#Digital Elevation Model | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bueckets · 7 months ago

Text

Going UP?

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

Description: From missed alarms to broken elevators, your Tuesday couldn't get worse, well, until it gets better. When a late-running grad student's desperate dash to save her thesis turns into an unexpected elevator encounter with UConn basketball sensation Paige Bueckers, she learns that sometimes the best assists come from broken machinery.

Armed with nothing but coffee-fueled anxiety and an encyclopedic knowledge of basketball analytics, you find yourself trading quips with college basketball's golden girl in a stalled elevator. What starts as a disaster turns into something else entirely when basketball theory meets practice, terrible jokes meet dangerous grins, and hot chocolate meets, well, everywhere except the mug.

They say love is a game of chances. But when you're trapped between floors with a girl who can bend physics on the court and make your heart run suicides off it, maybe it's worth taking the shot. Sometimes cupid doesn't use arrows. Sometimes he just breaks the elevator.

Featuring: One (1) very broken elevator Several questionably colored cocktails A security guard who's seen it all Basketball plays drawn in spilled Shirley Temples Analytics-based flirting And a whipped cream fight that definitely isn't regulation play

Coming soon to wherever meet-cutes happen in college sports. (Rated R for excessive basketball puns and gay panic)

WC: 8.1k (roughly)

Genre/Notes: uh, i tried to be funny, floofy, rom-com-ish? (i tried), smut at the end, someone gets their kitty ATE, proof read like 50%

Your sneakers pound against the cracked, patchy sidewalk of North Campus, dodging the construction zone that's been "two weeks from completion" since freshman year. The November air bites at your cheeks, sharp as broken glass, and your laptop bag repeatedly slams into your hip with each stride, probably turning your thesis notes into digital confetti. A gust of wind lashes at you, tugging at your jacket, your hair, your sanity, and sending a rogue candy wrapper tumbling like a lonely tumbleweed across the quad like some 50’s Old West showdown.

You'd woken up to three missed calls from your advisor and an email that made your soul leave your body.

Meeting moved to 9:15 AM. Please bring updated analytics models.

It's 9:12.

The universe is really testing you today. First, your roommate's cat knocked your phone off the nightstand, somehow managing to turn off all five of your alarms. Then, the dining hall’s card reader had the audacity to look at your student ID like it was written in crayon, leaving you to scavenge through your bag for exact change like a Victorian orphan. And now this.

You weave through the crowd of freshmen congregating outside the Student Union like they've never seen stairs before, your thermos of room-temperature coffee sloshing dangerously close to the lid. The wind whips a forgotten syllabus past your feet as you cut across the grass (sorry, campus maintenance), taking the "shortcut" that everyone pretends they don't use. You can practically hear the landscaping team groaning somewhere, shaking their heads at the worn-down dirt trail you and a thousand other students have carved into their perfect lawn.

Gampel Pavilion looms ahead, all glass and steel and architectural hubris. The morning sun hits it at an angle that makes it look like it's on fire, which feels appropriate given your current state of mild panic. You've spent so many hours in this building that the security guard, Mike, doesn't even look up from his crossword puzzle anymore when you scan your ID.

"Running late?" he calls out as you blast past his desk.

"What gave it away?" you shout back, already halfway to the elevators. Your sneakers squeak against the polished floors, leaving behind a faint trail of panic and shame— but most importantly, dirt.

The ancient LED display above the elevator shows it's on the third floor. You slam the up button approximately forty-seven times, as if that's ever made an elevator move faster in the history of vertical transportation.

"Come on, come on," you mutter, shifting your weight between feet like you're doing some demented speed-skating warm-up. Your laptop bag keeps sliding off your shoulder, and you're pretty sure your hair looks like you styled it in a wind tunnel. A strand falls into your eyes, and you blow it away with a frustrated huff. Everything about you screams disaster, and yet the elevator couldn’t care less.

The elevator dings. The doors slide open with all the urgency of a DMV employee on a Friday afternoon.

And there she is.

Paige Bueckers is leaning against the back wall of the elevator, one foot propped up behind her, looking like she just stepped out of a Nike ad. Her practice uniform is pristine, her blonde hair pulled back in a perfect ponytail that somehow hasn't gotten the memo about today's wind situation. She's got AirPods in, absently spinning a basketball between her hands like it's an extension of her body.

Your brain short-circuits.

Time seems to slow down as you stand there, probably looking like a deer caught in very attractive headlights. The elevator dings again, threatening to close its doors on your moment of crisis.

Fuck it.

You lunge forward just as the doors start to close, practically diving into the elevator like you're trying to save a ball going out of bounds. Your coffee sloshes, your bag swings, and you nearly face-plant into the corner.

Paige pulls out one AirPod, her eyebrows raised so high they might achieve orbit. "Nice entrance."

You straighten up, trying to salvage whatever dignity might be hiding in the corners of this elevator. "Thanks, I've been practicing."

The elevator starts its ascent with a concerning rattle that definitely wasn't part of the original design. You adjust your bag for the hundredth time, very aware that you probably look like you just lost a fight with a leaf blower. Meanwhile, Paige keeps spinning that damn basketball, the soft thump-thump of it between her hands matching rhythm with your still-racing heart.

Nine floors to go. Eight if your advisor hasn't moved offices again after the Great Coffee Incident of last semester.

You can handle this. You're an adult. A slightly disheveled, possibly caffeine-deprived adult, but still. Just because you're sharing an elevator with the university's basketball goddess doesn't mean you need to—

The lights flicker once. Twice.

The elevator shudders like it's having an existential crisis.

Then everything stops.

The emergency lights kick in, bathing everything in a red glow that makes Paige look like she's starring in a very stylish apocalypse movie. The basketball stops spinning.

"Well," she says, tucking the ball under her arm and giving you a smile that definitely doesn't make your stomach flip. "Looks like the universe has other plans for us this morning."

You look at your phone: 9:14 AM.

Your advisor is going to kill you.

"Oh fuck, fuck, fuck," you mutter, jabbing at the emergency call button like it personally offended you. "This isn't happening. This can't be happening."

The little red light blinks back at you, mocking your entire existence, as if to say, yeah, good luck with that, idiot. You hit the button again, harder this time, because maybe the elevator just needs some aggressive encouragement.

"I don't think that's helping," Paige says, watching you with a mix of amusement and concern. She's still spinning that goddamn basketball, the rhythmic thump-thump now feeling less like a heartbeat and more like a countdown to your academic doom.

"Yeah? Well, neither are you," you snap, immediately regretting it. Great. Now you're trapped in an elevator AND you've just been rude to Paige fucking Bueckers. "Shit, sorry, I just—" You run both hands through your already catastrophic hair. "My advisor is going to crucify me. Like, actually crucify me. She's probably got a cross picked out and everything."

Paige catches the ball mid-spin. "Dr. Martinez?"

"How did you—"

"The only professor I know who actually might own a cross for student crucifixions." She tucks the ball under her arm. "She made one of our freshmen cry last week just by looking at her."

"That tracks." You slide down the wall opposite her, your legs finally giving up on the whole standing thing. "God, I can't believe this. I've got my entire thesis presentation on this laptop, three months of analytics data that I haven't backed up because I'm an idiot, and now I'm going to die in an elevator with—" You wave vaguely in her direction.

"With?" She raises an eyebrow, and you swear there's a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth.

"With UConn's basketball savior who's probably missing practice right now because the universe decided today was a great day for some cosmic practical joke." You let your head thunk back against the wall. "Coach Auriemma's probably already got a hit out on me."

Paige laughs, and the sound does something weird to your chest. "Nah, Coach is more of a 'make you run suicides until you puke' kind of guy. Much less paperwork than murder."

"Fantastic. So I'll die from academic execution AND athletic retribution. Perfect way to start a Tuesday."

"You always this dramatic before 9:30?" She's definitely smirking now.

"Only when I'm trapped in elevators with pretty girls who should be at practice."

The words are out before your brain can catch up with your mouth. Your eyes go wide, and you seriously consider trying to pry open the doors and jump down the shaft.

But Paige just grins, wide and dangerous. "Oh, so you think I'm pretty?"

"I think you're deflecting from the fact that we're stuck in a metal box that's older than both of us combined," you say, proud of how steady your voice comes out despite the internal screaming.

"And I think you're deflecting from the fact that you just called me pretty."

You pull out your phone again, desperate for a distraction. "No signal. Perfect. This is fine. Everything is fine."

"Could be worse," Paige says, stretching her legs out in front of her. Her feet almost reach where you're sitting, and you absolutely do not notice how long her legs are. "Could be stuck in here with Dr. Martinez."

That startles a laugh out of you. "Jesus, don't even joke about that. She'd probably make me defend my thesis right here."

"Yeah? What's it about?"

You look up from your phone to find her watching you with what appears to be genuine interest. "You really want to know?"

"Well," she gestures around the elevator, "it's not like I've got anywhere else to be."

You narrow your eyes. "If this is some kind of pity conversation—"

"It's not." She cuts you off, her voice surprisingly firm. "I'm actually curious. Plus, you look like you might spontaneously combust if you don't talk about something other than being stuck in here."

She's not wrong. Your leg has been bouncing non-stop since you sat down, and you're pretty sure you're about to wear a hole in your bottom lip from biting it.

"Fine," you say, setting your phone aside. "But remember, you asked for this. And if you fall asleep, I'm using that basketball as a pillow."

Paige's eyes light up with something that makes your stomach flip. "Deal."

"Okay, so you know how current basketball analytics are basically just glorified box scores?" You shift to face her properly, your earlier panic morphing into the kind of enthusiasm that usually makes people's eyes glaze over. "Like, sure, we can track points and assists and whatever, but that's just the obvious stuff."

"And there's more than the obvious stuff?" Paige asks, settling in like she's actually planning to follow your inevitably chaotic explanation.

"So much more." You pull your laptop out, balancing it on your crossed legs. "Like, imagine being able to track not just who made the shot, but all the little things that made that shot possible. The way players move without the ball, how defensive shifts create spaces that don't show up in any stat sheet.”

Your hands start moving as you talk, painting invisible patterns in the air. Paige has stopped spinning her basketball, her eyes following your gestures with an intensity that makes you warm all over.

"It's like..." You pause, trying to find the right words. "You know how in chess, sometimes the most important move isn't the one that takes the piece, but the three moves before that made it possible?"

She nods, leaning forward slightly. "Like a setup play."

"Exactly!" You're fully animated now, previous elevator crisis temporarily forgotten. "But current systems don't track that. They don't see how Player A moving left makes Player B's defender shift just enough that Player C can—"

The emergency speaker crackles to life, making you both jump.

"Hello? Anyone in there?" The voice sounds bored, like stuck elevators are just another Tuesday morning inconvenience.

Paige reaches over and hits the call button. "Yeah, we're here. Two people."

"Alright, we've got maintenance heading up. Should have you out in about fifteen minutes. Sit tight."

The speaker clicks off, leaving you both in that red-tinted silence again.

"Fifteen minutes," you groan, letting your head fall back against the wall. "Dr. Martinez is definitely going to have that cross ready."

"Hey," Paige says, and something in her voice makes you look at her. "Tell me more about your system. How do you track all those micro-movements?"

You blink at her. "You actually want to hear more?"

"Would I ask if I didn't?" She's got this soft half-smile that does dangerous things to your ability to think straight. "Plus, you get all..." she waves her hand vaguely, "sparkly when you talk about it."

"Sparkly?"

"Yeah, like you're lit up from the inside." She says it so casually, like she hasn't just made your heart do a full court press against your ribs.

You clear your throat, trying to remember how words work. "Right. Well, um, I've been working with the computer vision lab to develop these tracking algorithms..."

The next fifteen minutes dissolve into a blur of technical explanations and basketball theory. Paige asks surprisingly specific questions, and you try not to look too pleased every time she leans in closer to see something on your laptop screen.

When maintenance finally gets the elevator moving again, it feels too soon.

The doors open on the fourth floor – your floor – and you scramble to pack up your laptop, suddenly aware that you've spent the last twenty minutes word-vomiting about analytics to one of the best basketball players in the country.

"Thanks for, uh, keeping me from completely losing it," you say, standing awkwardly in the doorway. "And sorry about the whole..." you gesture vaguely at yourself, "chaos."

Paige stands too, and even in the normal lighting, she's unfairly pretty. "Chaos looks good on you."

Your brain short-circuits. "Can I get your number?"

The words tumble out before you can stop them, and you immediately want to crawl into the nearest trash can. But Paige just grins, that dangerous one that makes her look like she knows exactly what she's doing to you.

"Tell you what," she says, spinning the basketball on one finger because apparently she's physically incapable of not showing off. "Come to Friday's game. If you can spot one of those micro-interactions you were talking about..." She lets the ball roll down her arm and catches it smoothly. "Maybe you'll find out if I give my number to random girls I meet in elevators."

She backs into the elevator, maintaining eye contact until the doors close between you.

You stand there for a solid thirty seconds, staring at the brushed metal doors like they might reveal the secrets of the universe. Or at least explain how you went from having a mental breakdown about your advisor to what definitely felt like flirting with Paige Bueckers.

Your phone buzzes: another email from Dr. Martinez.

Meeting rescheduled to 2PM. Bring coffee. The good kind.

You look back at the elevator doors, then at your phone, then at the ceiling.

Looks like you're going to a basketball game on Friday.

The security guard at Gampel's student entrance looks at your ticket, then at you, then back at the ticket with the kind of suspicion usually reserved for people trying to use expired coupons at Target.

"This is— courtside," he says slowly, like maybe you don't understand what those words mean.

"Yeah, I, uh,” You shift your weight between feet, very aware of the growing line behind you. "I got it in an email?"

It comes out like a question because honestly, you're still not entirely sure this isn't some elaborate fever dream. The past three days have felt surreal, starting with Dr. Martinez actually smiling during your rescheduled meeting (turns out that fancy coffee shop downtown does make a difference) and ending with an email from [email protected] that made you choke on your morning cereal.

The security guard squints at his scanner like it's personally offending him. "These are usually reserved for—"

"Is there a problem?" A familiar voice cuts through the growing awkwardness, and you turn to find Mike, your elevator-lobby guardian angel, approaching with his signature "I've seen too much student nonsense" expression.

"Got a courtside ticket here, but—"

"Oh, yeah," Mike says, shooting you a look that's somewhere between amused and knowing. "This one's good. Let 'em through."

You mouth a 'thank you' as you pass, and he just shakes his head, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like "kids these days" under his breath.

The student section is already packed, a sea of navy and white that ripples with pre-game energy. But your ticket directs you past all that, down, down, down the steps until you're so close to the court you can smell the fresh polish on the hardwood.

"This isn't happening," you mutter to yourself, dropping into your assigned seat—which is literally close enough to high-five players coming off the court. "This is fine. Everything is fine. You're just casually sitting courtside at a sold-out game because you got trapped in an elevator and word-vomited about basketball analytics for twenty minutes. Totally normal Friday night."

The woman next to you, wearing what looks like several hundred dollars worth of UConn gear, gives you a concerned side-eye.

"Sorry," you say, slinking lower in your seat. "I talk to myself when I'm having an existential crisis."

She just nods and shifts slightly away, which, fair.

The arena fills up quickly, the ambient noise growing from a buzz to a roar. You try to look casual, like you totally belong here and didn't spend forty-five minutes earlier having a breakdown about what to wear to a basketball game when you're sitting close enough to be on TV. (You'd finally settled on jeans and a UConn hoodie, figuring if you're going to have a gay panic on national television, you might as well be comfortable.)

The teams come out for warm-ups, and your heart definitely doesn't skip when you spot number 5 leading the layup line. Paige moves like she's got some sort of cheat code for gravity, each motion fluid and precise. She's got her game face on, all focused intensity and practiced routine, but then—

She catches your eye as she circles back to the line, and her serious expression cracks just enough to let through a hint of that dangerous grin from the elevator.

"Oh, I am so screwed," you breathe, and the woman next to you shifts another inch away.

The game itself is a blur of motion and noise. You try to focus on analyzing plays like you promised, looking for those micro-interactions you'd rambled about, but it's hard to think strategically when Paige keeps making passes that shouldn't be physically possible. Your laptop's probably having a stroke trying to track all these movements.

By halftime, UConn's up by twelve, and you've filled three pages of your Notes app with what started as technical observations but has devolved into increasingly incoherent capslock about various impressive plays. The latest note just says "HOW DID SHE EVEN SEE THAT CUTTING GUARD??? PHYSICS???? HELP????"

"Nice analysis."

You nearly drop your phone. Paige is right there, pretending to adjust her shoes by the bench but clearly smirking in your direction.

"I'm being professionally thorough," you whisper-hiss back, trying to ignore how your pulse is doing full-court sprints.

"Uh huh." She stands up, heading back to the huddle, but not before adding, "You look good in UConn blue, by the way."

You spend the entire third quarter trying to remember how to breathe normally.

The fourth quarter is when you see it—one of those perfect setup plays you'd theorized about. Paige moves left, drawing her defender, while simultaneously nodding almost imperceptibly to her teammate. The slight movement causes a chain reaction: the defense shifts, creating a gap that shouldn't exist, and suddenly there's a perfect passing lane that materializes out of seemingly nowhere. The ball flows through it like water finding the path of least resistance, resulting in an easy layup that looks simple but was actually three moves in the making.

You're on your feet before you realize it, pointing and probably looking deranged. "That! That's exactly what I was talking about! The head fake was the trigger but it wasn't even about the—" You cut yourself off, becoming aware that several people are staring at you, including the woman next to you who's now practically in the next seat over.

As the final buzzer sounds (UConn by 18), your phone buzzes with a new email.

From: [email protected]

Subject: Nice catch

Body: 617-555-0147

PS - Your "professional analysis" face is reaaaaallly cute. Even from ten feet away.

You stare at your phone long enough that the arena starts to empty around you, afraid that if you look away the numbers might disappear like some basketball Cinderella story. The woman next to you finally gets up, edging past with the kind of caution usually reserved for wild animals.

"Sorry about all the,” you gesture vaguely at yourself.

She just pats your shoulder with grandmotherly sympathy. "Honey, I've been watching basketball for forty years, and I've never seen someone have a gay awakening quite that enthusiastically. Good luck with number five."

You're still sputtering when she disappears up the stairs, leaving you alone with a phone number and the distinct feeling that the universe is either laughing at you or playing matchmaker.

Possibly both.

Nah— Definitely both.

After what feels like an eternity of staring at your phone like it holds the secrets of the universe, your bladder kindly reminds you that you stress-drank an entire large iced coffee before the game. Fucking wonderful. You glance at the concourse—and immediately regret every life choice that led to this moment.

The bathroom line snakes around the corner like some kind of hydra-headed monster, full of people who clearly had the same brilliant beverage ideas you did. You briefly consider just holding it and dealing with the consequences later, but your body has other plans.

"This is karma," you mutter, taking your place at the end of the line. "This is definitely karma for all those times I made fun of people waiting in long bathroom lines."

The girl in front of you snorts. "If it helps, I'm pretty sure we're all suffering from the same coffee-based poor judgment."

Twenty minutes. Twenty. Entire. Minutes.

You've gone through every social media app twice, responded to three emails you've been avoiding, and played enough Candy Crush to rot your remaining brain cells by the time you finally emerge from the bathroom. The arena is practically empty now, just cleaning crew and a few lingering fans.

Your phone feels heavy in your pocket, that number burning a hole in your mind. You pull it out, staring at the digits like they might rearrange themselves into instructions on how to text your elevator-meet-cute crush without sounding like a complete disaster.

To: 617-555-0147

Hey, this is your favorite elevator analytics nerd. Great game tonight. That fourth-quarter setup play was chef's kiss

You hit send before you can overthink it, then immediately regret every word choice. Chef's kiss? Really? Maybe if you run fast enough, you can catch up to your dignity before it leaves the building entirely.

Your phone buzzes before you can fully commit to your shame spiral.

From: Paige 🏀

some of us are heading to murphy's for dirty shirleys if you want to continue your "professional analysis" in person? promise there won't be any elevators involved

You nearly trip over your own feet.

Will there be a formal presentation required? Should I prepare slides?

just your sparkling personality and maybe an explanation of how you knew that play was coming before I did 😉

Bold of you to assume I wasn't just gesturing wildly at a mosquito

we both know you're too much of a basketball nerd for that. meet you there in 20?

You pause at the arena exit, looking down at your very casual, very not-prepared-to-go-out outfit. But then again, when has anything about this situation been normal?

Your eyes shoot back to your phone and your frantic typing begins once again.

Only if you promise to explain how that behind-the-back pass in the third quarter didn't break several laws of physics

deal. and hey?

Yeah?

the hoodie really does look good on you

Your stomach shoots to your ass and you stand there grinning at your phone like an idiot until Mike, doing his final security rounds, walks by and shakes his head.

"Don't stay out too late, kid," he calls over his shoulder. "These love stories always get complicated when they start in elevators."

"That was literally ONE MOVIE," you shout after him, but he just waves without turning around.

You look down at your phone one more time, then up at the now-empty arena, and can't help but laugh. Somehow, a broken elevator, an understanding security guard, and a basketball player with a dangerous grin have turned your disaster of a week into whatever this is.

Time to find out if Dirty Shirleys taste better when you're sharing them with a girl who can bend physics on a basketball court.

Murphy's is exactly what would happen if a sports bar had a baby with a college town dive and raised it on a strict diet of neon signs and questionable decor choices. The walls are plastered with enough UConn memorabilia to fill a museum, if museums were into collecting signed napkins and mysteriously stained jerseys.

Your stomach is doing Olympic-level gymnastics as you push open the door, immediately hit by the smell of mozzarella sticks and what you really hope is just decades of spilled beer. The place is packed with post-game energy, and you're pretty sure your heart stops completely when you spot Paige at a corner booth, still in her game-day warmups because apparently she just casually walks around looking like a Nike ad.

"Analytics nerd!" she calls out, waving you over with that stupid grin that makes your brain cells commit mass suicide. "We saved you a seat!"

The 'we' turns out to be a collection of players who could probably stack on top of each other and touch the moon. You slide into the only open spot—right next to Paige, because the universe is clearly not done testing your ability to form coherent sentences today.

"Everyone, this is the elevator girl who knows more about our plays than we do," Paige announces, and your face goes hot enough to fry an egg. "Elevator girl, this is everyone."

"I have a name, you know," you manage, trying to ignore how her shoulder is pressed against yours in the crowded booth.

"Yeah, but 'elevator girl' has a better ring to it," she says, sliding a violently pink drink your way. "Plus, it's technically accurate."

"So is 'basketball menace' but you don't see me—" Your mouth snaps shut as her teammates start cackling.

"Oh, I like this one," says a girl you recognize as KK Arnold, grinning like she just got early Christmas. "She's got bite."

"She's got analytics," Paige corrects, but she's looking at you with something that makes your stomach relocate to somewhere in the general vicinity of Jupiter. "Speaking of which, you never did tell me how you caught that play coming."

You take a long sip of your Dirty Shirley to buy time, immediately regretting it when the sugar content threatens to give you instant cavities. "Holy shit, what's in this? Pure pixie stick powder?"

"Don't deflect," Paige says, poking your side. "We've got a whole team of analysts and none of them caught it. So spill."

"Fine, but only because you bought me diabetes in a glass." You shift to face her, accidentally-on-purpose letting your knee rest against hers under the table. "It was your head."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "My head?"

"You've got this tell," you say, getting into it now because apparently basketball analysis is your ideal flirting language. "This tiny little head tilt you do when you're setting up something sneaky. Like a cat about to knock something off a table, but make it basketball."

The entire table goes quiet, then erupts in laughter.

"She's got you there, P," Ice wheezes. "You do look like a menacing cat sometimes!"

Paige is staring at you with a mix of indignation and something else that makes your chest feel too small for your heart. "I do not have a cat tell."

"You absolutely do," you say, emboldened by sugar and the way her eyes keep dropping to your lips. "It's actually kind of cu—"

"SHOTS!" someone yells, and suddenly there's a tray of something alarmingly blue being passed around.

"Oh god," you mutter, watching the liquid slosh ominously. "Is this what happens when a Smurf dies?"

Paige nearly chokes on her drink. "That's terrible!"

"Just like these shots are about to be?"

She leans in close—too close, definitely too close for your remaining brain cells to function—and whispers, "Good thing I like terrible jokes."

Your stomach shoots to your ass (and possibly into another dimension) as she pulls back with a wink that should be illegal in at least forty-eight states.

"I hate you," you inform her, grabbing one of the Smurf funeral shots because if you're going to have a gay crisis in a college bar, you might as well commit fully.

"No you don't," she says with absolute certainty, and the worst part is she's right.

You really, really don't.

The night dissolves into a blur of increasingly ridiculous drinks (who knew they made something called a "Husky Howl"?), basketball stories that get more elaborate with each round, and Paige's thigh pressed warm against yours under the table. You learn that she stress-bakes before big games, that she once tried to teach her dog to play basketball, and that when she really laughs—like, really laughs—she snorts a little and it's possibly the cutest thing you've ever seen.

At some point, Azzi starts drawing up plays on napkins with increasingly chaotic drink-fueled creativity. Aaliyah Edwards keeps stealing her pen to "fix" the defensive rotations, while Nika Mühl throws wadded-up straw wrappers at both of them, critiquing their "absolutely trash spacing."

"No, no, look," KK follows imaginary lines with her finger across the napkin, accidentally dragging it through a puddle of spilled Shirley Temple. "If we run this here, and then—" she grabs your arm— "you're the defense, okay? Stand up."

"I absolutely am not," you protest, but Paige is already pulling you up with that stupid grin that makes your knees forget how joints work.

"Come on, elevator girl," she teases, positioning you near the booth. "Show us those analytics skills in action."

"I hate all of you," you mutter, but you're laughing as KK tries to demonstrate some elaborate defensive scheme that mostly involves her spinning in circles while Aaliyah provides unhelpful commentary.

"Your footwork is trash, bestie," Aaliyah calls out, now using maraschino cherries to build what appears to be a scale model of the paint.

"YOUR footwork is trash," KK shoots back, then promptly trips over nothing.

"Ladies, ladies," Paige steps in, all faux seriousness undermined by the way she can't stop grinning. "Let a professional show you how it's done."

She moves behind you, hands settling lightly on your hips, and your brain immediately flatlines. "See, proper defensive stance is all about—"

"Get a fuckin' room!" Nika yells, launching another straw wrapper that hits Paige square in the forehead.

"Actually," Paige says close to your ear, and your stomach does approximately seventeen backflips, "I've got that new analytics setup at my apartment if you want to see it. You know, for research purposes."

You turn to face her, very aware that her hands haven't moved from your hips. "Research purposes?"

"Mhmm." That dangerous grin is back. "Purely academic, of course."

"Of course," you manage, trying to ignore the way your pulse is doing a full drumline routine.

"Oh my god," KK groans from the booth. "This is worse than when Aaliyah tried to flirt with that barista using coffee puns."

"Hey!" Aaliyah protests. "That was smooth!"

"You asked if she wanted to 'espresso' her feelings!"

"And now we're dating, so who's the real winner here?"

Paige rolls her eyes at their antics, but her thumbs are drawing small circles on your hips that are making it very hard to focus on anything else. "So? Want to help me with some late-night analysis?"

Your stomach shoots to your ass as you meet her eyes, finding them sparkling with something that definitely isn't just about basketball statistics. "I mean, it would be unprofessional to turn down a research opportunity..."

"GET OUT OF HERE," Azzi throws a cherry that sails completely wide of both of you. "Your gay panic is ruining my plays."

"Your plays were already ruined," Nika points out, helpfully redrawing the vodka-smudged X's and O's with what appears to be lip gloss.

Paige grabs her jacket with one hand and your hand with the other, tugging you toward the door. "Don't wait up, nerds!"

"USE PROTECTION!" Aubrey shouts after you, causing several nearby tables to choke on their drinks.

"I mean, analytics can be very dangerous," you say with mock seriousness as you step into the cool night air, very aware that Paige hasn't let go of your hand. "All those numbers flying around."

"Absolutely hazardous," she agrees, pulling you closer as you walk. "Better stick together. For safety."

"For safety," you repeat, hoping she can't feel your pulse racing where your fingers are intertwined. "And research."

"And research," she echoes, giving you that sidelong grin that makes your heart forget how to beat properly. "Though I should warn you..."

"Yeah?"

She stops under a streetlight, turning to face you with eyes that sparkle with mischief. "My elevator works perfectly fine."

Your laugh echoes off the empty street. "Damn. There goes my backup plan."

"I'm sure we can find other ways to get stuck together," she says, and your stomach relocates somewhere in the general vicinity of Mars.

As you follow her down the quiet streets of Storrs, your joined hands swinging between you, you make a mental note to buy Mike the biggest coffee gift card you can afford.

Broken elevators might just be your new favorite thing.

Paige's apartment is exactly what you'd expect from someone who's somehow both a basketball prodigy and a complete dork—there's a literal trophy shelf right next to a collection of Star Wars Funko Pops, and her UConn jersey hangs framed above what appears to be a very elaborate gaming setup.

"Nice lightsaber," you say, nodding to the collector's edition propped in the corner.

"Nice deflection from how your hands are shaking," she shoots back, shrugging off her jacket.

"It's cold outside!"

"Uh huh." She disappears into the kitchen, and you hear cabinets opening. "Want some hot chocolate? I promise it's better than those nuclear waste shots Aubrey kept ordering."

Your stomach does a weird flip at how domestic this feels. "Only if you have—"

"Mini marshmallows and whipped cream? What kind of monster do you think I am?"

You follow her voice to find her already pulling out mugs, one of which has "Ball is Life" written in what appears to be glitter pen. "The kind that owns a bedazzled basketball mug?"

"First of all, Nika made this for my birthday and it's a masterpiece," she says, grabbing milk from the fridge. "Second of all, you're just jealous of my sophisticated taste."

"Oh, absolutely. Nothing says sophistication like..." you pick up a container from the counter, "unicorn hot chocolate mix?"

She snatches it back, fighting a grin. "It's limited edition!"

"Of course, my mistake. Clearly I'm in the presence of a fine dining connoisseur."

The kitchen fills with the smell of chocolate as she heats the milk, and you try not to stare at how she's rolled up her sleeves, forearms on full display as she stirs. You fail miserably.

"See something you like?" she asks without turning around, because apparently she has eyes in the back of her head.

"Just admiring your hot chocolate technique."

"My technique is excellent, thank you very much." She turns, holding up a can of whipped cream with a dangerous glint in her eye. "Want to see?"

Your throat goes dry. "I feel like this is a trap."

"Maybe." She takes a step closer, and your back hits the counter. "But you've been analyzing my moves all night. Shouldn't I get a turn?"

You're about to say something witty—really, you are—but then she's shaking the whipped cream can and all your brain cells collectively abandon ship.

"Don't you dare—"

The words are barely out before she's spraying whipped cream directly at your face. You squeal (not your proudest moment) and grab for the can, resulting in a brief wrestling match that ends with cream basically everywhere except in the actual mugs.

"You're such a menace!" you gasp, trying to wipe cream off your nose while she cackles.

"Says the girl who called me out on my head tilt in front of my whole team!"

"That's different! That was professional analysis!"

"Oh yeah?" She steps closer, effectively pinning you against the counter. "Analyze this."

Your heart stops as she reaches up, thumb gently wiping whipped cream from the corner of your mouth. Time seems to freeze, your entire world narrowing to that point of contact and the way her eyes drop to your lips.

"Your technique could use some work," you manage to whisper, and she laughs—that real laugh, with the little snort that makes your chest feel too small for your heart.

"Maybe you should show me how it's done then."

Your stomach shoots through the floor as you reach up, threading your fingers through her hair (definitely getting whipped cream in it but whatever), and pull her down to meet you.

She tastes like chocolate and whipped cream and something uniquely her, and you can feel her smile against your lips as she wraps her arms around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.

"How's that for technique?" you murmur when you finally break apart, both breathing a bit harder.

"Hmm." She pretends to consider it, but her eyes are sparkling and her hands are still firmly on your waist. "Might need more data to make a proper analysis."

"Oh my god, you're actually worse than me with the nerd references."

"You like it," she says with absolute certainty, leaning in again.

"Maybe," you concede against her lips. "But only because you're cute when you're being smug."

She pulls back just enough to give you that dangerous grin that started this whole thing. "Just cute?"

"And modest, clearly."

"I'll show you modest," she growls, and then she's kissing you again, deeper this time, backing you further against the counter until you're pretty sure your soul leaves your body entirely.

The hot chocolate goes cold on the counter,

The hot chocolate goes cold on the counter, forgotten in the haze of warm laughter and sticky fingers. At some point, her lips found their way back to yours, sweet and a little messy, and now you’re on her couch, knees bumping against hers as you both settle into an almost tentative rhythm. She pulls back just slightly, her forehead resting against yours, and her breath fans across your lips in short, uneven bursts.

“You’re trouble,” she whispers, her voice low and a little breathless, her hands sliding up your arms to rest on your shoulders, thumbs brushing the curve of your collarbone.

“You like trouble,” you fire back, and there’s just enough of a spark in your tone to make her grin.

“I really do,” she admits, and before you can respond, her lips are on yours again, slower this time, deliberate. It’s not the playful teasing from before—it’s something heavier, something that makes your heart stutter in your chest and your hands curl into the soft fabric of her sweatshirt.

Her fingers tangle in your hair as she shifts, nudging you gently until your back hits the cushions. She hovers above you, her knees bracketing your thighs, her ponytail spilling over one shoulder as she leans down to kiss you again. This time, it’s a little rougher, her teeth catching on your bottom lip just enough to make you gasp, and the sound seems to light something in her eyes.

“You’re killing me,” you murmur against her mouth, and she pulls back just enough to look at you, her grin sharper now.

“Good,” she says simply, and her hands are on the hem of your hoodie, tugging it up. “This okay?”

You nod, swallowing hard, and she doesn’t wait for a second invitation. The hoodie’s off in a flash, tossed somewhere behind the couch, and her eyes sweep over you like she’s committing every inch to memory. Her hands are warm as they skim over your sides, fingertips brushing against bare skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

“You’re gorgeous,” she says softly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and the way she says it makes you believe her, even with your heart trying to beat its way out of your chest.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you manage, trying to sound casual even as she leans back down, her lips finding the curve of your jaw and then lower, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses to your neck. Your hands find her waist, and you can feel the strength of her beneath the soft cotton of her sweatshirt, her muscles flexing slightly as she shifts against you.

“Should we,” she starts, her voice trailing off as she pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. There’s a question there, unspoken but clear, and you answer it by pulling her back down, your lips crashing into hers with more urgency than before.

“Definitely,” you say between kisses, and that’s all the encouragement she needs.

Her sweatshirt joins your hoodie somewhere on the floor, and her hands are everywhere—your waist, your thighs, the curve of your hip. It’s all a blur of heat and soft laughter and the kind of clumsy, sweet desperation that only comes with two people trying to figure out how they fit together.

The couch is too small, the angles all wrong, and at some point, she pulls back just enough to breathe, “Bed?”

You nod, and then she’s pulling you to your feet, her hand sliding down to lace her fingers with yours as she leads you toward her room. There’s something about the way she looks back at you, her grin soft and a little nervous, that makes your heart ache in the best way.

The moment you’re through the door, she’s on you again, her hands sliding up your back as she kisses you like she’s trying to memorize every curve, every shiver. The bed is soft beneath you, and her weight is solid and warm as she follows you down, her knee nudging between yours as she leans over you.

“You’re really good at this whole ‘research’ thing,” you tease, and she laughs against your collarbone, the sound low and husky and so incredibly her.

“Don’t distract me,” she murmurs, and her hands are on you again, her touch firm and sure and just a little shaky in a way that makes your chest swell with affection.

And when she kisses you again, slow and deep, you think, for the first time all week, that maybe the universe actually got something right.

The mattress dips under her weight as Paige pulls back just enough to take you in, her hair falling loose from her ponytail, framing her face in a way that feels criminally unfair. There’s a glint in her eye now, something teasing but focused, like she’s about to run the most calculated play of her life.

“You look nervous,” she says, her lips curling into that sharp grin that’s been undoing you all night.

“I’m not nervous,” you lie, though your voice cracks on the last syllable like your body’s calling you out.

She chuckles, low and throaty, and leans down, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Good. Because I’m about to ruin you, and I don’t need you overthinking it.”

Before you can process what she said, she’s sliding down your body with deliberate slowness, her hands dragging over your sides, down your hips, and hooking around the waistband of your leggings. She raises an eyebrow, silently asking permission, and the second you nod, she pulls them down in one fluid motion, leaving you feeling bare and achingly vulnerable.

“Holy shit,” Paige mutters under her breath, her eyes locked on you like she’s just stumbled on a masterpiece at an art museum. Her hands settle on your thighs, thumbs tracing small circles that send shivers racing up your spine. “You’re so—” She stops, shakes her head, and looks up at you with that cocky grin. “Nah, I’m gonna show you instead of telling you.”

Her lips press to the inside of your knee, soft at first, but as she moves higher, her kisses grow hungrier, her teeth grazing your skin just enough to leave you squirming.

“Paige,” you breathe, your voice barely more than a whisper, but she just hums against your thigh like she’s savoring her favorite meal.

“Patience,” she murmurs, her breath hot against your skin as she shifts lower. “You’re not going anywhere, are you?”

Your response gets caught in your throat as her mouth finally finds you, and every coherent thought you’ve ever had promptly evaporates. Her tongue moves with the same precision she has on the court, all calculated angles and devastating accuracy, and it’s like she’s figured out exactly how to dismantle you.

“Fuck—Paige—” Your hips jerk involuntarily, but her hands hold you steady, her grip firm enough to keep you grounded while her mouth does the opposite.

She pulls back just enough to look up at you, her lips glistening, and there’s a wicked glint in her eye that makes your stomach drop in the best way. “Hang tight,” she says, reaching toward the nightstand.

“What are you—oh my God,” you gasp as she pulls out a vibrator, the sleek little device gleaming like it was made for moments like this.

Paige winks, all confidence and mischief, as she turns it on, the low hum filling the room. “You trust me, right?”

You nod, because at this point, you’d probably trust her to lead you into a cult if it meant feeling like this.

“Good.” She leans back down, her mouth finding you again just as the vibrator presses against you, and the combination is so overwhelming it almost knocks the breath out of you.

Your hands fly to her hair, tugging as the vibrations send shocks of pleasure racing through your body, and her tongue works in tandem, teasing and relentless. It’s too much and not enough all at once, and you can feel yourself unraveling, piece by piece, with every calculated movement.

“Paige, I—” Your words dissolve into a moan that would make your ancestors weep, your thighs trembling as she doubles down, her grip on you tightening.

“That’s it,” she murmurs against you, her voice low and full of something that sounds dangerously like pride. “Let go, baby. I’ve got you.”

And just like that, you do. The orgasm rips through you like a tidal wave, leaving you gasping and clutching at the sheets as your vision whites out. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you swear you hear yourself speaking in tongues.

Paige doesn’t stop until your legs are twitching, and even then, she presses one last kiss to your inner thigh before sitting back with the most self-satisfied grin you’ve ever seen.

“Did I just—” You pause, catching your breath, your voice hoarse. “Did I just have an exorcism?”

Paige laughs, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “If you did, I think I’m gonna need to start charging for holy services.”

“Fuck you,” you say weakly, though the way you’re still grinning probably ruins the effect.

She crawls back up to you, her body warm and solid as she settles next to you, her arm slinging over your waist. “Oh, you’re definitely going to want to do that next,” she teases, pressing a kiss to your temple.

And just like that, you’re laughing, still breathless and a little wrecked, but somehow more at ease than you’ve felt in ages. Paige grins down at you, smug but soft, and you think, maybe, that this is exactly where you’re supposed to be.

Sometimes the best love stories start with a malfunction.

Just don't tell Mike. He's smug enough already.

The End

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glowettee · 5 months ago

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hiii! i love your acc, it's so cute :3 i was wondering if you could do a post about self-love, it's something i've been struggling w/ lately. thank youuu

uncommon but life-changing self-love practices (that actually work) 🎀

posted by: glowettee

hey angel! thank you for this question in my mailbox! and ahhhh thank you so much you're so sweet!! i'm sorry this post was a little late, self-care is soooo important, i want to give you some tips that you don't hear to often that i do in my self-love journey! i'll share some not-so-obvious self-love practices that literally changed my life! ♡

♡ redefining your space psychology because your environment shapes your self-perception:

bedroom makeover with intention:

rearrange furniture to face the sunrise (this literally changed my morning mindset!)

create a "victory wall" with tiny achievements (i put up a photo of my first B- grade that turned into an A-)

place mirrors strategically (not just for selfies, but for daily affirmations)

use color psychology (i painted one wall rose quartz pink in my room and it actually improved my mood)

create a dedicated self-love corner (mine has fairy lights, positive letters from friends, and little trinkets from my childhood, along with printed photos from pinterest with self-love affirmations/lists.

♡ morning practices instead of basic routines, try these instead:

the "main character energy" morning:

write how your day went (successfully) and about yourself in third person (like "mindy gracefully picked up her pen, to conquer calculus, she did all her chores, and even studied japanese for 2 hours.")

practice "mirror dating" (spend 5 mins having an actual conversation with yourself - it's weird but works!)

create a "today i choose" list (instead of a to-do list)

dance to one song before doing anything else (i do taylor swift, or newjeans obviously)

write a love letter to a body part you're struggling with (i wrote to my uncooperative hair and now we're besties <3)

♡ digital self-love (but make it intentional) because we live online but need boundaries:

phone transformation:

change your passwords to affirmations (mine is a variation of "mindyisworthy2025")

create a folder of your awkward photos (embrace the cringe! and laugh with your friends, its so fun)

record yourself modeling, or pretending your a celebrity or k-pop idol

take selfies without filters (document your real smile)

set random alarms with love notes to yourself

hide little sticky notes with cute reminders about yourself in your room, so when you stumble upon it a month later it'll make you smile!

social media rebellion:

post the photos you'd usually delete (even if it's made private)

share your real study space (messy notes and all)

document your growth journey (even the uncomfortable parts)

create a finsta for your completely unfiltered self

make reels about your self-love journey (even if they're private)

♡ physical self-love (the weird but effective version) not basic bubble baths:

unexpected body appreciation:

thank your body parts for specific things ("thank you hands for letting me write my study notes")

have a private dance party in weird places (i do this in elevators when i'm alone)

wear your prettiest clothes to study, or even to the grocery store (even if no one sees)

make up your own choreography to your favorite songs

make your own workout or stretching routine with different stretches/exercises you make up yourself

comfort zone expansion:

try eating alone in public (start small - i began with coffee shops)

wear that "special occasion" outfit to class

speak up in class even if your voice shakes

send yourself flowers to your dorm/apartment (I LOVE DOING THIS EVERY VALENTINES <33)

take yourself on cute dates (let a coin flip decide where you go! or ask google.)

♡ emotional archaeology dig deeper than surface-level feelings:

create an emotion museum:

keep a "weird thoughts" journal (mine has my 3am existential questions)

make a playlist for each mood (even the uncomfortable ones)

collect "emotional souvenirs" (me and my grandmother had a cafe date a few years ago, and i still keep the receipt today)

document your crying sessions (trust me, looking back at these helps)

write letters to your past and future self

validation exercises:

practice saying "my feelings about this are valid" in the mirror

create a "proof of worth" folder on your phone

collect screenshots of nice messages

record yourself giving pep talks

keep a "wins" journal (especially tiny ones)

♡ advanced self-love techniques for when you're ready to level up:

relationship building with yourself:

schedule weekly "self-dates" (i do wednesday coffee dates with myself)

create a personal manifesto (update it monthly)

develop inside jokes with yourself

celebrate monthly self-love anniversaries

create traditions just for you

growth documentation:

take progress polaroids (not just physical)

voice record your daily thoughts

measure growth in unconventional ways (like "times i chose myself")

create time capsules every season

write monthly letters to yourself

self-love isn't just face masks and bubble baths (though those are nice too!). it's about building a deep, weird, wonderful relationship with yourself. it's about becoming your own best friend, confidante, and biggest supporter.

some of these might seem strange at first, but that's okay! the best relationships often have their quirks. start with what feels right and slowly expand your comfort zone. it's not just about practicing self-love, it's also about creating your own unique love language with yourself!

you're doing amazing things just by being you, and i'm so proud of you for prioritizing this journey! remember, the relationship you have with yourself sets the tone for every other relationship in your life.

xoxo, mindy 🎀

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mariacallous · 5 months ago

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It feels like no one should have to say this, and yet we are in a situation where it needs to be said, very loudly and clearly, before it’s too late to do anything about it: The United States is not a startup. If you run it like one, it will break.

The onslaught of news about Elon Musk’s takeover of the federal government’s core institutions is altogether too much—in volume, in magnitude, in the sheer chaotic absurdity of a 19-year-old who goes by “Big Balls” helping the world’s richest man consolidate power. There’s an easy way to process it, though.

Donald Trump may be the president of the United States, but Musk has made himself its CEO.

This is bad on its face. Musk was not elected to any office, has billions of dollars of government contracts, and has radicalized others and himself by elevating conspiratorial X accounts with handles like @redpillsigma420. His allies control the US government’s human resources and information technology departments, and he has deployed a strike force of eager former interns to poke and prod at the data and code bases that are effectively the gears of democracy. None of this should be happening.

It is, though. And while this takeover is unprecedented for the government, it’s standard operating procedure for Musk. It maps almost too neatly to his acquisition of Twitter in 2022: Get rid of most of the workforce. Install loyalists. Rip up safeguards. Remake in your own image.

This is the way of the startup. You’re scrappy, you’re unconventional, you’re iterating. This is the world that Musk’s lieutenants come from, and the one they are imposing on the Office of Personnel Management and the General Services Administration.

What do they want? A lot.

There’s AI, of course. They all want AI. They want it especially at the GSA, where a Tesla engineer runs a key government IT department and thinks AI coding agents are just what bureaucracy needs. Never mind that large language models can be effective but are inherently, definitionally unreliable, or that AI agents—essentially chatbots that can perform certain tasks for you—are especially unproven. Never mind that AI works not just by outputting information but by ingesting it, turning whatever enters its maw into training data for the next frontier model. Never mind that, wouldn’t you know it, Elon Musk happens to own an AI company himself. Go figure.

Speaking of data: They want that, too. DOGE agents are installed at or have visited the Treasury Department, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, the Small Business Administration, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services, the Department of Education, the Department of Health and Human Services, the Department of Labor. Probably more. They’ve demanded data, sensitive data, payments data, and in many cases they’ve gotten it—the pursuit of data as an end unto itself but also data that could easily be used as a competitive edge, as a weapon, if you care to wield it.

And savings. They want savings. Specifically they want to subject the federal government to zero-based budgeting, a popular financial planning method in Silicon Valley in which every expenditure needs to be justified from scratch. One way to do that is to offer legally dubious buyouts to almost all federal employees, who collectively make up a low-single-digit percentage of the budget. Another, apparently, is to dismantle USAID just because you can. (If you’re wondering how that’s legal, many, many experts will tell you that it’s not.) The fact that the spending to support these people and programs has been both justified and mandated by Congress is treated as inconvenience, or maybe not even that.

Those are just the goals we know about. They have, by now, so many tentacles in so many agencies that anything is possible. The only certainty is that it’s happening in secret.

Musk’s fans, and many of Trump’s, have cheered all of this. Surely billionaires must know what they’re doing; they’re billionaires, after all. Fresh-faced engineer whiz kids are just what this country needs, not the stodgy, analog thinking of the past. It’s time to nextify the Constitution. Sure, why not, give Big Balls a memecoin while you’re at it.

The thing about most software startups, though, is that they fail. They take big risks and they don’t pay off and they leave the carcass of that failure behind and start cranking out a new pitch deck. This is the process that DOGE is imposing on the United States.

No one would argue that federal bureaucracy is perfect, or especially efficient. Of course it can be improved. Of course it should be. But there is a reason that change comes slowly, methodically, through processes that involve elected officials and civil servants and care and consideration. The stakes are too high, and the cost of failure is total and irrevocable.

Musk will reinvent the US government in the way that the hyperloop reinvented trains, that the Boring company reinvented subways, that Juicero reinvented squeezing. Which is to say he will reinvent nothing at all, fix no problems, offer no solutions beyond those that further consolidate his own power and wealth. He will strip democracy down to the studs and rebuild it in the fractious image of his own companies. He will move fast. He will break things.

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probablyasocialecologist · 20 days ago

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The latest, AI-dedicated server racks contain 72 specialised chips from manufacturer Nvidia. The largest “hyperscale” data centres, used for AI tasks, would have about 5,000 of these racks. And as anyone using a laptop for any period of time knows, even a single chip warms up in operation. To cool the servers requires water – gallons of it. Put all this together, and a single hyperscale data centre will typically need as much water as a town of 30,000 people – and the equivalent amount of electricity. The Financial Times reports that Microsoft is currently opening one of these behemoths somewhere in the world every three days. Even so, for years, the explosive growth of the digital economy had surprisingly little impact on global energy demand and carbon emissions. Efficiency gains in data centres—the backbone of the internet—kept electricity consumption in check. But the rise of generative AI, turbocharged by the launch of ChatGPT in late 2022, has shattered that equilibrium. AI elevates the demand for data and processing power into the stratosphere. The latest version of OpenAI’s flagship GPT model, GPT-4, is built on 1.3 trillion parameters, with each parameter describing the strength of a connection between different pathways in the model’s software brain. The more novel data that can be pushed into the model for training, the better – so much data that one research paper estimated machine learning models will have used up all the data on the internet by 2028. Today, the insatiable demand for computing power is reshaping national energy systems. Figures from the International Monetary Fund show that data centres worldwide already consume as much electricity as entire countries like France or Germany. It forecasts that by 2030, the worldwide energy demand from data centres will be the same as India’s total electricity consumption.

30 May 2025

#ai #artificial intelligence #generative ai #electricity #big data #internet

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szariahwroteit · 4 months ago

Text

Girls Need Love: A Kylian Mbappè x Original Character Erotic Series.

18+ Minors DNI

Chapter 7

TW: physical abuse.

“Yes, Milan is way closer to Madrid than Los Angeles,” Giselle smirked as she held her phone to her ear. Using her free hand, she slipped on her Chanel sneakers as she prepared to leave her hotel and head to a final dress fitting ahead of the fashion show she was walking in later that evening.

“So come to me,” Kylian said, his voice low and playful, teasing just enough to send a shiver down her spine. “I’ll make it worth your while, you know.”

Giselle rolled her eyes, a half-smile tugging at her lips. “I’m working.” She said as she laced up her sneakers, her heart racing at the thought of being swept away into his world again, filled with excitement and allure.

A little over two weeks had passed since Giselle had been in Kylian’s presence, but the pair remained connected digitally. While she was home in the States, they had found it a little difficult, but since arriving in Milan for Fashion Week, calls and FaceTimes had become more frequent, as had Kylian's persistence in asking her to come to Madrid.

“I can pay you to model for me,” Kylian suggested, his tone shifting into something more intimate. “You could be my muse.”

Giselle leaned against the doorframe, her pulse quickening. She bit her lip, contemplating the offer. “And what would that entail?” she asked, her voice playfully challenging.

“I could use you for motivation,” he murmured.

“Use me?” Giselle echoed, feigning innocence. She arched an eyebrow, intrigued despite herself. “And how exactly do you plan on using me?”

Kylian chuckled softly, a hint of confidence lacing his words. “In all the ways I know you liked to be used.”

“I can't just leave in the middle of fashion week; I have commitments,” she replied, forcing herself to sound resolute, even as desire simmered beneath the surface.

“Okay,” Kylian huffed, his tone playful yet low, a quiet confidence threading through.

“I’m literally about to head over to a fitting for the show I am walking in tonight. Can we speak later?” Giselle asked, her voice softening as she anticipated his answer.

“Will you have time for me later?” Kylian asked, a teasing lilt present in his voice as his accent thickened.

“I can make time for you,” she replied, unable to wipe the shy smile from her face. She held her phone to her ear and listened to Kylian's measured breaths on the other end.

“Make sure,” Kylian said, his voice dipping into a rich, sultry tone that sent another shiver racing down her spine. I’ll be waiting.”

Giselle could practically hear the smirk in his voice, the kind that made her mind wander to places she shouldn’t let it go.

Once her conversation with Kylian ended, Giselle pulled on her coat before grabbing her purse so she could head to the hotel lobby to meet with her driver.

As she stepped into the elevator, Giselle couldn’t shake the lingering warmth of Kylian’s voice from her mind. The way he spoke to her, with that playful confidence, always left her wanting more. She pressed the button for the lobby, her heart still racing from their exchange.

The elevator doors slid open, and she stepped out into the bustling lobby of the hotel. Models and designers were scattered about, some rushing to fittings, others lounging with coffee in hand, discussing the latest trends. Giselle felt a rush of excitement mixed with anxiety; tonight’s show was a big deal, and she wanted everything to be perfect.

As she made her way to the entrance, her phone buzzed again. It was a message from Kylian.

Kylian: Don’t forget about me. I’ll be waiting.

She smiled to herself, her cheeks warming at the thought of him. Just then, her driver appeared a tall man in a sharp suit, holding a sign with her name on it. “Miss Giselle,” he greeted with a polite nod.

“Hi!” she replied, her voice brightening as she approached him. “Thank you for being here.”

“Of course. Ready to go?” he asked, gesturing toward the sleek black car parked just outside.

“Absolutely,” she said, sliding into the back seat. As the driver pulled away from the hotel, Giselle glanced out the window, watching the vibrant streets of Milan whiz by. The city was alive with energy, and she felt a thrill at being part of it, even if just for a moment.

Her mind drifted back to Kylian. The way he had teased her, the promise of adventure in his words—it was intoxicating. She wondered what it would be like to be in Madrid with him, away from the chaos of Fashion Week, where they could just be.

The car came to a stop outside the fitting venue, and Giselle took a deep breath, shaking off her daydreams. She stepped out, smoothing her coat as she walked toward the entrance. Inside, the atmosphere was buzzing with stylists, sewists, and models, all working together to create something beautiful.

“Giselle!” a familiar voice called out. It was her stylist, Marco, waving her over. “We’ve been waiting for you! Come on, we need to get you ready.”

As she approached, Giselle felt the excitement of the show wash over her. She was here to work, to shine on the runway, and she was determined to give it her all. But as Marco began to fuss over her hair and makeup, her thoughts kept drifting back to Kylian and the promise of what could be.

“Are you ready for this?” Marco asked, his hands deftly pinning her hair into place.

“More than ever,” she replied, forcing herself to focus. “Let’s make it unforgettable.”

As the fitting progressed, Giselle found herself lost in the rhythm of the preparations. The music pulsed in the background, and she could feel the anticipation building in the air. But even amidst the chaos, Kylian’s words echoed in her mind, a tantalizing reminder of the connection they shared.

Finally, after what felt like hours, the fitting came to an end. Giselle stepped back to admire herself in the mirror, her heart swelling with pride. She looked stunning, ready to take on the world.

“Now, go out there and own that runway,” Marco said, giving her a reassuring smile.

With a final glance in the mirror, Giselle nodded, her resolve solidifying. She would give it her all tonight, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that after the show, she might just find a way to make time for Kylian.

As she walked toward the backstage area, her phone buzzed again with another message from Kylian.

Kylian: Break a leg, my muse.

Giselle smiled, her heart racing once more. Tonight was going to be unforgettable, and she had a feeling it was just the beginning.

“Ready ladies!?” a stage assistant called as Giselle and the rest of the models got in line, with her up front as the fashion show's opener.

“Yes!” they all called back simultaneously.

The lights dimmed, and the anticipation in the air thickened as the first chords of music began to play. Giselle's heart raced in time with the beat, her excitement palpable. She could feel the energy of the audience surging, and with each passing moment, her confidence grew.

The moment she stepped out onto the runway, the bright lights washed over her, illuminating every detail of her stunning ensemble. The crowd erupted into applause, and Giselle felt a surge of adrenaline.

With each step, she owned the runway, her movements fluid and captivating. She glanced at the front row, catching glimpses of familiar faces—designers, influencers, and industry veterans—before allowing her mind to slip momentarily back to Kylian. She imagined him in the audience, his eyes filled with admiration, and it fueled her performance even more.

As she turned and posed, Giselle blew a kiss to the camera, which captured her every move, before turning on her heels and strutting back down the runway.

As Giselle stepped backstage, she could wipe the proud smile off her face as she made her way towards the dressing room, accepting compliments as she went.

But as she entered the dressing room, her moment of triumph was abruptly interrupted. The door swung open, and her ex, Jalen, walked in as handsome and menacing as the last time she’d seen him almost two years ago.

“Giselle,” he said, his voice smooth but edged with a possessiveness that made her stomach twist. “You look… stunning.”

Giselle's blood ran cold as the familiar timber of Jalen’s voice filled her ear, instantly making her stomach flip.

A lump formed in her throat, and her eyes prickled with tears. His smirk insulted the fear and uncertainty Giselle felt being in his presence.

Giselle took a step back, her heart racing as memories flooded her mind—moments of love twisted with betrayal, laughter shadowed by pain.

"Giselle," Jalen said, stepping toward his ex. A smirk spread across his face as he noticed the look of fear that flashed in her eyes, a look he once thrived on pulling from her, a look that still made him feel just as powerful as he did when they were together.

Taking in her surroundings, Giselle noticed that only she and Jalen occupied the changing room and slowly began to back towards the door.

“Don’t be scared,” Jalen drawled, reaching for the fallen strap of her dress and slipping it back onto her shoulder. “I’m not going to hit you,” he laughed as his finger trailed down her arm.

“Do not touch me!” Giselle snapped, slapping Jalen’s from her shoulder. “Why are you even here?”

“Vogue hired me to document some of the bigger shows this week; I could ask you the same question, but you probably fucked someone for a spot in the show.” Jalen leaned back against the wall, an arrogant glint in his eyes.

Giselle clenched her fists, the heat of indignation rising in her face. “That’s rich coming from you,” she shot back, struggling to keep her voice steady. “You know nothing about me anymore.”

“Oh, but I know enough,” he replied, his voice dripping with condescension. “You’re still the same girl, desperate for validation. It’s pathetic, really.”

Giselle’s heart raced, a mixture of fury and hurt flooding her veins. She had worked so hard to rebuild herself after their tumultuous relationship, to rise above the shadows he had cast over her. She refused to let him drag her back down.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Jalen,” she said, her voice steadying as she stood her ground. “I’ve moved on. I’m not that girl you can toy with anymore.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unfazed. “Is that what you tell yourself? Because it doesn’t seem like it. You’re still here, in this moment, letting me get to you.”

Giselle took a deep breath, reminding herself of the strength she had found within. “I won’t let you manipulate me again,” she declared, pushing past him toward the door.

But Jalen was quick, stepping in front of her and blocking her exit. “Where do you think you’re going? You can’t just walk away from me, Giselle.”

“Watch me,” she retorted, her voice unwavering as she met his gaze.

Giselle could feel the adrenaline coursing through her, fueling her determination. She tried to maneuver around him with a firm push, but Jalen was relentless, his body blocking her path like a wall.

“Why don’t you just admit it? You still care,” he taunted, a smug smile on his lips. “You’re just pretending to be strong.”

“Caring about myself and wanting to be free of you isn’t the same as caring about you,” she shot back, her pulse quickening as she fought to maintain her composure. “I refuse to be your punching bag.”

His smirk faltered for just a moment, revealing a flicker of something—uncertainty before he reached for her, snarling as he roughly grabbed a handful of her hair, holding her in place as he took a step closer to her.

“You were never my punching bag; you were a slut who needed to be reminded that the world doesn't revolve around you,” he rasped into her ear before catching it between his teeth.

“Jalen, please,” Giselle squeaked, her voice weak and laced with fear as his hand in her hair tightened, and she attempted to cower away from him.

Giselle's heart raced, and her breath hitched in her throat as the sound of clicking heels echoed through the changing room. It was like a beacon of hope slicing through the darkness of her fear, but she couldn't let her guard down.

At that moment, Jalen's grip faltered, his attention diverted by the approaching footsteps. Giselle seized the opportunity, summoning every ounce of strength she had left. With a swift motion, she twisted away from him, breaking free from his grasp.

“Get away from me!” she shouted, her voice trembling but harsh as she darted towards the door.

Just as she reached the handle, the door swung open, and a tall figure stepped inside—an impeccably dressed woman with a fierce look in her eyes.

“What's going on here?” the woman demanded, her presence commanding as she assessed the situation.

Jalen straightened up, a hint of annoyance flickering across his face, but Giselle could see the tension lingering in his posture. “Just a little chat,” he replied coolly, his bravado wavering under the weight of the woman's scrutiny.

“Chat? It looks more like harassment to me,” the woman shot back, her gaze flicking between Giselle and Jalen. “You need to leave, now. This isn’t a place for your games.”

Giselle's heart swelled with gratitude as the woman stepped closer, shielding her from Jalen's predatory gaze. “Are you alright?” she asked, concern etched on her face.

“I—” Giselle started, her voice shaky but determined. “I’m fine now. Thank you.”

“Are you sure?” the woman asked, her smile soft and empathetic as she placed a comforting hand on Giselle's shoulder.

“I am,” Giselle lied, nodding as she willed herself not to burst into tears.

“Good. Let’s get you out of here,” the woman urged, gently guiding Giselle toward the exit. “I was sent to gather the models for the final walk down the runway,” she explained to Giselle, whose body had slipped into autopilot.

She felt nauseous as they made their way back towards the runway, the left side of her head where Jalen had gripped now throbbing.

If there was one thing Giselle had mastered the art of, it was acting as if everything was okay, even amid turmoil.

Her face was stoic, void of any emotion, as she slowly sashayed down the runway, her eyes ahead and shoulders back as Jalen and his abusive ways consumed her mind.

The lights blinded her slightly, but Giselle kept her focus, channeling all her energy into her performance. With each step, she reminded herself of the strength she had found since breaking free from Jalen. The applause from the audience washed over her, a wave of affirmation that she was worthy of this moment.

As she reached the end of the runway, Giselle struck a pose, allowing the flashes of cameras to illuminate her face. But behind the smiles and the glamour, her heart raced with the memory of Jalen's grip, still fresh in her mind.

Then, as she turned to walk back, her eyes caught a glimpse of him sitting on the floor in front of the front row, his camera at the ready as he took pictures of the models.

Lowering his camera from his face, Jalen sent a wink in Giselle's direction, and it was enough to send her over the edge.

Giselle didn't care about being gracious or showing off the designer's work as she quickly made her way off the runway. The tears she’d fought to keep at bay spilled as she rushed the backstage area, her heart pounding in her chest. She could hear the echoes of the applause fading behind her, but all she could focus on was the overwhelming sense of dread that washed over her as she passed by the other models and crew members.

“Giselle! You were amazing!” Marco exclaimed as she rushed past him, but she hardly registered his words.

She felt the weight of Jalen’s gaze on her, a suffocating reminder of the past she was trying to escape. She needed to get away, to breathe, to gather her thoughts.

Finding a quiet corner in the backstage area, Giselle leaned against the cool wall, trying to steady her breath. She closed her eyes, willing the memories of Jalen’s taunts and his grip to disappear. She had come so far, and she couldn’t let him continue to ruin things for her.

Sliding to the floor in her couture gown, Giselle completely broke as she kicked off her heels, hugging her knees to her chest.

The sound of bustling voices and the thrum of the after-show excitement felt like a distant echo as Giselle allowed herself a moment of vulnerability. Tears streamed down her cheeks, a mix of frustration and anger at Jalen for daring to invade her space again and at herself for feeling shaken. She had fought so hard to reclaim her life, to transform herself into a version of Giselle that radiated confidence and strength, and yet here she was, crumbling in a corner backstage.

The sensation of cool fabric against her skin felt both comforting and constricting. Her designer gown was exquisite—a stunning masterpiece that made her feel like a queen upon stepping onto the runway—but it felt like a cage at that moment. Wiping her tears away with the back of her hand, she heard the sound of heels clicking against the floor, and her heart skipped a beat.

“Giselle?” It was the same tall woman from earlier, concern etched across her features as she approached slowly, her presence a haven amidst the chaos. “Are you alright?”

Giselle nodded, though the quiver in her bottom lip betrayed her. “I'm just a little overwhelmed,” she said, using the back of her hand to wipe the tears from her eyes before standing to her feet.

Excusing herself from the brief conversation, Giselle returned to the now-bustling dressing room, ignoring the whispers and concerned stares of other models and staff that floated around the room.

Giselle's hands shook as she removed the couture dress she wore, placing it back into the garment bag and hanging it back on the rail before getting dressed into the sweats she’d worn over to the show.

Grabbing her phone and purse, she messaged her driver, asking him to meet her at the back entrance she’d taken when she arrived earlier that day. She wanted to avoid the cameras, guests, and, most importantly, the chance of running into Jalen again.

Once safely in the car, Giselle shed a fresh set of tears. Her vision blurred as she scrolled through her contacts, unsure who to confide in about her run-in with her ex.

Before she could make the decision for herself, the universe made it for her. Giselle’s heart skipped a beat, and her stomach dropped as Kylian’s name flashed across her phone screen.

Pressing the answer button, she lifted the phone to her ear, her heart racing with a mix of anticipation and dread.

“Giselle,” Kylian’s voice broke through, warm and smooth, despite their distance. “You did amazing out there. I saw you on Instagram.”

“Thank you,” she managed to reply, her voice as unstable as she felt.

“Giselle?” Kylian asked cautiously, his heart skipping a beat as she whimpered into the phone, unable to say anything else. “Giselle, talk to me,” he pressed.

“Kylian… my ex is here in Milan,’ Giselle stammered out, her voice trembling as the memories of Jalen flooded back. “He… he was at the show, and he…”

“Where are you? Are you safe?!” Kylian's deep voice cut through the haze of her emotions, its timbre laced with concern. Giselle felt a rush of warmth at his protectiveness, but panic still held her throat tight.

“I’m okay,” she assured him, her voice still shaky. “I just need to get out of Milan. Can I come to you?”

Kylian's heart raced as he listened to Giselle's trembling voice on the other end of the line. The thought of her ex being anywhere near her, let alone at the same event, filled him with a protective rage.

"Of course, you can come to me," he said firmly, his accent thickening with emotion. "I'll send a private jet to pick you up immediately."

Giselle hesitated for a moment, her breath hitching in her throat. "I'm in the car, heading back to my hotel.“

Kylian's grip tightened on the phone. "Come to Madrid tonight. How soon can you be at the airport?”

Giselle’s heart raced at the thought of leaving Milan behind and seeking comfort in Kylian. It took a little over two for Giselle to gather her things and be at the airport, but everything was handled for her once she was there.

There were no long lines or queuing. Instead, Giselle and her luggage were driven to a private landing strip, where a private jet was waiting to whisk her away.

The sight of the sleek aircraft brought a rush of relief that washed over Giselle like a wave. The chaos of Milan seemed miles away, and she clung to the notion that a reprieve awaited her in Madrid. As she exited the car, the cool night air enveloped her, invigorating and freeing.

“Miss Giselle!” The flight attendant greeted her with a warm smile and a nod, taking her luggage. “Welcome aboard. We’re ready to take off whenever you are.”

The jet's interior was luxurious, adorned with plush seating and soft lighting. Giselle sank into one of the velvet chairs, feeling the tension in her shoulders slowly begin to dissipate. She couldn't shake the memories of Jalen’s presence, but the promise of Kylian’s reassurance soothed her anxiety.

As the engines roared to life, Giselle fished her phone from her purse. With shaking fingers, she fired off a quick message to Kylian.

Giselle: I’m on the jet. Can’t wait to see you.

It felt like an eternity before her phone pinged, her heart racing with anticipation.

Kylian: Good. I’ll arrange for a car to pick you up as soon as you land. Just focus on getting here safe.

Giselle smiled, her heart buoyed by his confidence. She leaned back in her seat, watching as the lights of Milan faded into the darkness below, her thoughts filled with what awaited her on the other side of her journey through the sky.

The flight was a blur; Giselle lost herself in the clouds of anticipation, imagining the embrace of Kylian, the sound of his laughter, and the way his eyes sparkled when he looked at her. By the time they touched down in Madrid, her heart was pounding.

As she disembarked the plane, the night air was cold and biting, but she still felt a contrast to the coldness in Milan. A sleek black car awaited her, and she slid into the back seat, her heart racing as she prepared to see Kylian once again.

The drive through the city was exhilarating, the twinkling lights and vibrant energy wrapping around her like a comforting blanket. She felt liberated from the turmoil of the past day.

When they arrived at Kylian's house—a rather modern estate situated in a upscale neighborhood just outside of Madrid—Giselle’s breath caught in her throat. The door swung open before she could knock, and there he stood.

“Sorry,” Giselle blushed as her eyes glossed over with tears, there were so much different emotions coursing through her as she stood face to face with Kylian again for the first time in weeks.

“Come here,” he said, his voice a soothing elixer that wiped away her apprehensions. Kylian stepped forward, pulling her into his warm embrace, enveloping her in a blanket of safety that she desperately needed.

The world outside faded away as she melted into him, resting her head on his shoulder. All the fear, the confusion, the remnants of Jalen's taunts evaporated. “I missed you,” she murmured, her voice muffled against the fabric of his shirt.

“Missed you more,” Kylian replied, his breath warm against her hair. He leaned back slightly to look into her eyes, those deep, magnetic pools filled with concern. “What happened?”

Giselle hissed as he ran his fingers over a tender spot on her hair, her scalp beneath sore and slightly raised.

Kylian's brow furrowed, a mix of anger and concern coursing through him. "Did he hurt you?" he demanded, his voice low yet fiercely protective.

Giselle hesitated, not wanting to reveal too much too soon, but the warmth of Kylian’s presence broke down her walls momentarily. "He just... he confronted me after the show. I wasn't expecting him to be there," she admitted, her voice trembling slightly. "He tried to intimidate me, to get under my skin again."

Kylian's jaw clenched as he processed her words, not entirely convinced by them. "Did he hurt you?” he repeated.

“He grabbed me by my hair when I tried to walk away from him,” Giselle confessed, feeling the emotions swell within her again. “But I got away. I promise I’m okay.”

Kylian's grip on her tightened, his protective instinct flaring to life. “Can I see?” he asked, softly running his fingers through her hair with a gentleness that sent a wave of comfort through her.

Giselle hesitated, the vulnerability rising to the surface. She had spent so long trying to distance herself from Jalen’s hold over her life, trying to stand tall and strong. But here, in Kylian’s presence, she found a safety she hadn’t fully realized she craved. With a slow nod, she tilted her head to expose the tender spot where Jalen had held her.

Kylian's expression darkened as he gently examined the mark, his fingers brushing lightly over her scalp.

"Giselle he can not get away with this," Kylian growled, his eyes blazing with intensity. The protectivenss in his voice made Giselle's heart race, a mix of fear and inexplicable delight coursing through her veins.

"No," she protested softly. "That would only make things worse. I don't want any more drama in my life."

Kylian's gaze softened as he met her eyes, and he let out a deep breath, visibly trying to calm himself. “I hate that he did this to you. I hate even more that you had to go through it alone,” he murmured, his voice now low and quiet.

Giselle felt tears well again as she grasped Kylian’s shirt, seeking solace in him. “Thank you for being here now, Kylian,” she whispered, feeling her heartbeat steady slightly in his presence.

Kylian wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, and she could feel his body radiate warmth and strength. A warmth that drew her to him both physically and emotionally.

Giselle held Kylian’s gaze as the tips of his fingers traced the left side of her hairline, his touch soft and gentle, a complete contrast to Jalen and it was in that moment Giselle came to a reallzation.

Kylian wasn't Jalen, and despite her fear of opening up as she had with her ex, she realized she couldn't let him hold her back any longer.

“Kiss me,” Giselle whispered, her voice steadying as a newfound resolve filled her. The air between them crackled with unspoken desire, a potent mix of anticipation and vulnerability that hung palpably in the space around them.

Kylian's eyes darkened, filled with longing and something deeper that made her pulse race. "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly, dripping with the intensity of the moments they had shared in the past.

“Yes,” she breathed, feeling bold and cherished beneath his gaze. “I need this. I need you.”

Without another moment's hesitation, Kylian closed the distance between them, capturing her mouth with his in a heated kiss. It was tender yet demanding, a fierce affirmation of everything that hung in the air around them. The warmth of his lips ignited a fire within her, pushing away the shadows of her past with every gentle press of his mouth.

Giselle melted into him, her hands gripping at his t-shirt as she deepened the kiss, fueled by the emotions that rushed to the surface.

“I’ve missed you,” Giselle murmured against Kylian's lips as she stood on her tiptoes, wrapping her arms around his broad shoulder, consumed by his warmth and masculine scent.

“I missed you more,” he drawled as his hands slipped to caress her ass, his forehead resting on her shoulder as he squeezed and gripped the flesh between his fingers.

Keeping a hand firmly on her backside, Kylian wrapped the other around her waist lifting Giselle from the floor so she could wrap her legs around him, so he could walk her into his living room.

Giselle gasped at the sudden surge of sensation as Kylian’s strength enveloped her, his arms and body providing a feeling of safety that she had longed for. The world around them melted away, all the tension and fear from Milan evaporating as he carried her through the luxurious space of his home. The decor was sleek and stylish, a perfect reflection of Kylian’s vibrant personality, but all she could focus on was him—the way he held her, the heat radiating off his body, and the intoxicating blend of comfort and desire.

As he set her down on the plush sofa, Kylian’s gaze bore into hers, filled with a mix of concern and passion, as if he was gauging every emotion flitting across her face. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, his voice lowering to a soft murmur, reminding her of the seriousness of her earlier revelations.

She nodded, her breath stuttering slightly as the electricity in the room pulsed around them. “I am now. You make me feel safe.” It was a simple admission, but it felt monumental to her at the moment.

Kylian’s expression softened, and he moved to sit beside her, his arm wrapping comfortably around her shoulders. “Good. Because I want you to feel that way always.”

Giselle leaned into him, soaking in the warmth and reassurance, and for a moment, she allowed herself to forget everything that had just transpired. The weight of her insecurities and the remnants of fear began to dissipate, replaced by a growing desire that coursed through her veins.

With a boldness she hadn’t known she possessed, Giselle turned her face toward him, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she brushed her lips against his again. It started gently, tentative, as if testing the waters, but with each soft brush, the kiss deepened. Kylian responded immediately, his hand moving to cradle the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair as he pulled her closer.

“God, you don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” Kylian murmured against her lips, his voice thick with yearning. The warmth of his breath sent shivers down her spine, igniting a hunger within her that matched his intensity.

“But I do know,” Giselle whispered back, boldness swelling inside her as she broke the kiss just long enough to look into his eyes.

Kylian’s gaze grew dark with desire, and without breaking eye contact, he slid his hand from her waist to her thigh and back again, gently teasing the waistband of her sweatpants. “Let me show you how much I’ve missed you,” he said softly, his fingers brushing against her skin as he eased them down her legs, tossing them to the floor.

“Can I taste you?” he drawled as he slowly moved his fingers back and forth over the dampening crotch of her panties.

Kylian's fingers traced the outline of Giselle's panties, feeling the heat emanating from her core. He looked up at her, his eyes filled with a primal hunger that made her heart race.

"Please," Giselle breathed, her voice barely audible. She arched her back, pressing herself against his hand, desperate for more contact.

With a low growl, Kylian hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties and slowly slid them down her legs, his touch igniting a trail of fire on her skin. He tossed the garment aside and parted her thighs, exposing her glistening folds to his eager gaze.

"Fuck, you're so beautiful," he murmured, his breath hot against her sensitive flesh. He leaned in, inhaling her intoxicating scent, and Giselle gasped as his tongue flicked out to taste her, a slow, deliberate swipe that made her toes curl.

Kylian's tongue explored her pussy with a hunger that stole Giselle's breath. He lapped at her slowly, savoring her taste, before focusing on her clit, circling it with the tip of his tongue. Giselle's hips bucked against his face, her fingers failing to grip at his short, perfectly lined hair as pleasure coursed through her.

"There you go, baby," Kylian murmured against her, the vibrations sending shockwaves of ecstasy through her core. "Let me hear you." He sucked her clit into his mouth, his tongue flicking over the sensitive bud, and Giselle cried out, her thighs clamping around his head.

Kylian let out a groan as he pinned Giselle’s legs apart on the sofa, his lips and chin glistening with her essence as he raised his head, humming as he spat on clit before slurping the saliva back into his mouth and repeating the action.

Although he had every intention of eating Giselle out until her mind emptied of the days events, Kylian found himself lust-drunk as he feasted.

He leaned back in, burying his face between her thighs once more, his tongue delving deep into her folds. Giselle's cries of pleasure filled the room as he licked and sucked, his fingers joining in to stretch and fill her, driving her closer and closer to the edge.

Just as Giselle felt her orgasm building, Kylian pulled back, leaving her bereft and trembling. He climbed up her body, his hard length pressing against her thigh through his sweats as he captured her mouth in a searing kiss. She could taste herself on his lips, his chin, and it only fueled her desire.

"Kylian, fuck me," Giselle gasped, her voice trembling with urgency as she wrapped her legs around Kylian's waist, pulling him closer. She could feel his hard length pressing against her entrance, and she arched her hips, desperate to feel him fill her.

Kylian groaned, his control slipping as Giselle's heat engulfed the tip of his cock. With a swift thrust, he buried himself deep inside her, stretching her open and filling her completely. Giselle cried out, her nails digging into his back as she adjusted to his size.

"Fuck, you're so tight," Kylian grunted, his hips moving in a steady rhythm as he began to thrust. He pulled back slowly, almost withdrawing completely, before slamming back into her, setting a measured and intense pace.

Giselle met each of his thrusts, her hips lifting off the sofa to take him deeper.

Giselle's cries of pleasure echoed through the room as Kylian pounded into her, his hips moving with a primal urgency. She could feel every inch of him, stretching her, filling her completely, and it was exquisite.

"Harder," she gasped, her voice barely recognizable. "Fuck me harder."

Kylian obliged, his thrusts becoming more forceful, more demanding. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the air, mingling with their labored breaths and moans of ecstasy. Giselle's orgasm was building rapidly, her walls tightening around Kylian's length.

"Yes, yes, yes!" she chanted, her head thrashing from side to side as the pleasure consumed her. Kylian leaned down, capturing her mouth in a bruising kiss as he felt his own release approaching.

"Cum for me, Giselle," he growled against her lips. "Cum all over my cock."

Giselle's body tensed, her back arching off the sofa as Kylian's words pushed her over the edge. Her orgasm crashed over her like a tidal wave, her pussy clamping down around his cock as she screamed his name. Kylian followed her, his hips stuttering as he spilled himself inside her, filling her with his hot seed.

They stayed locked together, their bodies trembling and slick with sweat, as they rode out the aftershocks of their intense lovemaking. Kylian buried his face in the crook of Giselle's neck, inhaling her scent as he fought to catch his breath.

"That was... incredible," he murmured, his voice muffled against her skin. Giselle hummed in agreement, her arms wrapped tightly around him, unwilling to let him go just yet.

After a moment, Kylian lifted his head, his gaze searching hers. "You are safe with me,"

56 notes · View notes

citynewsglobe · 10 months ago

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[ad_1] Step into the intriguing world of sandra orlow, a determine shrouded in controversy but revered as an icon by many. Unravel the layers of her story, from her early beginnings to the lasting influence she has left on society. Be part of us on a journey to find the enigmatic persona behind the identify and discover how Sandra Orlow turned a logo that transcends time. Who's Sandra Orlow? Sandra Orlow is a reputation that evokes curiosity and fascination in equal measure. Recognized for her controversial but iconic determine, Sandra has captured the creativeness of many together with her distinctive presence. She rose to prominence within the digital age, the place photographs can form perceptions and spark debates. Her persona straddles the road between innocence and attract, leaving observers captivated by the enigmatic aura she exudes. Sandra’s picture has transcended conventional boundaries, turning into a cultural touchstone that resonates with audiences around the globe. Regardless of the controversies surrounding her determine, Sandra Orlow stays a permanent image of magnificence and intrigue. Her legacy continues to fascinate generations lengthy after she first entered the general public consciousness. The Controversy Surrounding Her Determine Sandra Orlow’s determine has sparked a wave of controversy that has each captivated and divided audiences. Some view her as an inventive muse, whereas others criticize the perceived exploitation of her youthful picture. The controversy surrounding Sandra’s determine delves into advanced themes of magnificence requirements, ethics in images, and the portrayal of minors in media. Her pictures have been scrutinized for doubtlessly blurring the road between innocence and sensuality, prompting discussions on the place artwork ends and exploitation begins. Critics argue that her photographs might perpetuate dangerous beliefs or objectify younger women, elevating necessary questions on consent and illustration. Regardless of the polarizing opinions surrounding her determine, there is no such thing as a denying Sandra Orlow’s lasting influence on artwork and society at giant. She stays a outstanding determine whose legacy continues to impress thought-provoking conversations about youth, magnificence, and authenticity in visible tradition. A Look into Her Early Life and Profession Sandra Orlow, a reputation that sparked each admiration and controversy on the earth of images. However who's the woman behind this iconic determine? Born on April 14, 1987, Sandra grew up in an inventive family the place creativity was inspired from a younger age. Her ardour for modeling emerged early on, catching the eye of photographers together with her pure grace and poise. At simply ten years previous, Sandra started her profession as a toddler mannequin, shortly gaining recognition for her distinctive look and charming presence in entrance of the digicam. Regardless of going through criticism for her daring decisions in posing and wardrobe choice, she remained steadfast in pursuing her goals. As Sandra’s portfolio grew, so did her affect on society’s notion of magnificence and artistry. Her photographs challenged conventional norms whereas igniting conversations about freedom of expression and empowerment by way of self-confidence. By dedication and resilience, Sandra Orlow carved a path to turning into an icon within the images world – breaking obstacles and leaving a long-lasting influence on those that adopted her journey carefully. The Affect of Her Picture on Society Sandra Orlow’s picture has had a profound influence on society, sparking discussions about magnificence requirements and the portrayal of youth in media. Her youthful appears and harmless demeanor captivated audiences worldwide, leaving an indelible mark on the cultural panorama. She challenged standard notions of age-appropriate conduct, resulting in debates on the sexualization of younger women in widespread tradition.

Some noticed her as a logo of empowerment and self-expression, whereas others seen her as a controversial determine pushing boundaries. Her presence within the on-line realm raised questions on privateness and exploitation within the digital age, highlighting the complexities of navigating fame at a younger age. Regardless of controversy, Sandra Orlow stays an iconic determine whose affect continues to resonate with audiences right now. The Journey to Changing into an Icon Sandra Orlow’s journey to turning into an icon was not with out challenges. From a younger age, she displayed a pure expertise for capturing the essence of magnificence and innocence by way of her images. Her distinctive perspective and talent to evoke emotion in her viewers set her other than others within the business. As Sandra’s work gained recognition, so did she. Her photographs sparked conversations about artwork, censorship, and the boundaries of societal norms. Regardless of going through criticism and controversy, Sandra remained resilient in staying true to her creative imaginative and prescient. By dedication and unwavering ardour for her craft, Sandra Orlow solidified herself as a outstanding determine on the earth of images. Her affect transcended borders, inspiring aspiring artists worldwide to push boundaries and problem standard requirements. In every body captured by Sandra Orlow lies a narrative ready to be advised—a story that has left an indelible mark on the artwork world and continues to resonate with audiences right now. The Legacy of Sandra Orlow Sandra Orlow’s legacy continues to resonate within the hearts of many, leaving a long-lasting imprint on the world of artwork and images. Her skill to seize innocence and sweetness in her photographs has solidified her as an iconic determine admired by followers worldwide. By her work, Sandra not solely showcased creative prowess but additionally challenged societal norms surrounding youth and sweetness. She pushed boundaries and sparked conversations about freedom of expression and self-acceptance. Her images evoke a way of nostalgia for easier occasions whereas concurrently igniting a ardour for creativity and individuality. Sandra’s legacy serves as a reminder that artwork is aware of no bounds – it transcends age, gender, or background. As admirers proceed to understand Sandra’s contributions to the artwork world, her influence stays profound, inspiring future generations of artists and photographers alike. Conclusion: As we delve into the charming story of Sandra Orlow, it turns into evident that her influence goes past the controversies and discussions surrounding her determine. Sandra’s journey from a younger mannequin to an iconic determine is a testomony to her resilience and willpower. Her adolescence and profession decisions formed not solely her personal path but additionally left a long-lasting impression on society. The legacy she has created by way of her picture continues to spark conversations about magnificence requirements, privateness, and empowerment. Sandra Orlow’s presence within the media panorama has challenged norms and redefined perceptions about magnificence and self-expression. Her affect extends far past what meets the attention, leaving us pondering over the complexities of fame and individuality. FAQ’s 1. What made Sandra Orlow so well-known? Sandra Orlow gained fame for her controversial determine, which captivated audiences worldwide and sparked discussions about societal norms and perceptions of magnificence. 2. How did Sandra Orlow influence society? Her picture challenged standard requirements of magnificence and femininity, encouraging people to embrace their uniqueness and have a good time range in all varieties. 3. What's the legacy of Sandra Orlow? Regardless of the controversies surrounding her determine, Sandra Orlow left a long-lasting influence on widespread tradition, inspiring numerous people to redefine magnificence on their very own phrases.

4. The place can I discover extra details about Sandra Orlow? To delve deeper into the story of this iconic determine, discover on-line sources similar to articles, documentaries, and interviews that make clear her life and legacy. [ad_2] Supply hyperlink

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beautifulmars · 28 days ago

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Strange Mesas in Noachis Terra

This image shows several mesa-like features in the Noachis Terra region of Mars. A mesa is a steep-sided, flat-topped mountain or hill. While the larger features in this image are elevated areas of land surrounded by cliffs, the smaller “mesas” seem to be saucer-shaped in that the interiors of the mesas are at a lower elevation than the surrounding cliffs.

The saucer-like shape of these features is unusual and begs the question of how they formed, and it’s not apparent from this single image. The HiRISE team plans to acquire a second picture to provide stereo coverage, from which we can create a 3D digital elevation model. This elevation model may help us figure out how these strange mesas formed.

ID: ESP_086811_1615 date: 1 February 2025 altitude: 261 km

NASA/JPL-Caltech/University of Arizona

#mars #nasa #science #geology #landscape #astronomy #universityofarizona

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swan2swan · 7 months ago

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Claire Dearing, clad in white, descending on an elevator like an angel in heels.

Soyona Santos, clad in white, ascending on an elevator like a demon in heels.

Claire pointing to a digital model of a DNA strand and twirling it with her finger to proudly announce the name "Indominus Rex".

Soyona unveiling some metal boxes and proudly announcing the name "Atrociraptors".

Claire solemnly asking "Do you remember the first time you saw a dinosaur?"

Soyona casually asking "Do you like dinosaurs?"

#is this anything #THEY ARE THE SAME BUT DIFFERENT #and they have one singular clash #both of them are really into raptor trainers though #soyona santos #claire dearing #jurassic world: dominion #jwct #chaos theory #jurassic world

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spacetimewithstuartgary · 6 months ago

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Uplift Underway in Finland’s Kvarken Archipelago

Some 20,000 years ago, during the Last Glacial Maximum, the Baltic Sea sat under a sheet of ice as thick as 3,000 meters (10,000 feet). Scientists estimate that the weight of that ice pressed the land down more than 500 meters (1,600 feet).

Since the glaciers receded and the weight was lifted, the land has been bouncing back. The rates of uplift, known as glacial isostatic adjustment or isostatic rebound, in this region are among the highest on Earth. By one estimate, 700 hectares of new land—about twice the size of Central Park in New York City—rise from the sea each year along the coast of the Gulf of Bothnia, the Baltic Sea’s northern arm.

This uplift is especially apparent in the Kvarken Archipelago of Finland. The area, seen in this image acquired by the OLI (Operational Land Imager) on Landsat 8, is an agglomeration of islands that is constantly changing as the land rises. Its approximately 5,600 islands and 2,400 kilometers (1,500 miles) of shoreline form labyrinthine waterways that present hazards to ships but exploration opportunities for canoers and kayakers. The Kvarken Archipelago, along with the High Coast region across the gulf in Sweden, is designated as a UNESCO World Heritage site.

The terrain emerging from the sea has revealed remarkable glacial formations. On and around the island of Björkö, shown in this detailed view, unique features known as De Geer moraines have surfaced thanks to isostatic rebound. These washboard-like ridges form when water running beneath the ice deposits boulders, stones, and finer material at the ice edge. When the ice retreats or a large block breaks away, another moraine begins to form at the new edge.

De Geer moraines typically measure 1 to 2 kilometers long and 2 to 5 meters high, spaced 50 to 200 meters apart. Scientists think their presence and spacing are related to the speed of ice-margin retreat, the water depth in which they were formed, and the terrain beneath the ice. LiDAR-based digital elevation models have recently revealed the existence of more De Geer moraines in southern and western Finland than previously realized.

The constant emergence of new land after the ice’s disappearance affected how people ultimately developed the area. For example, the land on which the town of Vaasa was founded was a forested island in the early 14th century. The island later merged with the mainland, and Vaasa grew throughout the 17th and 18th centuries as a thriving harbor and trading point. Still, the land continued to rise, causing the coastline to migrate farther and farther from the town. In August 1852, a napping peddler’s pipe ignited a fire that destroyed much of the settlement. Officials took the opportunity to reestablish Vaasa about 6 kilometers (4 miles) to the west to make it a coastal city once again. Remnants of the original town are preserved in “Old Vaasa” (or Vanha-Vaasa).

The islands, peninsulas, and coastlines around the Kvarken Archipelago and the Gulf of Bothnia will continue to morph and evolve. Since the ice retreated, the land has risen at least 286 meters (938 feet); this figure corresponds to the elevation of the ancient shore and so-called “world’s highest coastline,” located across the gulf at Skuleberget in Sweden’s High Coast. The remaining 100 meters or so of depression should equilibrate over the next several thousand years, scientists say.

In that time, the sea level will continue to drop relative to the land, and the Gulf of Bothnia will continue to narrow. Millennia from now, the shores of Finland and Sweden may even connect at the narrowest point, rendering the northern Gulf of Bothnia an inland lake. However, the exact nature of these changes will depend on how much global sea level rise—driven by ice melt and thermal expansion of ocean water—offsets the regional land uplift. Currently, the rate of regional uplift, at about 9 millimeters (0.4 inches) per year, outpaces the 3.4 millimeters (0.13 inches) of global sea level rise per year.

NASA Earth Observatory images by Wanmei Liang, using Landsat data from the U.S. Geological Survey. Photo by Hendrik Morkel, Unsplash. Story by Lindsey Doermann.

#science #space #news #nasa #finland #earth observatory

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kelcemenow · 1 year ago

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Drive Me Crazy - Chapter 8.

Pairing Travis Kelce x Reader

Words 1391

Warnings Some angsty vibes here, but it's going to get better, I swear!

Huge thank you to the Anon who sent this in! They had such amazing words to say about my writing which I massively appreciate and then to top it off, had an incredible request for me! I only have experience with mechanics in the UK, so I’ve tried my best with this one! “I just recently got interested in Travis K. X reader stories and wanted to let you know, I read all of yours as quickly as I could. They are so well done and I couldn’t help but laugh/giggle and feel through each word you typed out. You’re doing amazing and I’m so glad to have stumbled onto your page. If you have any space for a request, I’d be curious about what Trav would think about having a military (like fighter pilot) or engineer or mechanic girlfriend. I see a lot of stories with him paired with models/singers/social media individuals (which are phenomenal!) but just wondering how he would be with a more tomboy like girlfriend!”

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

"Are you sure you're okay?"

You sighed, rolling your eyes, "Travis, I'm fine. I'm just tired."

He stared at you as thoroughly as he could through his phone screen. Faint wrinkles between his eyes deepened as his eyes narrowed. He hummed quietly before laying further back on his bed, his elbows elevating his torso, "Your Dad seemed pretty happy tonight."

You forced a smile, your chest still panging with hurt, "Yeah, thank you for doing all of this, he had a blast."

"And you?"

You paused, a little longer than you should've, "Yeah, it was great."

Luckily, Travis had rolled across the bed to grab the charger for his phone and didn't pick up on your disheartened expression, "I'm still pissed you wouldn't let the team doctor check you over."

"Travis, I really appreciate that you're concerned for me, I am. But honestly, it wasn't necessary."

He sucked his teeth and shook his head, "It's crazy though, there's gotta be a reason you passed out."

You avoided his gaze, adjusting the folds of your bedsheet.

"Anyway baby, I'm tired. I think I'm going to hit the hay, okay?"

Nodding your head gently, you could feel your body yearning to yawn, "Yeah, me too."

"But I'll call you in the morning?"

"Sure."

You watched as his eyes creased into a sweet smile, "G'night, babygirl."

Your stomach fluttered as his left eye quickly closed into a charming wink. It seemed travis had a talent for making you melt, no matter the situation.

"Goodnight, Travis."

The phone display returned to your home screen, a black and white photo of you and your Dad when you were younger. You must have been around 9 or 10 years old and were wearing one of his work t-shirts, splotches of grease and oil covering most of the fabric. He was leaning over the hood of his car and you were stood on a stool in front of him, holding a large tool in your tiny hand. You recognised his battered baseball cap adorning his head as one of your own now, something he gave you when you took on part of his business. 'A good luck charm', he said. Your chest swelled with love before melancholy set in. The opinions of other people had never bothered you in the past, especially the opinions of complete strangers. You had always been confident in yourself and you valued hard work and kindness over appearances. But now here you were, overthinking and distracted by the online comments of people you didn't know.

You laid back on your bed and stared up at the ceiling, shadows forming swirled patterns across the white paint. Taking a few deep breaths, you glanced across to the digital clock on your nightstand before feeling your eyelids droop lower and lower with each breath.

______________________________________________________________

Music blasted from the small radio you had perched on top of the exposed engine. Your head was buried under the hood, fingers tinkering at greased bolts and pipes as the sounds of the garage were overpowered by Whitney Houston.

"Y/N!" A deep voice yelled out from behind you.

Your body jerked as the noise disturbed your focus. Glancing over your shoulder, you noticed Jordan standing 20 yards or so away from you, his eyes avoiding yours.

"Yes?" You said impatiently, without changing your stance, a clear sign that you weren't interested in a lengthy conversation with him.

"I don't know if you're busy or..."

"Yeah, I am."

"Right." Jordan turned away for a second before spinning around and taking a few steps closer to you, "You know, it's just that it's obvious that other people think the same as I do."

You stood up straight, your shoulders tightening, "Excuse me?"

"I just don't think that you and Travis are a good match for each other." His feet were planted on the floor but his knees were twitching, his hands nervously fidgeting in his washed out denim jeans, "And I know I shouldn't have behaved the way I did the other night, but I was just in shock to see him there, you know? He's a pretty big deal, and you...you're just a-"

"Is this supposed to be an apology?"

Jordan sighed, his hands moving up to his temples, "I just think you would be better suited with someone else."

You laid down the spanner that you had been firmly gripping, the clang ringing out through the garage and capturing everyone's attention, "Someone else? Someone else like you, you mean?"

"Y/N, that's not what I'm saying-"

"What are you saying, then?

Jordan's gaze drifted to the floor, "I...I don't really know."

You took a step towards him, "Exactly. You don't know what you're saying. So, let me give you a clue. Who I date is none of your business, Jordan. It is actually none of yours, or anyone else's business."

You could see heads turning in your peripheral, but all that you could feel was the heat quickly rising in your chest and adrenaline speeding through your veins. Jordan stood with his mouth open, as if he was about to speak but even if he wanted to, you were reluctant to give him the chance.

"So, just...stay out of it, okay?" You waved your hand before rushing over to the bathroom, the wooden door slamming shut behind you.

Your shaking hands reached for the white basin, fingers gripping the smooth, cool, porcelain as you looked up into the mirror. You gritted your teeth as you attempted to hold your composure for a few seconds before you crumbled, tears travelling down your cheeks quickly. The clangs of the garage were muffled in the distance behind your occasional sobs, but you ran the tap just in case anyone could hear you.

Your reflection stared back at you, the skin under your eyes shiny from tears. As your breathing slowed and you took back control of your emotions, you grabbed your hair behind your head and tied it back with a small scrunchie that was snug on your wrist. Wiping your face, you inhaled deeply before a gentle knock on the bathroom door made you jump slightly.

"Uhh, there's someone in here." Your emotionally charged voice gurgled.

"It's Dad."

You looked around the small restroom, for nothing in particular, before flushing the toilet, "I'll just...I'll just be a minute." You called out, grabbing a hand towel and desperately dabbing your face.

There was a short moment of silence on the other side of the door as your Dad waited for the sound of rushing water to cease.

"He's gotten under your skin, hasn't he?"

"Jordan? I couldn't care less about what Jordan thinks." You tucked a piece of hair behind your ear and brushed down your overalls, "I don't-"

"I meant Travis."

You turned towards the door, your eyebrows furrowed.

"Forgive me for saying this, and I know I don't really know much about your dating life-" He let out a chuckle, "-but I've seen a change in you. A good change."

You reached for the door handle, "Really?"

"You seem happier." You could hear a smile in your Dad's voice, "Today aside, of course."

As you gently turned the handle and opened the door, his face came into view, his cheek pressed to the door frame, desperate to comfort you. You exhaled a smile as his eyes scanned your face, "I am happy."

"So, what's this?" He gestured to your eyes.

You shook your head, "It's stupid, really. I saw some comments on a picture of me and Travis online and then Jordan just-"

"And since when did you care what people thought?"

You blinked, "I don't."

Your Dad pushed the door open further and placed his hands on both of your shoulders, "So, what's the problem?"

You giggled, "I don't know."

"I think I know." He winked with a grin.

You lowered your brows again, your lips tightening into a coy smile.

"You like the guy!" He shook you gently, "And I don't blame you. But I have to be honest here, he's the lucky one to have you, sport."

You looked down at your feet, your cheeks flushing with red.

"So, fuck what everybody else thinks!"

"Daddy!" Your head snapped up, your eyes wide at your Dad's uncharacteristic cursing, which was something exclusively reserved for watching football games.

"Go get him."

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I think I've got my groove back!

This series will be finishing soonish and then I'll get onto the one-shot requests list that I have sitting in my notes app...which is quite a few!

Anyway, I hope you like this next chapter, it's not too dramatic but it's setting up the finale! If you want to be added to my Taglist, just let me know!

Taglist @rd14 @dandelionwrites8 @keiva1000 @fantasywritersstuff @caelipartem @anacarangel @she-lives-in-her-dreams @kkrenae @kristencochefski1125

@countrygirl120983 @charmed2000 @nouis-bum @cixrosie @delicateearthquakellama @wordsaresimple-imnot @amylouwho9 @queenisa17 @talicat713

@luvvtrent @purecinnamonextract @savaneafricaine @caelipartem @beyxgrande @caitdaniels @ezgirl1108 @vir-tual @lightsoutstyles @macey234

@s294749w @kelcemesoftly @calirindo @livinginmyfantasies @bernelflo @secretmywritingfictionlawyer @killatravtramp @there-goes-thefighter @unicornblueberry

@calirindo @tjkelce87 @kristinamae093 @kmc1989 @ajbird18 @triski73 @ctn26 @kgcaputo07 @abby-splace @bobthe-turmpetman29

@cedricbitch @abby-splace @jmamas92 @bellstwd @killatravsworld @marchmaiden @chimchimmarie @blackstabbath6 @fanficfanatic15 @jessiemariebarnes

@mmb219 @vanwritesfan-fiction @futebollover @ks-dreams-fantasies @laurenmcucm @blackstabbath6 @nickie-amore @fictionqueen87 @munsonburner666 @hornyavengers

@spookystitchery @powellssaturn @skywalker0809 @shortttcakkee @my-secret-hideaway @shelbygeek

#travis kelce x reader #travis kelce imagine #kelce x reader #nfl imagine #original story #travis kelce fic #travis kelce #travis kelce fluff #nfl fluff #travis kelce smut #travis kelce angst #nfl smut #nfl angst #nfl fic #kelcemenow requests

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