget who I am.”

You don’t cry.

Okay. You do.

But so does she.

Later that night, she pulls you into her room, shuts the door, and murmurs against your mouth, “You were always more than my trainer.”

You smile into the kiss. “I know.”

The moment Paige Bueckers’ name is called, the world erupts.

But she doesn’t.

She just looks at you.

Not the camera, not the stage—you. With that look you’ve seen a thousand times since high school. The one that says we did it.

You’re already standing when she launches into your arms, nearly knocking you back into the row of chairs behind you. Her arms wrap tight around your neck, her face pressed to your shoulder, whispering through the noise, “Don’t let go.”

You don’t.

Not when she pulls back, eyes glassy, hands still gripping your waist.

Not when she walks up to the stage with tears in her lashes and your name on her tongue.

And definitely not when the cameras catch her glancing at you before every answer.

The draft is a blur of bright lights, cheers, cameras, and interviews—but you stay close. Just off-screen. Just like always.

Until the media starts asking questions that aren’t about her game.

“Paige, congratulations on being the number one overall pick to the Dallas Wings! Can you tell us who you brought with you tonight?”

She glances sideways to where you're standing in her shadow. But you know her well enough to read the decision flicker behind her eyes.

She’s not going to hide you. Not anymore.

She turns back to the mic, confidence radiating from her like warm sun. “That’s my person. She’s been with me since high school. Trains me. Puts up with me. Challenges me. Loves me. So yeah—she’s a big part of why I’m here.”

The reporters buzz.

“Who is she to you?”

Paige smiles softly. “She’s everything.”

You nearly choke on your breath backstage.

Paige’s suit jacket is slung over a chair. Her shoes abandoned by the bed. Her Wings hat perched crooked on your head.

She’s on her knees in front of you, chin resting on your thigh, dress shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, her fingers lazily tracing circles on your knee.

“You really said all that on national television?” you murmur, smiling.

“I’ve wanted to say it since we were seventeen,” she replies. “Since that day in Hopkins when you rebounded for me until I cried.”

You slide your fingers through her hair. “You know what this means, right?”

“That I’m your number one overall pick, too?”

You grin. “That, and now the whole world’s gonna know you’re soft for me.”

She leans up and kisses you—slow, full of promise. “Let ’em.”

You lie back on the hotel bed as she climbs in beside you. Her fingers tangle with yours like muscle memory.

“I’m scared,” she whispers eventually.

“Of what?”

“The league. The pressure. Failing.”

You squeeze her hand. “You won’t fail. You’ll figure it out. You always do.”

She turns to face you, nose brushing yours. “Stay with me through all of it?”

You press a kiss to her forehead. “Always. I trained you for this, remember?”

She grins sleepily. “Guess I’m stuck with you then.”

“No,” you say quietly. “You chose me.”

Her silence says everything.

And for the first time that night—long after the cameras stopped flashing and the confetti settled—you both breathe.

The sun’s barely cracked the skyline of Dallas, golden haze stretching long across the parking lot when Paige turns to you, duffel bag slung over one shoulder and her practice jersey half-tucked into her waistband.

“You sure you want to come?”

You raise an eyebrow as you slide into the passenger seat of her car. “Seriously?”

She grins, brushing a hand over your thigh before starting the engine. “I mean, you’re not on staff.”

“Nope. Just the person who got you to number one.”

She leans over at a red light and kisses your cheek. “Damn right.”

The gym is humming with controlled chaos when you arrive—assistant coaches shouting instructions, music blasting, rookies trying not to trip over their own nerves. Paige is handed her gear and directed to the locker room, while you find your way to the bench along the sideline.

You set your bag down beside you, pull out your tablet, and cross your legs. The gym smells like polished hardwood and sweat and the faintest trace of new opportunity.

And there she is—Paige Bueckers—tying her shoes like it’s still high school in Hopkins, rolling her shoulders, bouncing a ball between her legs like she doesn’t know every camera in the room is aimed at her.

Your stylus hovers, and you begin.

Hips tight in lateral slide. Right knee still drifting inward on push-off.

She doesn’t look at you once, but she doesn’t need to. She knows you’re watching. Studying. Calculating.

You catch her third turnover in scrimmage. The coach yells something—timing issue—but you know better.

Drifting right early on corner curl. Jumping the pass. Tell her to settle feet before turn.

The practice stretches two hours. Drills. Scrimmage. More drills. Water break. Media arrives toward the end, clicking cameras, calling out names. Paige answers politely. You watch how her smile fades when she turns away.

When it finally ends, she doesn’t even glance at the locker room. She walks straight to you.

“Alright, hit me,” she says, dropping beside you on the bench, water bottle tucked under one arm, legs wide and hands clasped between her knees. Her jersey clings to her back with sweat. Her hair’s pulled into a tight bun, a few loose curls framing her flushed face.

You smirk. “You sure? I’ve got five pages already.”

“Jesus,” she mutters, leaning over to peek. “You still do bullet points?”

“I upgraded. Color-coded now.”

She groans. “Please tell me red still means ‘sucked.’”

“Red means ‘must address immediately.’ But yeah, you sucked on a few.”

She tosses her towel at you. You duck, laughing. Then you glance down at your screen.

“You rushed your footwork on the baseline pick. Every time. You’re cutting the corner too shallow, and it’s forcing your hips to stay closed when you rise.”

“I felt that,” she says, nodding. “Couldn’t get any lift.”

“Exactly. Also—your right knee’s collapsing again on your jump stop. You need to slow down your load. Breathe through it.”

“Got it.”

“Scrimmage—third possession, you jumped the passing lane too early on the weak side. You overcommitted on a read that wasn’t there. That’s a high school mistake, Bueckers.”

She groans again, flopping back against the bleachers. “Ughhh. Be nicer.”

You smile. “No.”

She nudges you with her shoulder. “Anything good?”

You glance at her, the way her eyes are shining despite the exhaustion. You nod.

“You read the defense perfectly on that skip pass to Crystal. Footwork was clean, timing was elite. Also—your fake hesitation in transition off that turnover? Disgusting.”

She grins. “Filthy?”

“Filthy,” you confirm.

There’s a pause, one of those quiet pockets that only exist with people who know every version of you.

Then Paige stands.

“Come on. Let’s fix my corner curl.”

Half the players are already gone, heading toward the locker room or training room or their cars. But Paige pulls you to the far basket like it’s still your high school gym at midnight.

You don’t even hesitate. You grab a ball and toss it to her.

“Start at the top. Walk me through your cut.”

She moves to the elbow, begins her motion slow.

“Too shallow,” you call.

She adjusts. Again. Again.

“Keep your center low. You’re rising too soon.”

She adjusts. Again. And again.

You step closer, placing your hands on her waist as she resets.

“Watch your hips. You’re twisting before your feet are planted.”

Her eyes flick to you. “You watching my hips or checking me out?”

You give her a look. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“You sure?” she smirks, stepping closer, her hands ghosting your sides.

You push her shoulder gently. “Back to work, Bueckers.”

She backs up, laughing.

Across the court, Coach Koclanes is still talking to staff when he glances over and sees the way Paige moves differently with you. The way she listens more intently. The rhythm of it. The ease.

He watches as she finishes her last curl, catches the ball you pass her, and sinks it from the wing—net barely moving.

You jog to grab the rebound. She resets.

And he’s already walking over to her by the time she sinks another shot.

“Paige,” he says, calm but direct.

She turns, wiping her forehead. “Coach.”

He glances across the court, then back at her.

“She yours?”

Paige follows his gaze to you, where you’re dribbling the ball lazily between your legs and checking your notes again.

She swallows.

“Yes, sir.”

Koclanes raises an eyebrow. “Trainer or girlfriend?”

“Both.”

He watches you again for a moment then nods slowly. “She’s sharp.”

Paige smiles. “She’s the reason I’m sharp.”

Koclanes studies her, arms crossed. “Alright. Just keep it professional when it counts.”

“She always does. I’m the reckless one.”

He smirks. “I figured.”

You're sprawled on the couch, tablet in your lap, and Paige is sitting on the floor between your knees, her back against the couch as you gently press into her shoulders.

“How bad was I?” she mumbles, half-asleep already.

“You weren’t bad,” you say. “You were just out of rhythm. New system. New teammates. New everything.”

She sighs. “It’s weird. Being the rookie again.”

You thread your fingers through her hair.

“You’ll adjust. You always do.”

She tilts her head to rest against your knee. “Coach asked about you.”

“Yeah?”

“Wanted to know if you were my trainer or my girlfriend.”

You grin. “What’d you say?”

“I said both.”

You pause. “And?”

“He said you’re sharp.”

You tap her forehead lightly. “Told you.”

She laughs softly.“Thanks for coming today.”

“I’ll be at every practice I can,” you promise. “Always.”

Paige reaches back, wrapping one hand around your ankle. “Feels like we never left the gym back home.”

You smile.

Because you know, deep down, that no matter how far Paige goes—WNBA stardom, championships, international fame—there will always be a corner of a court, a half-lit gym, where it’s just you and her.

The next time Paige asks if you’re coming to practice, you don’t answer. You just give her a look from across your shared bed, tablet already charging, stylus clipped to your hoodie collar. She laughs like she already knew.

"You're such a nerd," she teases, stretching as she slides out of bed.

"And you're late to everything but the gym," you shoot back, already packing snacks into her duffel.

Inside the Wings facility, it's déjà vu—but with a twist.

Paige is looser now. She’s smiling as she jogs out onto the court for warmups. Still focused, still razor-sharp, but her eyes find you through the bleachers like you're her true north.

You're already scribbling notes.

Dribble height off the left—still inconsistent. No dip off the hip before the pull.

She looks smoother today. Reads are quicker. She’s calling out switches and catching mismatches before they fully form. You know she’s watched the film. Your film.

And it shows.

She has a strong scrimmage. Ten assists. Fifteen points. The gym buzzes every time she touches the ball. Coaches watch her like she’s the answer to every late-game possession. But she still looks to you when she’s subbed out, even for just a moment.

A raised eyebrow from you is all it takes to remind her, slow your footwork, release higher, trust the screen.

She does. Nails her next three.

After practice ends, some of the players linger around the half-court line, chatting and stretching. But Paige’s sneakers squeak straight toward you.

She slides onto the bench beside you, water bottle cradled between her palms, jersey clinging to her collarbone with sweat.

“Well?”

You pass her the tablet. “You tell me.”

She scrolls. “Less red.”

You bump your knee against hers. “Because you actually did your hip mobility warm-up this time.”

“Don’t out me.”

You smirk. “I’ll keep your secrets if you keep hitting those high-release threes.”

She hands the tablet back, mock-serious. “Deal.”

You open your mouth to say something else, but someone clears their throat just behind you.

You turn and see him—Coach Chris Koclanes. Arms folded. Neutral face. Calculating eyes.

“Mind if I steal you a second?” he asks—not to Paige, but to you.

You blink, then glance at her. Paige just smiles and gives a subtle nod. You stand slowly, brushing your hands on your sweats as you follow him a few paces down the sideline.

He gestures toward the court. “That was a hell of a session for Bueckers.”

You nod. “She’s a rhythm player. Once she finds her pace, she’s lethal.”

“She credited you yesterday. Said you’ve been training her for years.”

“Since Hopkins.”

“She listens to you.”

You shrug, cautious. “We’ve built trust. I’ve been in her corner longer than most.”

Coach tilts his head, studying you. “You ever worked in a professional setting?”

“Not officially. Internships. Assistant roles. Mostly freelance analysis. Paige has been my primary focus.”

“I noticed.”

You’re silent.

Then he says it, casually—like it’s not a thing that could change your entire trajectory.

“I’ve got a spot open. Player development. One-on-one focus. I want you on staff—assigned directly to Paige.”

You freeze.

“Wait... what?”

He doesn’t waver. “You’ve clearly studied the game. You’ve got rapport. She trusts you more than anyone I’ve seen her with. I want that. I want you working with her officially. You’d be listed as player development assistant, but your job’s simple. Keep her sharp.”

“I—I’d need to talk to her about it.”

“You can. But it’s her job now. Not college. Not freelance. You’ll be part of the system. You in or not?”

You hesitate for the first time in a long time.

You’ve always been by Paige’s side. Always in the shadow just outside the spotlight. But this… this would put you inside the machine.

And that scares you.

But then Paige jogs over, towel around her shoulders, hair a mess, and eyes locked on you.

“You okay?” she asks, sensing the weight of the moment.

You look at her.

At the girl you trained through injuries, through heartbreak, through the hardest years of her life.

At the woman she’s become.

You smile softly.

“Coach wants to hire me,” you say.

Her brows lift. “For real?”

“To train you. Officially.”

There’s a pause.

Then her hand slides into yours, quiet but steady.

“What are you waiting for?”

You show up fifteen minutes early.

Even though you’ve walked through these gym doors a dozen times with Paige, everything feels different now. Your name’s on the clipboard. Your badge is clipped to your lanyard. You’re not just the person she looks for in the crowd.

You’re staff.

Official.

You nod to Coach Koclanes as you pass him in the hallway. He grunts a greeting, mid-conversation with another staffer, but you catch the way he gives a tiny approving nod in your direction.

Paige’s locker is already open when you make it to the court. She’s sitting cross-legged in front of it, re-lacing her sneakers like she didn’t lace and unlace them five minutes ago just to get it right.

She doesn’t say anything. Just looks up and gives you the smallest smirk.

“You nervous?” she asks without looking up.

“Why would I be nervous?” you say, adjusting your tablet bag and trying to sound like your heart isn’t pacing like it’s game day.

“Because you look like you’re about to give a TED Talk instead of coaching me through curls and closeouts.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“That’s what I’m banking on.”

“Y/N?” Coach Koclanes’ voice calls from across the court.

You walk over. “Yes, Coach.”

“You’ll be shadowing the guards today. Track foot placement and timing—specifically the pick-and-pop sequences. If Bueckers misses any lift opportunities, I want it noted.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ll run her one-on-one this afternoon. After team breakdown.”

“Understood.”

He claps your shoulder once, short and firm. “Welcome aboard.”

You nod. “Glad to be here.”

Practice unfolds like muscle memory.

You stay on the sidelines during group drills—eyes sharp, clipboard scribbling fast, quiet enough not to distract but focused enough to clock the split-second decision Paige makes before her assist in a half-court set.

Hesitation dribble sets defender. Delay creates opening. Reinforce timing.

During defensive rotations, she switches too late once.

You make a note.

She knows.

On the next possession, she’s early.

By a beat.

You smirk down at your page.

Water break.

Paige jogs past you, towel around her neck. She slows just enough to pass a quiet, “How am I doing, Coach?”

You don’t look up. “Foot’s still sliding out on the stagger screen. Don’t let your heel lead.”

“Got it.”

She grins and disappears into the huddle.

You keep writing.

The court’s cleared of team chaos. Most of the players have filtered out, heading to the weight room or showers. Coaches flutter around, chatting about the next game plan.

You wait with two fresh basketballs and a short list of drills. Paige walks back onto the court, damp hair tucked into a fresh headband, sweat already drying on her skin.

She nods at your clipboard. “How bad is it?”

“Not bad. But I’m not here to tell you what’s good.”

“Of course not.”

You toss her the ball. “We’re going to fix the angle on your split step first. You’re hesitating mid-transition when you don’t need to.”

She shifts into position. “I only trust you to tell me that.”

You smile quietly. “Lucky me.”

The next thirty minutes are the closest you’ve felt to home since stepping into this facility.

You aren’t just watching her. You’re correcting, measuring, coaching her through every breath and pivot.

Her shoulders relax under your voice.

Your fingers brush her knee to adjust her positioning—not intimate, but familiar.

You step in behind her on a jab series drill, guiding her hips gently with your hands to show where her weight should be. She exhales through her nose, eyes laser-focused on the floor.

When she nails it three reps later, she grins over her shoulder at you.

“I forgot how it feels when it clicks.”

You nod. “That’s why we’re here.”

Another assistant watching nearby chuckles. “She listens to you better than anyone.”

You don’t answer.

You don’t have to.

You’re gathering your clipboard and packing up your notes when Coach Koclanes walks over again. Paige’s eyes flick toward you once, but she heads toward the weight room with a soft brush of her fingers across your arm.

It’s subtle.

No one else would notice.

But you feel it.

Coach stops in front of you, arms crossed. “That was a clean session.”

“She’s responding well to structure,” you say.

“No. She’s responding to you,” he replies. “That’s why I pushed to get you on staff.”

You nod. “I appreciate that, sir.”

He watches Paige across the gym, already laughing with teammates in the weight room.

“You keep this up, you’re not just gonna be her trainer. You’ll be a real asset to this team.”

You look at him. “I want to help them all. But she’s the one I know best.”

He nods once. “Then don’t let her down.”

You tighten your grip on the clipboard. “Never have.”

That night, Paige sits beside you on your apartment balcony, toes tucked under her, hoodie zipped halfway, her knees brushing yours.

"You were so locked in today," she says.

"So were you."

She leans over and places a kiss on your shoulder, resting her head on your arm. “You made today feel like home.”

You close your eyes for a second, listening to the hum of Dallas in the distance.

“You are home,” you whisper.

She doesn’t reply.

She just laces her fingers with yours and holds on.

You linger near the back wall, just behind the assistants’ bench setup as the players finish changing. Paige tapes her wrists in near silence, bouncing her knee the way she always does before big games. You know her tells like your own breath.

She looks up once and catches your eye.

You nod, once. A signal.

You're ready.

She blinks slowly and exhales. A signal back.

I know.

Paige Bueckers in crunch time is art. She’s calm chaos. She moves like music. The crowd chants her name before the buzzer even sounds.

You don’t celebrate yet. You just stand with the clipboard tucked to your chest, waiting for the team to return to the bench.

And then she jogs off the court, towel over her head, high-fiving teammates—and her eyes go straight to you.

No smile.

No show.

Just a look that says everything.

I needed you here.

You give a subtle nod, lips parting just slightly, and she closes her eyes for half a second like she’s sealing the moment.

There are reporters. There are lights. Paige answers questions about the debut, the crowd, the shots. One asks if she felt ready.

She pauses. “I was more than ready.”

“What helped you prepare the most for your first game?”

She tilts her head slightly. “Honestly? I’ve had someone in my corner for years. She’s always known what I need before I do.”

A subtle answer.

But you know who she means.

Another day, another practice and you and paige stay past practice to work on more one-on-one training.

She’s standing at the elbow, hands on her hips, jersey damp with sweat. You’re holding the ball. Clipboard tucked under your arm. Your eyes narrow as you step forward.

“Okay. Three reps. Elbow pivot into the dribble-drop. Inside foot. One step. Pull.”

Paige nods. You pass her the ball. She moves—sharp, clean, quick—but her foot lands too flat. You don’t say anything, just tilt your head. She stops, pivots back toward you.

“Too slow?”

“Too flat.”

“Again?”

You toss the ball again. She resets. This time, the movement slices. Sharp plant. Quick pop. Perfect arc. Net barely stirs. You smile, but you don’t say anything. She already knows.

DiJonai Carrington is leaning against the wall near the exit, pretending to be texting. She's not. She’s watching.

She nudges Arike Ogunbowale, who’s walking by.

“Tell me that’s not a couple.”

Arike squints. “You mean Bueckers and iPad Girl?”

“Y/N,” DiJonai corrects.

“Yeah, I mean… they’re always together. I thought she was just training her.”

“Sure,” DiJonai says. “But you ever watch them?”

They both look again.

You’re walking in a small circle as Paige mirrors your movements, copying your footwork in silence, like dancers in slow sync. She laughs at something you say. You roll your eyes but reach out to adjust her elbow softly.

Arike raises an eyebrow. “That’s not just training.”

“Nope.”

You’ve got the court from 7 to 8 a.m. before scheduled practice begins. Paige shows up five minutes early—iced coffee in one hand, her mouth already chewing a bite of banana.

You’re in joggers and a Wings tee, tablet resting on a folding chair, cones lined up like a blueprint for something more serious than just “a workout.”

“You’re in a mood,” Paige says, setting down her drink.

“You’re inconsistent on your left side release. We’re fixing it today.”

She groans. “That’s a lefty problem.”

“It’s a you problem.”

She steps into her shoes and points. “Tell me what to do, Coach.”

You walk through it together.

Left foot plant. Shoulder twist. Off-hand steady. Ball into motion.

You call out commands. She adjusts immediately.

Thirty minutes in, she’s drenched. You toss her a towel and a water bottle.

“Better,” you admit.

“I’m gonna crash before real practice even starts,” she huffs.

You smirk. “You’ll thank me mid-season.”

Paige grins. “I always do.”

“Is it true?” Maddy Siegrist asks during stretching.

“What?” Ty Harris replies.

“That Paige and Y/N have been together since college.”

Ty shrugs. “They’ve known each other forever.”

“I thought it was just a trainer thing,” Maddy mutters.

Ty grins. “Look again.”

Later, during team cooldown, Paige finishes her reps and jogs straight to you. Doesn’t even grab a towel first.

You hand her one anyway.

She dabs her face and says, “Can we run that pick split tomorrow? The one we talked about?”

You nod. “I’ll draw it up tonight.”

She nudges you lightly with her hip. “Add a note that says ‘tell her she’s brilliant’.”

You roll your eyes. “Noted.”

The gym’s closed. The team had morning practice and mandatory lift. Most of the players have left for the day.

You’re not supposed to be here. Not technically. But Paige had asked. Just thirty minutes, she said. Just to walk through that new screen sequence you diagrammed.

So here you are.

You both are.

No cameras. No coaches. Just the echo of sneakers on hardwood and the sound of Paige’s soft exhale as she resets for the fifteenth time.

You're seated cross-legged on the court with your notes spread around you like a campfire circle. She’s walking herself through spacing patterns and foot placement, talking aloud so you can listen for her rhythm.

She misses a step. You catch it instantly.

“Too wide on your pivot,” you murmur.

She sighs. “I felt that.”

“You’re rushing the top foot.”

She stops. Tilts her head.

“You know what helps that?” she says.

You squint up at her. “What?”

She walks over slowly, takes your hand, and gently pulls you to your feet. “You.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You want me to demo it?”

“No,” she says, slipping her arms around your waist. “I want a break.”

You laugh quietly. “Oh, so now I’m a human timeout?”

“You’re my entire recovery system.”

Her fingers hook into the waistband of your joggers. Her forehead presses to yours. Her body still humming from the workout, but her expression soft, flushed in a different way.

You lean in. Her lips brush yours once—slow, careful, reverent.

Then again—deeper this time, her hand rising to the back of your neck. She kisses you like you’re the rhythm she’s trying to memorize.

You sigh against her mouth.

“Oh my god—”

Both your heads whip toward the doorway.

Maddy is frozen, Gatorade bottle in one hand, gym bag slung over her shoulder, eyes wide.

You and Paige instantly take a step apart—hands dropping, space returning.

Too late.

“I didn’t see anything,” Maddy says, blinking. “Except I very much did.”

Paige groans quietly. “Madd…”

Maddy grins—messy, teasing, thrilled. “So… I was right.”

You rub the back of your neck. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

“Too late. They’re all going to scream.”

Paige groans louder, dragging a hand down her face. “God.”

Maddy holds up her free hand like a scout’s oath. “I’ll be cool. But like… this is kinda iconic.”

She starts to back out the door, already pulling out her phone.

“Mad—no texts!” Paige calls.

“I can’t hear you,” she says, vanishing around the corner.

Paige is curled up beside you on the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, scrolling through the messages with an embarrassed smile.

“Maddy said she saw a spark fly across the court when we kissed,” she says.

“She’s being dramatic,” you mumble, stroking her leg.

“She also said we owe her wedding invites.”

You snort. “Tell her she’s not getting a plus one.”

Paige laughs softly, then sobers. “You okay with this?”

You glance down at her. “The team knowing?”

She nods.

You rest your hand over her heart. “Feels like they always did.”

She smiles again. Quieter. More secure.

“Yeah,” she says. “I think so too.”

The Wings take the game by six.

Paige finishes with 24 points and 9 assists, carving up the fourth quarter with her signature midrange feints and off-ball creativity. You watched it all from the second row behind the bench, scribbling down your notes in silence, even though you knew everything you needed to say could be told with just a look.

After the buzzer, she walks off the court with her arm draped over DiJonai’s shoulder—grinning, exhausted, and glowing in that way she only does when she’s earned it.

She doesn’t come straight to you like she normally would. She gives you a look—soft, quiet, later.

You nod. Clipboard tight in hand.

Because you both know what’s next.

She’s in front of the mic, jersey swapped for a Wings hoodie, hair damp, eyes focused. The media crowd is familiar now—reporters from local outlets, national sportswriters, and the occasional YouTube basketball guy with a small mic clipped to his collar.

She’s answered three questions already. All standard.

“What did you see on that final possession?” “How has your chemistry with Arike developed this early in the season?” “What’s been the biggest adjustment from college ball to the league?”

She’s smooth. Thoughtful. Never rehearsed, but always real.

And then it comes.

From a new face in the third row. Out-of-town badge. Small outlet, but a big voice.

“Paige—this one’s off-court. There’s been a lot of speculation online recently about your relationship with your player development assistant, Y/N L/N.”

You feel your stomach go tight, even from where you stand just off to the side.

“There are viral clips. Locker room comments. A lot of fans believe you two are more than just athlete and trainer. Do you have any response to that?”

The room doesn’t gasp—but it shifts. Everyone suddenly leans in.

And Paige?

She blinks. Once. Steadies herself. And answers.

Calm. Clear. Unapologetic.

“I think it’s interesting that when a male player trains with someone for years and builds trust with them, no one asks these questions.”

The room holds its breath.

“But when it’s two women, it’s suddenly public interest. People want a headline. A label. Something to screenshot.”

She pauses. Looks directly at the reporter. Not angry—just... resolute.

“Y/N has been by my side since I was fifteen. She's shaped how I play. How I think the game. Whether we’re running drills or sharing silence, she's never once wanted credit for what I’ve done.”

Paige turns her head slightly.

Just enough to catch you in her peripheral vision. She doesn’t smile. But her voice softens.

“So no, I don’t owe anyone a label. But I will say this. Whatever she is to me, it’s not just anything.”

Silence. Then cameras flash. Keys click. But no one says anything else.

You’re leaning against the cool concrete wall when she steps out.

She doesn’t speak right away. Just walks toward you, tugging her hoodie sleeves down like she’s trying to hide how tense her hands are.

You hand her a water bottle. “You handled that well.”

“I hated that,” she mutters.

You nod. “I know.”

She leans her shoulder into yours. “Was I too blunt?”

“No,” you say. “You were just... honest.”

Paige swallows, jaw tightening. “They’ll make it into something it’s not.”

“Let them try,” you say. “They still won’t know us.”

She looks at you now. Really looks.

“Do you wish I’d said more?”

You shake your head.

“You said exactly enough.”

Dallas Wings vs. Connecticut Sun

The crowd is loud before the game even starts.

It's not UConn-blue anymore — this arena bleeds orange tonight. Still, there are kids in Bueckers jerseys lining the front rows. Signs that say "Hopkins to Storrs to the League". A smattering of navy Wings hats in the crowd.

You keep your head down as you walk out of the tunnel with the coaching staff. No clipboard today — not your usual one. Today it’s a tablet. Branded Wings quarter-zip. You’re seated next to the coaches. Front row. You’re not just behind the bench anymore. You’re in it.

“It’s a full-circle night for Paige Bueckers — back in Connecticut, where she built her legend at UConn. But let’s talk about something fans might not know…”

“You mean Y/N L/N?”

“Exactly. She’s seated right there on the bench now. Officially added to the Wings’ player development staff this season, but unofficially, she's been Bueckers’ personal trainer and basketball mind since Hopkins High School.”

“I’ve seen it up close. She has one of the sharpest eyes for the game I’ve ever encountered. Doesn’t just do physical development — she reads the floor like a coach with fifteen years in.”

“And you’ll notice it tonight — every timeout, every free throw, every adjustment, Paige checks in with her. Watch for it.”

Timeout. Wings down by 5.

The team gathers. Coach Koclanes talks to the core five. But Paige doesn’t go to him first.

She walks straight to you.

“Every time I fight over the screen, they’re slipping the weak side,” she says, breath quick but eyes locked on yours.

You nod, tapping a graphic on your tablet. “They’re baiting you. Your stunt’s coming too early. Let them close the lane, then rotate.”

“Got it.”

“On offense, they’re loading strong side on you. Reverse it. Skip it before the trap comes.”

“Copy.”

She claps your shoulder once and jogs back to the huddle.

Behind you, one of the coaches mutters, “It’s scary how fast she processes.”

You smile. “She’s just wired that way.”

The arena quiets slightly as Connecticut sets up at the line.

You see Paige backpedal toward your end of the bench. The ref glances at her, but she makes it quick.

“They’re stacking corner help every time we swing,” she says.

You lean forward. “Because you’re not cutting sharp enough off the split. Give the help something to respect.”

She nods, jaw set. “Backdoor?”

You whisper, “Only if Arike clears. They’re watching her eyes.”

Paige jogs back on-court, whispering something to Arike as the free throw bounces off the rim.

The very next play — skip pass. Fake drive. Backdoor cut. Paige lays it in.

Your stylus marks the play with a bright green tag.

“And there it is. Every time she glances at the sideline, it’s Y/N she’s looking for.”

“And you know what’s incredible? They’re not even speaking full sentences anymore. It’s absolutely fluid. That’s chemistry you build over years.”

“There are players who have court vision, and then there are those with a court language. Bueckers and L/N speak their own.”

It’s close. Wings up by 2. Sun with the ball.

Timeout.

Everyone’s shouting. The crowd is on their feet.

But Paige walks directly to you.

“What do I do?” she asks, fast, fierce.

You point at the digital clipboard. “Let her take baseline. You don’t need the steal. You need the stop.”

She nods. “You sure?”

“Always.”

She gets the stop.

The Wings win.

And as the clock winds down and the buzzer sounds, Paige doesn’t jump. Doesn’t throw her arms up. Doesn’t scan the crowd.

She turns.

And she finds you.

She walks straight to you and pulls you in with one hand behind your neck, pressing her forehead against yours again—this time longer. This time with the world watching.

The locker room is buzzing with celebration.

Not wild. Not champagne-and-speakers. Just a grounded, satisfied kind of joy. The kind that comes when you win with poise. When strategy trumps talent. When Paige Bueckers gets the stop that seals the game in the city where she once built her name.

You’re standing off to the side, tablet in hand, quietly reviewing clips when you hear her voice behind you.

“Hey.”

You turn. She’s fresh out of the postgame cooldown, hair tied back again, towel looped around her neck. Her cheeks are still pink from the adrenaline.

“That cut worked,” she says, low so only you hear.

You nod. “Knew it would.”

“I’ll say it in every language if I have to,” she adds, stepping a little closer. “But thank you.”

You smile, voice soft. “You already say it in mine.”

She holds your gaze like she wants to say something else—but then a media assistant calls out, “Bueckers — press in two!”

She winks once. “Meet you after.”

The postgame presser is at full capacity. More media than usual. Because this one? This wasn’t just a win. This was a return.

Paige walks in wearing her warm-up jacket zipped to her collarbone, no jewelry, no flash. Just locked in. She slides into the chair beside Coach Koclanes, a bottle of water in front of her.

First few questions are standard.

“What did it feel like playing back in Connecticut?” “Did you hear the crowd reaction when you checked in?” “What were you seeing on that final defensive play?” “How do you feel still being undefeated at Mohegan Sun?”

She answers each calmly. Firmly. Head high. Shoulders square.

From a reporter in the second row—

“Paige, we saw a lot of sideline communication between you and your player development assistant, Y/N L/N. This isn’t the first time, but it was definitely the most visible. Can you speak to that relationship and how it affects your in-game decisions?”

A pause. The room quiets. Coach shifts slightly in his seat but says nothing.

Paige exhales once through her nose — not annoyed. Just... thoughtful.

Then she looks directly at the reporter and begins.

“Y/N isn’t just a development assistant. She’s my basketball brain outside my body.”

A few eyebrows lift. Cameras click.

“She knows my tendencies, my triggers, my adjustments. We’ve worked together since high school. Every version of my game — from Minnesota to UConn to the league — she’s helped shape.”

Another pause. The air is listening harder now.

“So yeah, we talk every timeout. Every free throw. Every off-ball set. It’s not just strategy. It’s trust.”

Her voice softens slightly.

“I trust her eyes more than film. More than instinct. She sees the angles I don’t.”

Someone clears their throat. Another reporter chimes in.

“There’s been public speculation that your connection goes beyond coaching. Are you prepared to comment on that?”

Paige tilts her head just slightly — and then gives the smallest smile you’ve seen all day.

“I’m prepared to say that what we have is ours. And whatever anyone thinks they see... I hope they understand it’s built on years of work, not just a few looks during timeouts.”

She shrugs once.

“If it looks like more, maybe that’s because it is. But it’s not for you. It’s for us.”

Silence.

And then, one lone voice, “Well said.”

You’re waiting just past the press hallway, tablet shut down, credential badge dangling loosely from your neck. Paige rounds the corner still in her team gear, phone buzzing in her hand, mouth curled into a small, tired smile.

She walks up slowly, voice low.

“You hear that?”

You nod. “Every word.”

“Too much?”

You shake your head.

“It was perfect.”

She steps in, arms sliding around your waist, and rests her forehead lightly against yours — again, the way she always does when the world outside is loud and this little pocket of quiet is the only thing real.

You whisper, “They’ll keep asking.”

Paige whispers back, “Let ’em. We’ll keep answering our way.”

#paige bueckers #paige bueckers x reader #paige buckets #uconn women’s basketball #uconn wbb #wnba x reader #dallas wings #lesbian #wlw #wuh luh wuh

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pomefioredove · 2 months ago

Note

Hihi!!!

Can I have a sugar cookie, #15, with frosting and candy cane :D

OMG friends to lovers with rook... REAL

order #15, sugar with frosting, candy canes

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ hunting familiarity

summary: cuddling with rook. that's it that's the plot tropes: friends to lovers, only one bed characters: rook additional info: romantic, gender neutral reader, reader is yuu, indulgent cuddling, short

"Oh, but it is necessary!"

You blink, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes while Rook waits on your doorstep. It's well past midnight, you have a make-up exam tomorrow morning, and you haven't the slightest clue why he couldn't ask... well, anyone else if he could stay in their dorm.

"...What happened, again?"

Rook sighs, setting a hand over his heart. "It was the most tragic thing, Trickster! I had been in the throes of passion, doing my evening target practice before bed, when- pouf! My foolish hunter's hand slipped, and an arrow went through the window of ma chambre,"

No way this is the truth. You're too tired for this. "Uh-huh?"

"You see, I cannot sleep in a cold room- I would rest most fitfully, and as I did not want to rouse the Roi du Poison from his beauty rest, I have come to humbly ask for your assistance,"

You almost roll your eyes. He's really rather loud, and the very last thing you need is for Grim to wake up with all the noise (he gets almost as grumpy as Vil).

"...Alright. But just for-"

"Merci, Trickster!" he says, letting himself in and hanging up his hat (yes, fully dressed- at midnight).

Before you can ask him what sofa he'd like, he's already ascending the stairs to your bedroom, and making himself at home with your blankets. Why do you even bother?

You sigh, wish him a good night, and then go to the door.

"Eh? Where are you going? Don't tell me the Headmage has you working at this hour, chouchou!"

He's sitting in bed, the blankets orderly over his dorm uniform, eyes wide and gleaming with excitement in the way they do when he sees something he likes.

In this case, it's the predicament he's put you in. Like an animal in a trap.

"...No, I'm going to the guest room to sleep," you say, hand on the doorframe and one foot over the threshold. "Good night, Rook-"

"You are not going to stay? I don't bite,"

You're not so sure about that.

"Or kick."

That seems more plausible.

"I just... don't want to wake Grim," you reason. "With all the tossing and turning. It's a small mattress."

"I'm sure you'll find we fit quite nicely," Rook says. He's not going to let this go, and though the thought of getting into bed with any of your friends feels like walking into bear territory while wearing a salmon suit, you're tired, it's cold, and you're more worried that Rook might take your measurements in your sleep than anything.

And Vil would have your head if Rook had to return and wake him.

"...No kicking," you agree, getting into bed at his side. "Or biting. And don't try to guess my blood type again."

Rook laughs, the sound merry and light. "Ah, Trickster! I discovered that months ago,"

He wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you to him, putting his chin on your shoulder and warming your shivering self. His chest is against your back, his body pleasantly temperate and perfectly comfortable. His breath grazes your neck, as if threatening to nibble but never taking the bite.

"Bonne nuit," he hums, complacent and content, as if nothing could be more perfect.

You sigh, pretending to be perplexed at his odd behavior, but he knows you better than that. You're not bothered by your friend, no matter how unfriendly he gets.

"You're lucky we're friends,"

"Oui, c'est vrai," he mutters. "Perhaps more, someday. Sleep well."

Your heart stops for a beat, a breath, a simple moment in time, and Rook surely felt it, with his arms around your waist and his cheek on your pulse point, but he sleeps.

He'd either taken pity on you, or the hunt had begun.

#twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #rook hunt x reader #queued

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yandere-daydreams · 2 years ago

Text

Title: Sacrifical Bride.

Commissioned by the very lovely @yanmaresu.

Pairing: Yandere!Hades x Reader (Record of Ragnarök).

Word Count: 3.0k.

TW: Fem!Reader, Non/Con, Forced Marriage, Unbalanced Power Dynamics, Emotional Manipulation, Rough Sex, Unprotected Sex, and Mentions of Kidnapping/Prolonged Captivity. Not Canon Complacent. I Have Never Met Canon But I Hear She's Very Nice.

The wedding was a solemn affair.

Not dull, because nothing that had your heart beating so violently could ever be considered ‘dull’, and not dreary, because despite the many, many things you could say about your kidnapper-turned-husband, he wasn’t one for bland affairs. No, your dress was of the finest and most vibrant silks, your veil lined with pearls and rubies and the gown’s train long enough to swell and ebb behind you as you walked down the seemingly never-ending aisle, unaccompanied by any escort. Wreaths of shining ivory lilies and blooming chrysanthemums encircled marble pillars, low-burning lanterns casting the chapel in long, wavering shadows. The pews were empty. The only guests were his ghastly servants, and they’d never once said a word to you.

There was no officiant. Hades waited for you at the brimstone altar alone, a gentle simper playing over his lips as he watched you drag your feet and fight the urge to bolt, to run, to do the very thing that’d left you trapped in his arm in the first place. It was tempting, albeit pointless. You’d always been swift footed, but there was nowhere to escape to in Helheim. At best, you’d spend a few days hiding and struggling to survive in the empty plains that surrounded his looming fortress of a home. At worst, you’d find yourself without direction and beyond the reach of his control, hopelessly lost and stumbling through fields of fading dead and gnarled beasts and things that would make the man in front of you look hospitable, in comparison. You tried to remind yourself of that as your body begged you to flee.

As you reached the altar, his smile grew into something that could’ve been convincingly genuine, had it been able to reach the pits of lifeless ice that were his eyes. Rather, the gesture only seemed to add to the coil of dread growing tighter in the pit of your stomach as you stepped beside him, clutching your bouquet to your chest in a white-knuckled grip. He’d let you pick that out yourself, at least, and you’d taken a truly irrational amount of joy in picking wildflowers and trimming roses and breaking every rule of decorum your mother had ever taught you. Now, though, the shadows of his hall seemed to dull your vision-searing colors, and it was difficult to take joy in such a simple pleasure knowing the man in front of you sought to ensure you’d never braid daisies or sleep beneath open skies again, when he was staring you down like yet another precious gem he planned to add to his ever-growing collection. It was a cruel comparison, but not quite as hyperbolic as you would’ve liked.

There was a shallow sigh, a hand brought to the edge of your veil. He toyed with the fabric for a long moment before taking the hem in both hands and pulling it away from your face. If he recognized the terror stitched into your expression, he only deemed it worth a slight shake of his head. “Oh, beloved.” His hand fell to your cheek. “You’re as radiant as the day we met.”

The day he plucked you from your mortal life and dragged you into the depths of the earth, the day he’d forced the awful seeds of that terrible fruit down your throat and promised you would never see another living soul again. You swallowed back your nerves. “Please, don’t draw this out.”

You were lucky you’d fallen into the hands of such a mild-tempered captor. He let out an airy chuckle, turning back to the altar. It was decorated sparsely; an overflowing cornucopia posed in one corner, a standing thurible slowly releasing nauseatingly sweet incense into the stagnant air sitting in the other. Between them was only a bottle of dark wine and two twin chalices, crafted of only the finest bronze and polished until they shined in the low lighting. He filled both to the brim before looking towards you, a glint in his remaining eye as he took a chalice in either hand.

You’d been wrong when you assumed they were identical. Where one had a line of aimless, curling thorns following the rim and plunging down the length of the handle, the other was embellished with roses, abstract and nearly shapeless, forming neat columns across the body of the cup. He extended the latter to you, its contents threatening to spill as you took it in your trembling hands. You’d managed to talk him out of the more elaborate ceremonies he’d suggested, but it was difficult to remember that this was a preferable alternative now that could feel the chill of his wine seeping into your palms.

You brought it to your lips, held it there for a moment, then pulled back at the hint of a more familiar scent than that of his dizzying incense. “Pomegranates?”

“I thought it would be a nice touch.” For him, maybe. He’d always struggled to see things from your perspective. “Forgive my sentimentality.”

You wouldn’t, but you were smart enough to keep that to yourself. When he raised his chalice, you did the same, mirroring him when your own will failed you. “To us, darling.”

You nodded. “To us.”

He took a long sip from his chalice, seeming to savor the rich wine, while you drained yours in a single breath. Try as you might to enjoy it, you could only seem to taste ash.

A few vows were exchanged, a kiss pressed into the back of your hand when you flinched away from his attempt to communicate his affection more directly. Finally, he took your arm and guided you back to your shared chambers, lingering in the doorway while you collapsed onto his bed – your marital bed, now, you supposed. You buried your face in the silken sheets, letting out a soft groan. There would be a celebration later on, a feast with all of his many gloating brothers and prying sisters in attendance, but the worst of it was over. You were bound to him, for better or for worse. All you could do was weather the consequences.

You’d hoped he would be kind enough to leave you alone while you consoled yourself, while you took all that you knew and all that you didn’t and recontextualized it with yourself as the mortal bride to the God of Death, but a hand on your shoulder dispelled that fleeting fantasy. With no small amount of reluctance, you pushed yourself upward and turned your attention back to Hades. This time, without the pretense of custom, he didn’t settle for your hand. His mouth found its way to the dip of your shoulder, then the crook of your neck, his teeth scraping against your skin as he pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses into his chosen targets.

When he started to move towards the curve of your throat, you moved on instinct – your hands finding their way to his hair as you dragged him away from you before he could do anything you wouldn’t be able to forget as soon as he left the room. “Please,” you said, not for the first time that day. “I… I’d rather be alone, right now. If it’s all the same to you.”

His smile didn’t waver. “You know that, if it were up to me, I would bend to your every whim,” he spaced the words out generously, as if worried your feeble human mind might not be able to understand. “But we aren’t done.”

Your expression fell. “I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me. I wore the dress, and—and I took your vows, and—”

“My love,” he cut you off swiftly, bringing his hand up to cup your cheek. “Our union will have to be consummated, eventually.”

You felt your throat begin to swell shut.

“I know that, but—” You laid your hand over his, trying to call upon whatever pale imitation of sympathy might’ve existed in his heart. “—does it have to be consummated now?”

You watched as his gaze softened, as his head lulled to the side in that endeared-yet-condescending manner he seemed so fond of. Slowly, with a painstaking gentleness, he brought you closer to him, ghosting over the top of your head and lingering there, even as he started to speak. “I think,” he started, his voice muffled by proximity. “that it would be in your best interest not to keep me waiting any longer.”

It wasn’t a threat, but it was posed like one, dredged up from somewhere deep in his chest and accompanied by his hand on your waist, nimble fingers slipping underneath the sash binding your gown together. When you jerked back, reflexively trying to escape his advances, he was quick to chase you, to let his softened smile spread into an amused grin as an arm wrapped around your midriff and dragged you, willingly or otherwise, into his lap. “I don’t want to hurt you.” And yet, your safety didn’t seem to cross his mind as his blunt nails bit into your waist, as he dragged you close enough to feel his chest press into yours, to become uncomfortably aware of the stiff outline against the loose fabric of his pants. “If I rely on my own self-restraint for another day—” Another kiss, this one to the tender patch of skin above your jugular vein. “I’m afraid I might end up doing something we both regret, when the time comes.”

“Less than a day,” you pleaded as he buried his face in your neck. There was a blur of movement, the ghost of his touch along the curve of your spine, and your bodice fell away in tatters, the ruined fabric collapsing to your waist. When you moved to cover yourself, Hades clicked his tongue and you froze, letting your arms fall back to your sides. Begging him to change his mind was one thing. Going against him so transparently would only make things more difficult. “Half a day. An hour. I just— Hades, I can’t do this right now—”

“My love.” Swift, blunt, merciless. You’d been a fool to ever think he was one of the kinder gods. “I think I’ve waited long enough to claim what belongs to me.”

Any protest you might’ve had died in your throat.

You’d been a fool to ever think he was anything less than the cruelest of his kin.

You wanted to scream. If you couldn’t run, then you would yell, raise your voice and tell him that he already had you, that he’d gotten everything he could’ve possibly wanted, but anything you might’ve said was torn away and ripped to shreds as his head dipped low, his teeth latching onto the vulnerable skin of you collar bone and sinking in. He didn’t draw blood, but he didn’t have to. A bolt of pure, stinging agony shot from your chest to your core, only dulling as he pulled away with a low groan. “Have I ever told you how much I adore the sound of my name on your tongue?” You felt his hand on your hip, then your thigh, the remains of your dress cut through and disposed of with little fanfare. He gave your bridal lingerie (pure white and so obnoxiously lacy, you’d had to wonder if this was all some sadistic joke as you slipped it on) more attention, his thumb running along the delicate trim before his fingers slipped underneath it, tracing the length of your slit before doing away with the barrier altogether.

Dread and panic dulled your reactions, but it would’ve been a lie to say the feeling of his mouth on your skin had left you completely unaffected. He chuckled as he gathered your slick on his fingertips, two of which were soon pressed into your clit with a brutal sort of precision. “And you tried to play coy.” He teased the sensitive bundle of nerves mercilessly, the patterns he traced into your clit too slow and too fleeting all at once. You wished he wouldn’t touch you at all, but if he was going to, it was the least he could’ve done not to draw it out. “That must’ve been why you seemed so rushed during our ceremony. If you’d asked me to make love to you on that altar, I happily would have.”

Hot, humiliated tears welled up in the corners of your eyes. You attempted to deny it, but a cracked moan slipped past your lips instead as two of his fingers were forced into your cunt and spread, splitting you apart. Your hands shot to his shoulders, trying to stabilize yourself, but he only saw your desperation as an invitation – bowing his head and pumping his fingers into you at the kind of languid pace that left you fighting not to rock against him, not to make up for the urgency immortal creatures so often lacked. “You’re a vice,” he muttered, his breath ghosting over the shell of your ear, his tone low and lecherous. You wondered, briefly, if words that fell from the lips of a god could be considered sinful. “To think my own wife would’ve had me neglect her so severely for so long.”

You shook your head. You were married to him, sure, bound to him. But you couldn’t afford to think of yourself as his wife. You couldn’t afford to think of yourself as something so limited, something so purely an extension of him. “I’m not—”

“Don’t try to spare my feelings. I can see that I underestimated just how much attention my little mortal would need.” His wrist quirked, another digit pushing past your entrance and stuffing your pussy full as his fingers curled and ground inside of you. Against your will, you felt a tight heat begin to twist and writhe in the pit of your stomach, pangs of burning pleasure coursing from your cunt to your core. Now, you cried unabashedly, embarrassment and shame burning in your cheeks and fueling the unsteady stream of tears that Hades was so agonizingly quick to coo over, to kiss away as your hips bucked unsteadily against his hand. “What a sensitive wife I have.” That word – that awful word – was enough to earn a ragged sob, but if he recognized the connection, he didn’t deem it worth his concern. “I promise, you’ll never feel so unloved in my care again.”

You would’ve given anything to be able to pull away from him, to be able to shove at his chest and swear to all the gods you’d once worshiped that there was no part of you that could ever feel loved with him, but in the end, he was the one to let you go, to throw you onto the center of his great bed and leave you whining involuntarily at the sudden loss of stimulation. He’d never been one to deprive you, though; in a moment, he was in between your open legs, one hand wrapped loosely around your thigh while the other pulled feverishly at his own clothes. His coat fell away first, then his shirt. You heard fabric shift and metal clink and, in a daze, saw him wrap his fist around something he could not have possibly planned to fit inside of you. Half out of terror and half out of instinct, your gaze flickered from his cock to his face – to the wide, fanged grin he’d been wearing for as long as you could remember.

He moved to kiss you, and you drove your heel into his stomach.

The blow would’ve been weak by human standards, but it caught him off-guard. Out of reflex, he reeled back, and you took the opportunity to scramble off his bed and towards the door, to any part of this forsaken place where Hades wasn’t. You made it a step, maybe two before something caught your shoulder, before your body buckled under a weight greater than your own. You were dragged onto your knees before you could so much as think to slip away from him, your cheek forced against the cool marble of the floor before you could hope to make your descent more dignified. You felt his broad chest press into your back, his snarling lips against the curve of your throat. You wondered if the insult would be great enough to warrant taking your life, but the thought was dismissed quickly.

Hades had never been the kind of god capable of showing such mercy.

“I would’ve made love to you like a queen,” he spat, his tone all manic venom and overdue obsession. “But, if you’d rather be fucked on the ground like a whore, I’m more than happy to oblige.”

You weren’t allowed the luxury of bracing yourself, this time. In one brutal movement, he thrust into you, splitting you open on his cock with the kind of harsh, unforgiving force better suited to a wild animal. There was no time to adjust, no time to sob, only Hades groaning against your neck as he bucked against you, never daring to pull out completely. Whatever agony his fingers had sparked was now ten-fold. Your legs shook, your body threatening to collapse entirely, but Hades kept your ass raised and your thighs spread, his focus entirely on bucking into you as deeply and as roughly as he could.

It almost surprised you when one of his hands shot to your head, his fingers tangling themselves in your hair as he forced his mouth against yours. You tried not to cooperate, but two fingers pressed into your clit and your mouth fell open in a guttural cry, providing an opening he seemed content to take advantage of. It was a deep, lingering, messything – all tongue and teeth – but his cock ground against something soft and vulnerable and you failed to suppress the wave of pure heat that flooded through your battered body as you clenched around him, as you came undone around the cock of your kidnapper, your captor, your husband. Hades wasn’t far behind, his composure shattering no more than a second after the walls of your cunt clenched down around him. You could only choke on your misery-tinged pleasure as his hips pressed into your ass and he came inside of you – his awful warmth soon tainting every fiber of your being.

You tried to tell yourself that, at the very least, it was over - that he’d had his fill of you and now, you’d be free to console yourself elsewhere, but your hopes were once again dashed when Hades failed to release you, failed to pull out of you, failed to do anything but press himself into your back and trail his lips idly down to the nape of your neck. “Once is a pitiful amount for a king. Don’t you agree?”

You felt his hips move back, then rock against you just as quickly.

“You can forgive me when we’re done, love.”

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere oneshot #yandere record of ragnarok #record of ragnarok imagines #record of ragnarok x reader #hades x reader #yandere hades #yaanderecore #yancore

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