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bueckets · 6 months ago

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The Prophecy | Part 1

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

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

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

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

WC: 11.9k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And it WORKED, didn't it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The Prophecy Has Spoken: Harvard by 20"

"845/847 ≈ Perfection"

"Future WNBA GOAT"

"Rocket Science + Basketball = 🐐"

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

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

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

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

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

That's when you see them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucket.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Swish. At the buzzer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The arena goes dead silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is something else entirely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They all do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Swish. As pure as a layup.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Good game," she says simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Right," she smirks, ordering another drink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And?"

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

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

She glances back, then at you again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

March suddenly feels very far away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Including one from six months ago.

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

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

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

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

Three dots appear immediately. Your heart rate picks up.

just practicing for march 😘

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something that makes your skin buzz.

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

Your phone lights up with a message:

you up?

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

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

A beat. Three dots.

just your future march matchup.

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

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

guess you’ll have to wait and see.

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

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

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

you always study film this late?

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

how'd you know i was watching film?

saw your laptop reflection in your glasses in that last story

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

stalker much? ��

just scouting the competition 😌

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

want company? i'm looking at our clemson tape

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'd like that."

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

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

The nickname hits different in her voice at 4AM.

"Night, Paige."

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

Then your phone buzzes again:

sweet dreams 🌙

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

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

Definitely not.

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

"earth surface temps are literally insane rn"

"why are you even awake?"

"says the girl who's also awake 🤨"

"homework doesn't count"

"nerd 🤓"

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

"bet i will. next time i see you"

"when's that gonna be? 👀"

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

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

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

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

"I do not make a face."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

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

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

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

miss watching film with you

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

"Shut up," you laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You’re totally down bad, huh?"

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

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

"Yeah?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three days until Connecticut.

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

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

"Holy shit, that's really her—"

"The Prophecy is here—"

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

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

You type back quickly, trying to act casual.

surviving. But UConn is like a zoo. 🙄

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

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

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

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

on my way. see you soon.

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

turn around

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can you sign my jersey?"

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

"Are you really majoring in rocket science?"

"Can you do the space shot right now?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's..." you start.

"Weird?" Paige offers.

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

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

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

"—never misses, like ever—"

"—turned down every WNBA scout—"

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

"—next GOAT for sure—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Lead the way, Bueckers."

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

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

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

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

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

"Weird?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The two-hour video calls?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We should..." she starts.

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

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

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

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

"Hey."

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

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

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

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

You’re so fucking screwed.

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

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

Some things are worth the complication.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It wasn't insane," you protest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nods around the table.

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

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

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

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

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

"One time!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glance at her. "Yeah."

Neither of you turns toward it.

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

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

"Or something?"

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

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

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

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

"Paige?"

"Yeah?"

"Breathe."

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

"So," you say.

"So," she echoes.

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

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

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

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

"Do I?"

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

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

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

"Paige?"

"Hmm?"

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

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

"I know," she says softly.

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

"I should..." you start reluctantly.

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

"Okay."

She blinks. "Okay?"

You squeeze her hand gently. "Okay."

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

"Rocket?" her voice comes softly from below.

"Yeah?"

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

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

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

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

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

Continue to part two.

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burgundywing · 1 year ago

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Bats and their least favourite Rogues to deal with (other than Joker of course)

Bruce hates dealing with Two-Face, mostly because of knowing and valuing Harvey as a friend and he feels a sense of guilt that he wasn't able to save the man.

Damian does not enjoy fighting Poison Ivy as he actually agrees with many of her ideologies, and cannot always fully convince himself she's not going about it the right way. Ivy knows this and loves to use it against him. Damian is also not fond of her cuddle pollen as it allows his overbearing older brother to latch onto him like the limpet he is with a viable excuse.

Tim HATES Hatter. Losing control of your mind is basically Tim's worst nightmare. The Joker Junior incident only adds fuel to his mind control terrors. Whenever Hatter gets out the rest of the family has to keep an extra close eye on Tim who tends to give up sleeping in order to put Hatter back in Arkham.

Scarecrow is the least favourite of both Dick and Jason. Although every member of the batfam have their fair share of traumatic memories, Dick and Jason always find reliving theirs hardest to shake off. Any loud thumps after set both of them off, Dick thinking yet another person has hit the floor and Jason thinking it was yet another strike of the crowbar.

Stephanie is terrified of Professor Pyg. He is not as loud and demanding of attention as the rest of the Rogues so the others never consider him as the worst but there is something about him that makes her absolutely sick to her stomach. She's had one close encounter with him and never wants to see him again. If she's a little quick to let someone else take a case that may involve him that's nobody else's business but hers.

Cass is not a fan of Riddler. She is the least equipped to deal with his games as she cannot fully grasp the double meanings of many English words and Riddler has very confusing body language to read. Cass does not like feeling useless and Riddler is terrifying in his own right so being completely unequipped to stop him is not something she enjoys.

Duke hates Condiment King. And Kite Man. Such B-list villains but of course with his luck they always escape on the day shift. Mustard and ketchup are incredibly difficult to get out of the cracks in his armour and Kite Man is annoying and has an unfortunate habit of picking him up and DROPPING HIM. Duke's over it.

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iydiamartinx · 11 days ago

Text

THIS MEANS WAR VIII

Dick Grayson x Reader x Jason Todd

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto word count: 4.2k synopsis: Gotham’s youngest neuroscience lecturer never planned to get tangled up with two of its most eligible bachelors. Both are determined to win her over—without revealing they know each other… or that they’re vigilantes. But when the Joker takes an interest in her, things get a whole lot more complicated. a/n: I'll be honest this wasn't my favourite chapter to write since not much goes on, but I'm thinking of it more like a filler chapter that needed to be written.

UNKNOWN LOCATION

Joker had trashed another one of his safe houses.

The bastard was getting closer—closer to him, and closer to the formula he never should’ve helped create.

With a hollow thud, his head hit the concrete wall behind him. He exhaled hard through his nose, eyes burning with frustration. His pulse roared in his ears, but it wasn’t the fear that gnawed at him—it was the guilt. That relentless, festering guilt.

She’d warned him. Over and over again, she warned him that the nature of his unethical research would have consequences. And God, was hindsight a bitch.

He should’ve listened to his sister. She’d tried everything to pull him back—pleaded, reasoned, even threatened to expose him if he didn’t stop. But he was too far gone by then. Too enticed by the promise of discovery, of power, of being needed by the wrong people.

And once someone was in, there was no such thing as getting out—not really. He thought he could. After years of working with Gotham’s worst, he’d been foolish enough to believe he could slip away unnoticed, sever his ties, and walk free.

He had tried to leave—and that was how he ended up in this mess.

He should’ve known the Joker would never keep his word. Trusting a lunatic to honour a deal was like handing a lit match to a pyromaniac and hoping he wouldn’t strike it.

Stealing the formula back had been the only move he had left—the only way to try and make amends for the damage he’d done. But he’d underestimated just how badly the Joker wanted it.

He was running out of options.

He was brilliant enough to create a weaponized toxin—yes. But crafting an antidote? That had never been his strength. His genius lay in design, not repair. And this toxin, twisted using the strands of the newest Joker venom, was the worst thing he’d ever created.

Joke venom was notorious precisely because it had no cure. No antidote. Yet, there was only one person he knew who’d ever come close to breaking that fact.

You.

You had cracked Scarecrow’s fear toxin. You’d neutralized half a dozen of Poison Ivy’s most lethal poisons. You’d even managed to stall the effects of early-stage Joker venom—something the best minds in Gotham had written off as impossible.

He had hoped—foolishly—that he’d be the one to fix it. That he could undo the damage he’d done without dragging anyone else into the fallout. Especially not you. He hadn’t wanted to involve you because that risked putting you in Joker’s sights.

But he was out of time. Out of places to run. And deep in his bones, he knew the truth he’d been avoiding:

You were his last chance.

And more than that—you were the city’s best hope.

BATCAVE

It only took Dick a day to decide that if Jason wasn’t going to play fair then neither was he. If Jason was going to use Tim as an accomplice then Dick would build his own damn team to help him with the case and the girl.

He kicked a protesting Tim out of the Batcave with little ceremony—ignoring every muttered complaint and dramatic sigh—and pulled out his comm to make a few calls.

It didn’t take long for his backup to arrive.

Now, Dick stood at the helm of it—arms crossed, one ankle hooked over the other, posture deceptively casual, like it was a casual meet-up and not, in fact, the beginning of his carefully orchestrated campaign to absolutely destroy his younger brother in the world’s most passive-aggressive war over a woman.

He wasn’t in uniform tonight. Just dark jeans and a Henley, sleeves pushed to his elbows.

The soft whir of wheels broke the silence as Barbara was the first to arrive, her auburn hair damp, twisted up in a lazy clip. She rolled out of the elevator with one brow arched high and a tablet tucked under one arm, her other hand dragging down her face.

“This better be good,” she said, her voice dry. “You dragged me out of a bath and three episodes deep into a murder docuseries.”

Stephanie trailed behind her, oversized hoodie hanging off one shoulder, nursing a cold brew like it was the only thing keeping her upright. The hoodie read Crime-Fighter, Coffee First in bold black letters.

Damian, on the other hand appeared from the shadows from god knows where, his posture stiff with irritation and a frown tugging at his mouth, as if simply being summoned here was an inconvenience to him.

“This better not be another attempt to make us play game night again, Grayson,” Damian warned, arms folded. “I will not pretend Monopoly is a viable training exercise.”

Dick rolled his eyes and nodded toward the glowing holoscreen behind him. “It’s about the Joker case.”

Stephanie squinted. “Then… where are the others?”

“And why is the girl I set you up with on the screen?” Barbara asked, already suspicious.

Damian whirled to face her. “You set him up with the only lead we have?”

“Lead?” Barbara repeated, eyes narrowing. “Why wasn’t I informed?”

“Grayson was assigned to extract intel from her,” Damian stated before Dick could speak. “She’s the sister of the target Joker has been pursuing—and the individual we’ve all been trying to locate.”

“Wait, what?” Stephanie yelped, nearly sloshing her coffee. “This is the woman Tim was telling me about? The one you and Jason are fighting over?”

Dick exhaled hard through his nose, jaw flexing. “We’re not f—”

“She’s pretty,” Stephanie cut off, squinting at the projection as she leaned forward. “No wonder you’re both acting like idiots.”

“Can we please go back to the part where the woman I matched you with on a dating app is now a lead in an active Joker case?” Barbara said sharply, pointing an accusing finger at Dick.

“It’s not like I knew who she was when you set me up!” Dick snapped, voice rising in defence.

“You could’ve called!”

“I know,” he said, running a hand through his hair, fingers dragging roughly across his scalp. “You’re right. I’m sorry. But can we please focus on why I called you all here?”

Stephanie didn’t miss a beat. “You want our help sabotaging Jason.”

“No!” Dick said too quickly, then paused. His mouth tugged into a grimace. “Okay—maybe slightly.”

Barbara groaned.

“I’m serious,” he said, the humour draining from his voice. “I need your help to figure her out. Get closer to her. Her brother’s the only thread we’ve got in this whole mess, and she might be the only one who knows where he is. But she’s not going to tell me a thing unless she trusts me.”

He glanced back at the projected image, something unreadable flickering across his face—frustration, maybe. Or guilt.

“So I need intel,” he continued, voice lower now. “What she likes. What she hates. What makes her laugh. What pisses her off. I don’t care how small—anything that gives me an edge.”

“And if that intel just so happens to give you an edge over Jason…” Stephanie prompted, eyebrow raised.

Dick didn’t even try to look innocent. He shrugged one shoulder. “Then that’s just a bonus.”

Barbara narrowed her eyes. “You do realize if she finds out about this, she’s going to hate you.”

“Good thing Jason and I are in complete agreement that she won’t,” he said, far too confident for someone with a growing list of poor decisions.

“Steph’s right. You two are idiots,” Barbara muttered, dragging her palm down her face.

Dick exhaled slowly. “Look, I’m not trying to manipulate her. I just need to understand her. If we figure that out, we get closer to the brother. That’s the mission. And yeah—if it happens to help me one-up Jason in the process…” He gave a lopsided smile. “Well, I’m not going to lose sleep over that.”

Barbara stared at him for a long moment, like she was trying to calculate just how much of this was about the case—and how much was pure, unfiltered ego. Then, with a sigh that carried the weight of years of dealing with these boys, she flicked open her tablet.

“Fine,” Barbara said, already typing as her eyes scanned the screen. “I’ll start hacking into her communications—look for any mention of her brother and flag any unknown calls or suspicious messages.” She didn’t even bother looking up. “Just so we’re clear—I’m doing this for the case. Not to help you win whatever stupid romantic grudge match you and Jason have going.”

“It’s not a grudge match,” he insisted. “It’s… a strategic lead acquisition initiative. That just happens to come with some personal incentives.”

Stephanie nearly choked on her cold brew. “That’s the prettiest way I’ve ever heard someone say, ‘I’m losing and I hate it.’”

“I’m not losing,” Dick muttered, jaw tightening.

“Uh-huh,” Stephanie said, dragging out the sound, clearly not believing him. “Sure. Denial looks great on you.” She leaned back in her chair, sipping noisily from her drink. “Alright, boss. What do I need to do?”

Dick straightened, grateful for the shift back to business—even if it was steeped in sarcasm. “I want you to build a psychological profile on her. Dig through her digital footprint. Socials, archived forums, anything public. Old blog posts, research articles, maybe even school club bulletins.”

Stephanie grinned. “So… you want me to cyberstalk her.”

“It’s not stalking. It’s remote behavioural analysis,” Dick corrected.

“Sure.” She gave him a knowing look. “You want me to find out what kind of coffee she drinks, which books she reads, and whether her Goodreads account is a shrine to tragic vampire romances or slow-burn academia smut.”

Dick opened his mouth, thought better of it, then sighed. “I have no idea what that even means. Just stay focused. If she has any habits or preferences—or mentions Jason—flag it.”

Stephanie’s fingers were already flying across the screen. “I’ll compile a profile. Interests, habits, emotional cues, digital presence.”

“Exactly,” he said, nodding. “The more we know, the better.”

“And if I stumble across her dating history?” Stephanie asked sweetly without looking up.

Dick hesitated. “Only if it’s… relevant.”

“To you or the case?” she teased, flashing him a grin that danced at the edges of mischief. But she didn’t give him the chance to answer. She was already turning away, her voice trailing over her shoulder as she shot him a wink. “Don’t worry, Boy Wonder—I’ll be discreet.”

Damian made a noise that sounded suspiciously like disgust. “You’re all embarrassing.”

Dick ignored him. “You’re tailing her. Quietly. No interaction unless absolutely necessary. I want to know if she’s meeting anyone connected to her brother or Joker’s network…Or Jason.”

Damian exhaled sharply through his nose, the kind of sound that somehow conveyed the full weight of his disdain for everyone in the room. It was the sigh of a boy who believed he was surrounded by fools.

“Tt. Fine,” he muttered, arms crossing stiffly. “I’ll tail her. Discreetly. No contact. No interference. Happy?”

He didn’t sound happy.

Dick gave a short nod. “Good. Just remember—this doesn’t mean you can skip school.”

That earned a visible twitch in Damian’s jaw. He crossed his arms tighter, glaring like Dick had personally insulted his lineage. “I am engaged in tactical surveillance on a high-priority target.”

“And you’re also twelve,” Dick replied, entirely unfazed. “If Alfred catches wind of another all-nighter and hears you slept through algebra again, I’m not covering for you.”

“I do not sleep through algebra.”

“Sure,” Stephanie muttered. “You meditated aggressively with your eyes closed and your hood up.”

Damian shot her a look sharp enough to cut glass.

“Anyways,” he said, raising his voice just enough to halt the impending bickering. “Glad we’re all on the same page. But remember—most importantly…”

He paused, gaze sweeping across the room.

“She, Alfred, and Bruce cannot find out.”

MEANWHILE...

Tim hadn’t meant to overhear. Not really.

But the cave echoed, and Dick’s voice—especially when wound up in righteous competitiveness—carried. Loudly. And Tim had lingered—just a moment too long—behind the server banks, just long enough to catch the important bits

“…You want our help sabotaging Jason…”

“…if she ends up being a better match for Jason, I’m not lying to you…”

“…we get that, we get closer to the brother. That’s the mission. And yeah, if it helps me beat Jason…”

Tim blinked, deadpan.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

It wasn’t the fact that Dick was crushing on a girl. Or that Jason was too. That brand of drama barely registered anymore—not after years of rooftop arguments, near-death team-ups, and family dinners that often ended in batarangs embedded in walls. Honestly, it ranked somewhere between mildly irritating and background noise on the Wayne household disaster scale.

It wasn’t even the part where they were turning a high-priority Joker lead into some twisted rom-com disaster.

No. The true offence—the unforgivable part—was that Dick didn’t include him.

Tim pulled out his comm, thumb hovering over the screen as he debated just how petty he wanted to be. The answer came quickly.

Very.

He tapped the name with a smug flick.

Jason picked up after one ring. “What?” He grumbled.

Tim didn’t waste time. “Dick’s building a team to spy on your future girlfriend.”

There was a pause on the other end. A beat of stunned silence.

“…You wanna say that again?”

“I said,” Tim repeated, already turning down the side tunnel toward the garage, “Dick dragged Steph, Barbara, and Damian into a secret meeting in the cave. He’s using the Joker case as cover—but it’s very clearly a dick-measuring contest over Y/N.”

On the other end of the line, Jason exhaled slowly, “That little—”

“Yep.”

Tim could practically hear the scowl forming on Jason’s face.

“It’s just the three of them?”

“Barbara’s hacking the communications. Stephanie’s building a profile on her. Damian’s tailing her.”

There was a pause on the other end.

“…And you?” Jason asked, his voice slower now.

Tim’s jaw tightened. He kicked a loose bolt across the garage floor with the heel of his boot, the metallic clink skipping into silence. “I wasn’t invited.”

Jason snorted. “Ouch.”

“I know, right?” Tim muttered, irritation bleeding through the sarcasm. It wasn’t about the girl. It wasn’t even about the case. It was the exclusion—the assumption that he’d pick sides without even being asked.

Jason’s voice came back cool and sharp. “Alright. Then we build our own damn team.”

Tim’s steps slowed, a grin tugging at his lips. “That’s what I was thinking.”

“Cass?”

“Told her to head to your place.”

“Duke?”

“I’m sending him the same thing.”

“So that I guess this means you’re now my tech guy,” Jason stated..

Tim grinned. “Obviously.”

The amusement didn’t last. Jason’s tone shifted to something more serious. “This is still about her brother. Joker’s not finished. If she’s in the middle of this, she’s a target—maybe the only one who can figure out an antidote to that damn toxin.”

Tim’s smile faded. He nodded to himself, already flipping through the mental file he’d started building the second her name crossed his screen. “We’ll figure out what she knows. Piece it together.”

“Whatever happens, we protect her,” Jason said firmly. “and during all of this, if we happen to beat Dick in the process?”

Tim shrugged. “Then that’s just a bonus.”

JASON'S APARTMENT

The apartment was dim, the only light coming from the open window where the city glowed in quiet pulses. It smelled faintly of gun oil and leather, and the TV was playing some old movie on mute. Jason stood at the kitchen counter, arms braced against the surface, fuming quietly.

Across the room, Tim sat perched on the arm of the couch like he owned the place, sipping a soda with far too much smug satisfaction. He didn’t say anything, but the occasional sound of his slurping straw was loud enough to be irritating—If the twitching of Jason’s left eye indicated anything.

There was a knock—two short, one sharp.

Jason pushed off the counter and crossed the room, unlocking the door in a single motion. Duke stood on the other side, a backpack slung over one shoulder and confusion etched into his brow.

Behind him, Cass stood in silence. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes were scanning the space like she was preparing for a fight.

Duke stepped inside, gaze bouncing between Jason and Tim. “Okay, what’s the emergency?” he asked, frowning. “Tim said it was important.”

Cass didn’t say a word. She just drifted toward the window and leaned back against the wall, arms crossed.

Jason nodded at both of them. “Glad you came. We’ve got a situation.”

Tim tossed a chip into his mouth. “A tactical situation,” he said dryly, voice laced with sarcasm.

Jason threw him a look. “Shut up.”

Duke glanced between them, eyebrows raised. “So… are we talking Joker, or—?”

Jason held up his phone to show a picture of you.

Duke blinked, squinting at your image. “…Is this not Dick’s date?”

Cass tilted her head, lips twitching in something that might have been curiosity.

Jason didn’t answer.

Duke’s eyes widened slowly. “Oh my God. This is about a girl.”

“It’s about a lead,” Jason corrected flatly, lowering the phone.

“A lead Dick did in fact go on a date with,” Tim added helpfully, not even pretending to hide the amusement in his voice.

Jason shot him another warning glare.

“This is the emergency?” Duke asked, incredulous. “You said it was important. I thought someone died.”

Jason huffed, the sound tight with frustration. “Someone could die. Her brother’s the lead we’ve been chasing for months—the one Joker’s gunning for. And she’s the only real shot we’ve got at finding him before he does.”

Duke gave him a long, slow look. “So this isn’t about stealing Dick’s girl?”

Tim snorted. “Oh, it totally is.”

Jason bristled. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the counter, jaw tight. “She’s not Dick’s. Yet. She hasn’t chosen.”

Duke blinked. His frown deepened. “Wait—she’s dating both of you?”

Jason looked away, suddenly very interested in a spot on the wall. “She… doesn’t know it.”

There was a pause.

Duke stared, mouth parting slightly. His voice, when it came, was flat with disbelief. “…How the hell doesn’t she—?”

“Look,” Jason cut in, rubbing a tired hand down his face. His fingers dragged across the stubble on his jaw, like he could scrape off the weight of the conversation. “Me and Dick agreed not to tell her we know each other. It’s a… gentleman’s agreement. No interference. Let her choose without pressure.”

Duke blinked. Then squinted. “You both agreed to lie to her?”

“It’s not lying,” Jason muttered defensively. “It’s withholding a minor detail.”

He pushed on. “Anyway, Dick broke the spirit of the deal. He’s already called in backup—Stephanie, Barbara, and Damian are all running surveillance for him now.”

“Wait—what?!” Duke’s voice pitched up, shocked indignation blooming across his face. “He didn’t even ask us?”

Cass, who had been silently watching, gave a small nod—her lips drawn into a frown, the betrayal practically radiating off her.

“I talked to him this morning,” Duke muttered. “We had breakfast. He said nothing.”

Jason leaned back against the counter. “Exactly. He’s building his team. So now I’m building mine.”

Duke threw his hands into the air, exasperated. “Unbelievable.”

Cass tilted her head toward the picture of you still lit up on Jason’s phone, then looked back at Jason. “You care about her,” she said quietly, but it wasn’t a question. It was a statement

Jason met her gaze. “Yeah. I do.”

Cass nodded once, decisive. That was all she needed.

Duke stared at them both, then slumped into a chair with a dramatic groan. “Fine. Count me in. But when this ends with her hating both of you and ghosting the entire family, I want it on record that I saw it coming.”

Tim, still sitting smugly on the arm of the couch, raised his soda can in salute. “Duly noted.”

Jason pushed off the counter and started pacing, the natural commander emerging. “Tim, you’re on tech. I want to know everything. Her schedule, her habits, what makes her laugh, what makes her cry—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tim cut in, waving a hand, “you want a list of guys she’s slept with too?”

Jason hesitated.

Tim blinked, staring at him over the rim of his soda can. “Oh my God. You do.”

“I didn’t say that,” Jason muttered, scowling.

“You didn’t not say it.”

Duke groaned into his hands. “This is gonna end so badly.”

Jason ignored them, jaw tightening. “Just… get me the information,” he gritted out. Then he turned to Cass, tone shifting again. “Cass, you’re tailing her. No contact and don’t let her know about your presence. If Joker’s anywhere near her, I want you between them first.”

Cass sent him a two fingered salute.

He nodded once, then pivoted to Duke. “And you’ve got surveillance. I want everything—traffic cams, building feeds, street-level activity. If Joker’s people show up… or if Dick so much as breathes near her, I want eyes on it.”

Duke, still half-lounging in his chair with a faint scowl tugging at his brow, straightened slowly. “So just to be clear—I’m tracking a girl, her possibly homicidal brother, the actual Joker, and the Nightwing himself?”

He let out a long, exhausted breath and grabbed his bag off the floor, slinging it over one shoulder. “This is either going to be brilliant… or the dumbest thing we’ve ever done.”

Tim raised his soda can in lazy salute. “I vote both.”

Jason ignored the jab. “I’ll handle the direct approach. I’ll find out what she knows about her brother,” he said, his voice calm but hardening at the edges. “The rest of you—watch her. I want everything. If she’s hiding something, I want to know. Who she trusts. Family, best friends. Any unusual changed in routines.”

He glanced around the room, making sure every pair of eyes was on him.

“If she mentions Joker—or if Dick starts getting too bold—I want a full report.”

His voice dipped slightly, “But most importantly… she can’t find out. Alfred can’t find out. And definitely not Bruce.”

YOUR APARTMENT

You came home after a long day at the research lab, the key turning in the lock with a soft click before the door swung shut behind you. The heels came off first—kicked lazily into the corner with the kind of relief that only came after hours on your feet—and were quickly replaced by a pair of fuzzy socks. You peeled off your work clothes and slipped into your favourite oversized sweater and loose shorts.

Your phone buzzed once against the table, screen lighting up with an incoming call—but you didn’t check it. You were off the clock. Whoever it was could wait.

Padding into the kitchen, you flicked on the stove and poured a bag of popcorn into a pot, humming the chorus of a catchy pop song under your breath. It wasn’t long before the music took over completely. With no one to hear and the apartment walls blessedly thick, you gave in, singing freely and swaying your hips with every beat.

You didn’t notice the flicker of movement in the shadows behind you.

The glow of the television lit up the living room as you scrolled through movie options, finally settling on an action flick with gratuitous explosions and an absurdly high body count—just the way you liked it. The title screen illuminated the apartment in soft bursts of light as you turned back toward the kitchen to check on your snack.

Behind you, a figure stepped silently out of the darkness.

Jason moved like a phantom, his eyes scanning your living space. He paused at the bookshelf, fingers brushing the edge of a vintage car figurine, seems you had an interest in cars.

You were still humming, still lost in your own rhythm and oblivious to the intruders in your home, as you disappeared into the bathroom.

The second shadow emerged from the stairwell.

Dick moved lower to the ground, planting a bug inside the hollow base of a decorative lamp. He lingered just long enough to glance at the painting on your wall and the artist who painted it.

By the time you stepped out of the bathroom, towel-drying your hands, Dick had already melted back into the dark.

Jason, meanwhile, was at your laptop. The screen’s soft glow reflected in his eyes as he skimmed through your recent work—notes from the Charity Gala, advocacy for underserved kids in the city, a half-written proposal aimed at funding science programs in rougher neighbourhoods.

Dick had moved to the living room, eyes catching on the paused screen. The sequel was releasing in a few days—he remembered the trailer.

The sound of your footsteps pulled them both into motion.

By the time you re-entered the room, popcorn in hand and still humming softly, they were already gone

You had no idea that your apartment was now a surveillance web. Microphones tucked inside air vents. Cameras disguised in houseplants. Motion sensors hidden in innocuous corners. Only your bedroom and bathroom had been spared—barely. That was the one line they both agreed not to cross with their teams.

But even then, microphones had been installed just outside the doors.

Just in case they could pick up something about your brother.

← Previous Chapter ✯ Next Chapter →

Taglist: @mei-simp, @sept3mberchild, @a-brilliante-mariposa, @feralwolfkat, @mercuryathens, @beepboopcowboy, @lordbugs, @coffeemin, @nikkeora, @yuyuti02, @oooof-ifellforyou, @neogogori, @thatoneloser8371, @rtyuy1346, @nkryuki, @tinybrie, @smithieandy, @yuhhh03, @kazuuhali, @saturnalya, @mrbrightsides25-blog, @kimm4710, @diseasedclitoris, @nutella-hitler, @saltyelise, @justheretochillabitlowkey, @sproutytoad, @uselessnewt, @itsmekalou, @whorrorbellee, @starstruckkenobi, @corpsedogs, @yan-love-reader, @alishii, @sugugori, @gojosnutgobbler, @petalbcrnes, @tremendousstarlighttragedy, @whiteghostlyclouds, @krys0210, @raiyuxa

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help-itrappedmyself · 6 months ago

Text

Liminal Jason part 3

For those of you that saw the blip earlier, when I tried to post this but it broke cause it was too long, here is the real thing. Masterpost for earlier parts.

Sorry again. And slight tw for panic attack

Jason woke up slowly, taking in his surroundings as he adjusted to being awake. It was quiet, and a little humid. He was on a bed, could feel the sheets beneath him, and he wasn’t restrained at all. There was a moment of confusion, because when you wake up after being attacked like that you usually end up dead or a hostage. There was a creeping realization dawning in the back of his mind. He didn’t want to acknowledge it. He opened his eyes, not wanting his suspicions to be true. But he was in a holding cell in the cave, and he realized what must have happened. Then he was pissed.

He let out a growl, pushing to sit up on the bed. He thought they were doing better. He thought his family trusted him again. His growl was angry, foreboding, telling of the danger and anger in his thoughts. But his head was pounding from the sedative. They knew he hated needles. Hated drugs. Why would they do this to him, trick him like this when they knew how he felt about it. The haze in his head, making his thoughts heavy, and doing nothing but reminding him of all the harm drugs have done to the people around him. He stopped growling, hoping the quiet would help. Much less angry, the clouds in his head starting to make him sad and breathless. He hopes the effects wear off soon. He can’t focus. There is something important that he is missing. He is forgetting something, the spiral of his thoughts and emotions starting to lean towards hysteria. He’s alone. Trapped and alone, mind heavy with fog. He can’t think, why is he stuck here? His breath starts coming faster, increasing while his heart starts to race. He tries to keep quiet, and calm down. A whimper escapes him as he finds a corner and slides down the wall. Then he heard a keen. Close, probably coming from one of the other cells. The sound cuts through the haze. Important, a strike of clarity hitting him with a pulse as he remembers the kid. There was a kid with him.

Danny. Jason hears him call out again, a sharp keen of panic-confusion, and Jason needs to help him. Jason stumbles up, leaning on the wall for support. He heads towards the door, but he was familiar with how the cells worked. He reached it and of course it was locked. He attempted to manually override, but the pad inside the cell was locked down. The cell can only be opened once someone on the inside clears whoever is inside it. Created for instances where one of them has been incapacitated by a new strain of fear gas, or a new Ivy concoction. To hold someone until an antidote can be created. There was no getting out of here before the other came by.

Hopefully, they’re on their way now, seeing him awake on the cameras. Jason has some choice words to be had about his situation, angry seething inside him as the panic from earlier recedes.

Danny lets out another keen, breathy and biting and Jason hears him start to panic. Jason still has to do what he can. He can’t reach him, but he can try and calm him down. They’re in this together, and Jason is going to do whatever he can for the kid. He let out a rumble, steady and calm in response to Danny’s cries. His rumble is filled with annoyance, but still said okay-here-safe.

Danny is silent for a moment before he hums back a confused-trust. It’s closer, louder, like Danny has moved to be right on the other side of the wall from Jason. This kid, who just had his world destroyed, came here alone and afraid, and he trusts Jason. Screw yelling at the Bats. Danny needs him, and priority one is getting Danny to a place he can feel safe.

A soft churring sound leaves Jason, sweet and caring, and Jason hopes the kid knows that he is going to do everything he can for him. Then Jason hears Danny let out a short purr, a quiet susurration, that ends as quickly as it starts. Jason is stunned by how much faith Danny is putting in him. How much Jason cares for this boy he just met.

The bats can pry this boy out from his cold, dead hands.

#fanfiction #my writing #batman #danny phantom #dpxdc #dcxdp #red hood #jason todd #liminals #Liminal!Jason

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brownsugarcoffy · 19 days ago

Text

The Vine Between Us

Summary

Annie left the Mississippi Delta with a broken heart and a full-ride scholarship, determined never to look back. Now a celebrated professor in Chicago, she’s called home to care for her mother—and the last thing she expects is to run straight into him.

Elijah "Smoke". Her first love. Her first everything.

He disappeared the summer after graduation, leaving only unanswered calls and a goodbye she never got. Now he's back in town, running a moody, magnetic blues lounge with his twin brother, playing late into the humid Southern nights like he’s pouring his soul out just for her.

Annie wants to hate him. She wants to forget the way he made her feel. But one look from those stormy eyes, and she’s seventeen again. Burning, aching, and lost in the man he’s become.

He left without a word. But now? He wants to finish the story they never got to end.

Characters: Annie x Elijah " Smoke" Moore (Modern AU)

Themes: Angst, Fluff, Mention of Abuse, Vulgar Language, Sexual content & more...

Chapters: PART (2) , PART (3)

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Annie guided the rental car slowly down the winding gravel road, watching as the wild, familiar landscape unfolded around her like an old love letter—creased at the corners, worn with time, but still humming with truth. After years of Chicago’s sharp wind and steel-gray skies, Mississippi felt like a fever dream she’d been trying to forget.

She rolled the window down. The air was thick with magnolia, turned soil, and the faintest burn of distant woodsmoke. Summer here always carried the weight of something sacred and forgotten. Cicadas buzzed a low lullaby through the trees, and Spanish moss hung like secrets from the branches.

The past was stitched into everything. The way the breeze moved through the fields, the angle of the sunlight as it dipped behind the old church steeple in the distance. This place didn’t change. It waited.

Her mother’s house stood stubbornly on the edge of the fields. Its porch sagging, paint peeling, the garden unruly and overgrown. Honeysuckle and jasmine curled up the columns like offerings, scenting the air with wild sweetness.

And just beyond the clothesline and the crooked birdbath sat the old greenhouse—her grandmother’s pride, her mother’s joy, and Annie’s first taste of magic. Once, it had been a wonderland of heirloom tomatoes, hot peppers, and lemon verbena, the windows fogged with life and labor. Now, it was a glass skeleton swallowed by ivy and time. One panel was cracked, another missing, and vines crept through the seams like nature reclaiming what was hers.

Even in its ruin, it stood like a memory refusing to be forgotten.

She hadn’t been home in nearly nine years.

Annie stepped out of the car, adjusting her wrap blouse and brushing the travel from her thighs. She was tall, solid, striking—a woman who took up space with quiet grace. Her brown skin glistened in the heat, and her dark curls, loosened by the humidity, tumbled freely around her shoulders.

The screen door creaked open.

“Annie?”

Her mother’s voice carried out like a memory. She stood in the doorway, frail but radiant in her own way—wrapped in a floral housecoat and a pink scarf tied neatly at her nape.

Annie swallowed the sudden emotion rising in her chest. “Hey, Mama.”

They held each other on the porch for a long moment, their bodies pressed together in the kind of embrace that says everything words can’t. Her mother smelled like lavender, cooking oil, and love.

“You smell like city,” her mother murmured, pulling back with a soft smile. “But your heart still beats Delta.”

Annie laughed, eyes misty. “Something like that.”

Inside, the house hadn’t changed. The wood floors creaked the same way, the photos on the walls—sun-faded and reverent—watched her pass like quiet witnesses. A fan turned lazily in the corner, and gospel music played faintly from the old radio.

Her mother moved slower now. “I’m fixin’ your favorite tonight,” she said, reaching into the fridge with a frown. “But I forgot the buttermilk. You mind runnin’ into town?”

“Of course not Mama.”

Her mother smiled. “I want this meal to welcome you proper. Cornbread and catfish, greens and all.”

She lingered, her eyes drifting through the kitchen window toward the back of the property. Beyond the tangle of overgrown grass and wilting wildflowers stood the greenhouse—leaning slightly now, but still there. Stubborn. Waiting.

She stepped out onto the porch, the boards groaning under her weight. Heat shimmered across the yard. And with it came the pull of memory.

She remembered the way the crickets hushed as they crept through the backyard, their bodies close, movements careful, the house behind them dark and still. Her parents were fast asleep, the old box fan in their window humming loud enough to cover the sound of the creaking porch.

“Elijah,” she had whispered, pausing in the dew-kissed grass.

“You sure they won’t wake up?” he whispered back.

Annie turned, grinning, barefoot. “Not unless you knock over Mama’s canning jars again.”

“I was thirteen,” he muttered, mock offended.

“You were clumsy.”

“You were bossy.”

She rolled her eyes, and he followed her like he always did.

The greenhouse door had groaned on its hinges when she pulled it open. Inside, the air turned warm and wet, filled with the sharp green scent of tomato vines and damp soil. Moonlight spilled through the foggy panels, casting a ghostly glow across the rows of plants. The place was overgrown, wild with summer—grapevines tangled overhead, basil thick at their ankles.

“Feels like a jungle,” he murmured.

“It is,” she’d said, tugging him deeper inside. “A jungle we built.”

They had spent whole summers in that greenhouse, helping her grandmother weed and plant, falling asleep on burlap sacks, eating strawberries straight from the vine. It had been their hideout. Their secret. Their sanctuary.

Annie had sat down on an overturned crate, the hem of her nightgown catching on a nail. Elijah sat beside her, knees touching. Close—too close. His scent mingled with the smell of night: soap, soil, and something citrus just beneath it.

“I still think about that day,” he’d said, voice low. “When you kissed me in here.”

Her breath caught. She had been fifteen. He, just a few months older. It was midsummer, sticky, and loud with cicadas. She had leaned in, sunburned and barefoot, pressing her mouth to his before either of them really knew how to do it. He tasted like watermelon and nerves.

They had laughed. And kissed again.

“I remember,” she whispered now, alone in the yard.

The greenhouse stood still, a skeleton of memory wrapped in ivy. Annie swallowed thickly, fingers brushing the wooden frame. She didn’t open the door. Some things were too sacred—or too dangerous—to disturb just yet.

With one last look, she turned back toward the car. The keys jingled in her hand. She had buttermilk to buy. And no idea that Bo Chow’s Market held more than groceries. It held the beginning of everything she thought she’d left behind.

Bo Chow’s smelled like hot grease, bleach, and forgotten secrets. The kind of scent that clung to linoleum floors and lived in the cracks of old ceiling tiles. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a yellowish tint over jars of pickled okra, canned peaches, and family-sized boxes of instant grits. The air was cool, but not fresh—more like recycled and reheated across decades.

Annie pushed open the front door, greeted by the metallic chime of a bell that rang like an old church warning. She stepped inside and was instantly swallowed by the hush of small-town routine. A red plastic basket swung from her arm as she walked, heels clicking softly across tile floors worn smooth by generations of tired feet.

She moved quickly, head down, aiming for the dairy case.

Milk. Eggs. Out.

She didn’t want to linger. Not here. Not now.

But then she heard it.

That voice.

Low. Warm. Smooth like molasses poured over whiskey.“Bo, you barely can handle this place since Grace went to visit her people. She only been gone three days.”

Annie stopped mid-step. The chill from the freezer case crawled up her spine and wrapped around her neck like cold hands.

Every muscle in her body tensed.

Elijah.

Smoke.

Time folded in on itself. Her fingers gripped the basket like it was an anchor. Her breath caught in her throat—shallow, sharp, and instinctive.

She didn’t need to see him to know it was him.

The way he dragged out vowels like he had all the time in the world. That same sleepy southern rhythm that used to whisper down her skin at midnight.

She ducked into the cereal aisle, heart hammering. A box of Honey Smacks nearly toppled from the shelf as she backed up too fast.

And slammed into someone.

“Damn! Girl, you always been clumsy.”

Annie spun around. “Pearline?”

Pearline stood there with one hand on her hip and the other gripping a can of green beans, her face a perfect mix of amusement and mild judgment. “I knew I was gon’ run into somebody today, but I ain’t think it’d be you.”

“I—I'm sorry, I just—”

Pearline leaned in, eyes narrowing playfully. “Don’t even bother lyin’. You heard him, didn’t you?”

Annie nodded, barely breathing. “Yeah.”

“Well, sugar, you too late now. Look.”

Pearline tilted her chin toward the counter.

Annie followed her gaze—and the breath left her lungs.

Elijah stood at the register, framed by the buzz of the lights above and the dusty glass doors behind him. He looked older. Sharper. Not the boy who used to sneak through her bedroom window smelling like night rain and bourbon. No, this was a man now. Solid. Weathered. Still dangerous.

He wore a black tee that clung to his chest and forearms like a second skin. Faded jeans hung low on his hips, and his boots were scuffed and worn, like they’d seen too many miles of regret. His dark brown skin caught the fluorescent glare, highlighting the strength in his jawline, the fullness of his beard. That mustache he used to trim with a razor’s edge was thicker now—more defiant.

But it was the eyes that undid her.

Still deep. Still unreadable. Still pulling at something under her ribs.

Her skin flushed under the weight of his stare. The blouse she wore suddenly felt too thin, her denim skirt too snug. She was exposed. Unraveled. Every part of her remembered him. And she could feel it—he remembered too.

She whispered, “Elijah.”

Her voice cracked like old wood.

His eyes softened for a breath. “Annie.”

Her name sounded different in his mouth. Like something sacred. Or maybe something buried.

She didn’t move toward him. Didn’t dare. The floor between them was heavy with everything they never said.

Then the front door blew open with a gust of hot Delta wind.

“There he is!” Stack burst in like a Sunday sermon—loud, smiling, and just a little too proud. “Come on, man, liquor drop comin’ in hot!”

He stopped dead when he saw her. His grin widened.

“Well hot damn. Look what the Delta blew in.”

Annie was bracing herself when his arms swept her up into a quick hug. “Stack,” she murmured, a half-laugh catching in her throat. The kind that masked the shake in her hands.

“You look like a cool drink on a hard day,” Stack said, eyes twinkling. “Where you been hidin’ that smile?”

“Trying to stay outta trouble.”

“Well, you came to the wrong place for that, baby girl.”

Her eyes flicked past him, to Elijah. Still watching. Still quiet.

Still burning.

“You oughta come by the lounge tonight,” Stack said, still holding her hand. “Me and Smoke got The Cypress lookin’ right. New lights, cold drinks, and our cousin Sammie singin’ like he just got kissed by God himself.”

“Lil Sammie sings now?”

“Sure do. Boy done grew outta his onesie and into a voice that’ll make your knees buckle.”

Pearline laughed behind her. “He ain’t lyin’. That boy good.”

“You should come see,” Stack said, brushing a thumb gently across Annie’s wrist. “Come for the music. Or the hush puppies. Or… you know—unfinished business.”

Annie stiffened. Her gaze flicked to Elijah. He didn’t look away.

“I promised my mama dinner tonight,” she said finally, her voice cool again. Measured. “Can’t break a promise.”

The air between her and Elijah changed.

Thickened.

His jaw ticked once. Hands slid into his pockets like he was holding himself back.

“Then we’ll let you be,” Stacks said, throwing a look at his brother. “We don’t want Mama Jean mad at us.”

Elijah nodded slowly. “Good to see you, Annie.”But the way he said it wasn’t polite. It was personal. Intimate. Like he meant it all the way down.

She held his gaze. “You too.”

And then they were gone.The bell over the door jingled once, then nothing.

Silence wrapped around her again, pressing heavy on her chest.

Pearline stepped close, resting a hand on her elbow. “You okay?”

“Hell no.”

Annie’s eyes lingered on the door like it might open again. Maybe it wasn’t too late for all the things they never said, but was Annie ready to unpack her resentment.

TAGLIST:

@nahimjustfeelingit-writes @uzumaki-rebellion @brattyfics @chaneajoyyy

#sinners fanfiction #smoke x annie #Smoke Elijah Moore #blackwriters #sinners #modern au #michael b jordan x reader #wunmi mosaku #michael b jordan #elijah smoke moore

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prettybugsinbandages · 2 months ago

Text

Blot!reader pt.5

Part 5 to this

This is a darker story. I suggest you refrain from reading it if you're in a fragile mental state or unable to handle darker themes.

What a foolish, hollow victory—if it should even be called that. A pyrrhic triumph over peers and acquaintances alike, leaving them stranded in the no-man's-land between your hatred and a sickening semblance of friendship you could never quite trust. The confrontation with Idia, the attack on Ruggie—it was a mess, a tangled web of conflict and resentment.

And yet at least nobody had told.

You hadn't been dragged away by STYX, hadn't been locked up in some sterile, white-walled cell to be picked apart and studied for the rest of your life. That, at least, was something.

Your misanthropy had always been a shield—cold, unwavering, impenetrable. But now, it was a curse. The more you resented others, the more you unraveled. Every conversation, every fleeting glance, every whispered word—each one a scalpel sliding deeper into your skin, peeling you open, exposing too much.

You're tired. So tired.

Your eyes have been open too long, staring too hard, too often. But the worst part? The horrors you see don't lurk in the shadows. They aren't some unspeakable nightmare clawing at the edges of your perception.

No.

The monster was you.

Grotesque. Disgusting. Clawing at your own flesh, as if you could tear through the layers and find something—someone—else beneath. But there's nothing. only guilt, thick and suffocating, warring against the weight of your past, your bitter philosophies, your carefully constructed armor.

And now?

The future looms over you like a coiled serpent, ready to strike. But will you? Can you even lift a finger? The world continues its endless droning, conversations whirling like an unbearable cacophony of false normalcy. All you can do it listen. Nod. Smile. Pretend.

They're noticing.

They know.

Again and again, you perform autopsies on long-passed conversations, dissecting them, sifting through every word, every inflection, searching something—desperate—for any hint of deception. Any sign that someone knows too much. The paranoia festers, warping misanthropy into nemesism, a slow, spiraling collapse into something far worse.

You're cornered.

Pushed further and further until you can see it—two escape routes, each leading to another cage. One path is damnation. The other, salvation. But which voice speaks the truth?

The Blot, which saved your life once, whispering in its sick, twisted devotion? Or the people who ignored you until recently—who now, finally, claim to care?

You think both paths are liars.

You try to push it down—the gnawing, the clawing need to confront it—but Kalim's voice cuts through the noise like sunlight piercing the thick fog. Too bright, too warm, too alive.

His touch is an anchor, grounding you in the present, pulling you away from the grimy wretched thoughts that coil around your mind like ivy. His bright smile nearly soothes the tension in your shoulders. nearly.

He's been talking for the past fifteen minutes, his voice a constant stream of energy, filling the silence with anecdotes and half-finished tangents. no one is really listening. His words blur together, melting into a foreign language you don't quite register.

And thankfully, Kalim, and his fleeting attention span, hasn't caught onto your blank stare.

But Jamil has.

A sharp, dissecting gaze—gray eyes that pin you down like an insect under glass. Another bolt of paranoia crawls up your spine, tearing through the delicate strands holding you together. You feel bare before him, exposed and unraveling, as if he's already seen the cracks beneath your carefully placed mask. Does he know? The thought is suffocating, bile rising at the mere possibility.

You force a façade of normalcy, pushing a curious smile to your lips as you shift your attention back to Kalim, who practically vibrates in place, eager for your acknowledgement, like a starved pet desperate for affection.

In his hands, he holds a small charm, raising it up to the sunlight. The rays filter through the red stained glass, casting fractured, beautiful patterns across his face. The delicate craftsmanship, the way the light dances through it—it's undeniably pretty. Something you could admit you would've liked to have as your own.

"I was so worried I lost it," Kalim sighs, cradling the charm close like a treasured relic. "You still have yours, right? Even Jamil has his."

At the mention of his name, Jamil doesn't look up immediately, his gaze fixed on his phone. but there's a brief flicker—his eyes dart up, assessing. As if to prove Kalim's point, he idly taps the charm dangling from his phone case, his movements slow and calculated. He's watching you. Studying your reaction.

He's not dumb.

Jamil has been noticing something is off. He's ignored it before, brushed it aside as nothing more than stress or fatigue. but it's only getting worse. There's something eating away at you, a secret that is detrimental if you let it slip. And yet you're floundering, barely holding it together.

A weakness.

Your brows furrow, curiosity gnawing at the edges of your mind. "Mine?"

Shifting forward, you lean over Jamil, peering at his charm closely. He stiffens slightly, his fingers tightening around his phone as he raises it a little higher—keeping a small distance between you. A faint flush dusts his complexion. Under different circumstances, his reaction might have been amusing.

But you don't have time to dwell on it.

There's a gap in your memory.

Kalim nods eagerly, his smile wide and unburdened. "Right, when we went to the carnival in town!"

A ghost of a memory slips through your fingers, fragmented and fleeting. Laughter—warm and unrestrained. Close touches and easy smiles. The sticky sweetness of popcorn and candy floss. The world spinning, a song hummed under breaths.

It's warm.

Like something meant for you, a fate you could've had—if not for the unfortunate circumstances you're in now.

"When?" you ask softly.

For a moment, the weight of earlier, the crushing paranoia and gnawing fear, is subdued by that fleeting warmth. but only briefly.

"Yesterday," Jamil interjects, his voice sharper than before, tinged with something unreadable—concern, maybe, or something far heavier. His fingers tighten around his phone as if he could hold onto the memory through sheer force of will alone. "How could you forget an entire night? We had that talk about..."

He trails off. The words slip away before they fully form, vanishing like breath against a mirror. His grip on his phone turns vice-like, knuckles going white as if he's trying to physically pull the recollection back before it disappears entirely.

Beside him, Kalim's usual endless chatter has died. The brightness of his expression dims, his ever-present smile cracking at the edges, like something inside him has soured. His lips part hesitantly, but there's a twitch—something unnatural, like his mind is stumbling over itself, tripping on a step that should be there but isn't.

"We went with... with..."

Silence

The world holds its breath.

Kalim's lips move. A name escapes.

It should be yours.

But it's not.

It's close, familiar in shape, in sound, yet wrong—warped, like a reflection ripping in water. A name that belongs to you yet it doesn't, slipping through your grasp like sand.

An old name.

Jamil stiffens beside him. His brows furrow, his expression shifting—anger, confusion, unease flashing across his face in rapid succession. His eyes flick between Kalim, you, his phone, as if willing reality to correct itself. "That's not—" He stops abruptly, his breath hitching. "That's not right."

And something colder than fear pierces through you.

The name—it should fit, should settle against your ribs like something natural. but it doesn't. Because it's not yours.

And yet, at the same time, it clings to you, molding around your existence like it was meant to be there.

A sickness rises in your gut, curling tight around your spine. In the fragile space between heartbeats, something inside you shatters.

You've been ignoring too much. Brushing things off, making excuses, blaming yourself when cracks showed. Too many things have been wrong, buried under a rug now bulging with hidden lies and misplaced truths. Why had you let it go on for so long? Why had you chosen to turn a blind eye—when the one who holds all the answers lingers on your finger, waiting, curled up in the corners of your room?

Your ears ring. The static hum of something beyond your understanding gnaws at the edges of your mind as you push yourself to your feet. Even the Blot ring on your finger seems to tremble, as if it, too, can feel the wrongness in the air. As if everyone in the room knows something is amiss but cannot grasp What.

"I... need to go." you murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

Questions claw at your skull, pressing against the fragile limits of your mind, until you feel like you might burst.

Your legs move before thought can catch up, leading you toward Ramshackle, the only place where you might find the answers. but—no. Ramshackle means the Yuus, Grim, maybe even others visiting. You can't risk it.

You walked and walked.

Through the dense thicket, past the towering silhouettes of trees standing like silent sentinels, bearing witness to your undoing. Head bowed, shoulders heavy, as if an invisible crown of burden laid upon your brow, pressing down against your skull. The world around you blurred into a smear of muted colors, but the sound of your footsteps rang clear—too clear. Foreign to your ears, like an echo that didn't belong to you.

You weren't alone. Yet every glance over your shoulder met nothing but empty space, the stretch of the forest swallowing anything that should have been there. Desolation wrapped around you like a second skin, suffocating, watching. The wind whistled through the leaves, its wailing voice desperate to warn you of something, but the message slipped through the cracks of your understanding.

Even nature forbids your being here.

The gnarled roots and stray branches tangled at your feet, snagging at your ankles as if they, too, wished to keep you away—to shelter you from whatever lay ahead. The trees loomed too tall, their skeletal arms blotting out the sky. The moonlight poured in thin, needle-like strands through the gaps, sharp and cold as if it, too, sought to carve something into you.

And through the tangled wild, you found it.

Ruins—crumbling yet standing, broken yet enduring. Whatever it once was had been devoured by time or perhaps an untold story long lost to history. Even in its decay, the quartz and marble shimmered beneath the moon's gaze, stubborn against the age's relentless grip. Thick vines and sprawling branches crept over the walls like veins, an eerie reclamation of forgotten artistry. You couldn't help but think Malleus would love this.

At the heart of it all, a statue—a grand angel, arms outstretched as if to descend from the heavens, delivering divine whispers to the mortal world. but its head was gone, shattered and lost to time, leaving behind a faceless messenger. A list, etched in Old Runics, lined the pedestal, but the words—words you felt you should know—were now unreadable.

Scattered across the ruin, fragments of stone faces lay strewn like gravestones, watching.

How you wished for any divine being to descend and grant you answers...

But no one would come.

Pushing forward, you dismissed the place's whispers, its heavy history pressing against your skin. You had something more pressing, something that burned hotter than the eerie beauty of forgotten stone and untold stories.

"Out."

Your voice cut through the hush of the ruins, a command wrapped in quiet restraint. The turmoil beneath your skin twisted, writing against the mask of control you forced upon yourself.

Silence stretched, a fraction of a second too long.

Your eyes narrowed, fixed on the darkened edges of the forest, where the trees bent too sharply, where the shadows swayed too unnaturally.

"Come out."

For once, it was you who summoned it. Not in fear. Not in desperation. But in demand—something long overdue. Something you were entitled to.

The Blot unfurled from the ring like ink bleeding into water, its form shifting in the dim moonlight as it fully materialized. For a fleeting moment, it didn't acknowledge you. Instead, its attention was fixed elsewhere—on the ruins surrounding you. It stood unnaturally still, a rare moment where its usual theatricality faded into something... uncertain. Unsettled.

It refused to turn towards the shattered statues. its gaze darted away from the broken faces lining the ground, feet shuffling as it stumbled over a stray stone. A visceral reaction.

You took it all in, gaze sharpening. Did it know this place? Did something about these ruins repel it?

The Blot barely had time to recover its balance before its attention snapped back to you. The discomfort melted into something else—something almost reverent. Relief. Delight.

It reached for you, dark fingers stretching forward, curling as if it could trace the lines of your face. "Yes, my dea—"

You slapped its hand away and the sound echoed, sharp and final.

The Blot froze, staring at the space between you, where your touch rejected it.

"Answers." It took a step back. You took one forward.

For the first time, you were looking at it. Truly looking. And it—it shuddered. Not in fear. No, something worse. Limerence—a dreadful, aching devotion. Like it had been waiting for this moment, dreading it, yearning for it, something twisted and hollow all at once.

"Of course." It breathes, a reverent hush, voice soft and distracted. Its breath was hot against your face—only further invoking your ire.

Why does it get to have warmth while you walk around like some glorified corpse?

The questions rose within you, a flood pressing against the walls of your mind, demanding release. You swallowed them back, choosing carefully.

"Why did you really do it—the contract?"

The Blot exhaled, something between a sigh and a chuckle, dragging a hand down its face. It sank onto a piece of rubble with an ease too practiced, too comfortable, its posture a mockery of casualness.

"It was an attractive opportunity to me. That was all."

Liar.

You felt the lie in your bones, the cold, dead space where something vital should have been. it was too easy. The answer came too smoothly, like a script rehearsed a thousand times over.

"Is that it?" You asked, voice deceptively calm, leashing the fury that clawed at your throat. If you lost control, you lost the game. You needed clarity to cut through its deceptions. "How does this benefit you? A mere test—that is your only motive for helping me?

The Blot tensed.

Not obviously. Not enough for the untrained eye. But you saw it. A subtle shift, a fraction of hesitation, something almost imperceptible. It wasn't your anger that unsettled it, but the fact you were seeing through it.

Something inside it twisted, recoiling. For the first time, you were under its skin.

Like a tick.

"How could I not?" it purred, stepping forward, the distance between you an unbearable thing it sought to close. "Crimson purity staining the snow—doll carnage. You were beautiful. Perfect. I was playing, testing how well magicless bodies full of hatred and despair hold me.

A flowery lie. Flimsy in the same nature.

You heard it in the way its voice wavered when it spoke too loudly, in the way its words slipped, momentarily unguarded. It struggled to lie to you.

And yet, the way it longed for you, ached for you, seeped into your marrow like venom. It adored you in a way that felt like hands slipping between your ribs, prying them open, peeling muscle from bone to cradle your heart in its hands. To own it. To press it close and be the only one privileged enough to hear the final melody of your life before it faded into nothing.

It reached for you again—a deliberate move, a test of control.

This conversation was not just words. It was war. A battle for dominance. A struggle to decide who will belong to whom when it ends—if two of you emerge at all.

"You hold me perfectly," it crooned, its voice weaving through your thoughts like a lullaby, sweet and saccharine and cloying. "So you'll be good for me."

A whisper of something unseen curled around the words, an invisible force creeping in. You felt it now—the subtle manipulations, the tiny, practiced tricks it used to keep you beneath its thumb. Its outstretched hand was not just a gesture. It was a leash waiting to be fastened.

You swatted its hand away, forceful, decisive. Your eyes darkened.

You knew the moment you allowed it to touch you, to warm you, to let its honeyed words wrap around you like a noose—you will lose.

Its expression twitched. The rejection—your sudden, ice-cold shift—had unsettled it.

"Do not mistake my kindness for weakness," it murmured, voice softer, but laced with something colder. A slow, creeping shift beneath its mask. "I'll choke you with the same hand I fed you with, my dear."

The Blot seemed to smile then—if it could be called a smile. A grotesque mockery of the expression, teeth too sharp, eyes to knowing.

"There will always be a next time."

But it didn't sound certain.

You saw it then, the cracks in its confidence. Something crawling beneath the surface of its being—maggots of anxiety writhing beneath void-like flesh.

A brittle laugh tore through you—unnatural, humorless yet not unfamiliar these days.

"You don't really know that, do you?" your voice carried something sharp, something cruel, an edge to it that sent another ripple through the Blot's form. "'Next time?' Can I even still die? Can you manage next time?"

The Blot flickered violently, its form spasming, the darkness around you thickening as if the world itself was recoiling. Its reaction was visceral. Violent.

Fear.

You were slipping away. How could you?

Before it could recover, before it could cobble together a response, you forced a grin—wide, too wide. It pulled at your skin, the expression foreign, almost painful.

"Shall we test it, dear sponsor?"

The way it jolted—a full-body shudder, dark fingers curling into fists—wasn't just fear. It was something deeper. Something primal. Something it didn't want you to see. It didn't want to know. It refused to know.

And that told you everything you needed to hear.

It needed you as much as you needed it.

The Blot refused to meet your gaze. The ring on your finger, normally a passive weight, was cold. Cold enough for you to notice. The band trembled, betraying the entity's emotions in ways it would never admit.

Silence.

Real silence. The kind that stretched too thin, suffocating, when not even the Blot had something to say. When both of you were forced to acknowledge things neither of you ever wanted to think about. You loathed this silence.

Then, finally, the Blot exhaled. A slow, steady thing, like it was forcing itself back into form, fathering the shadows that had momentarily frayed at the edges. When it spoke, its voice was careful, deliberate. "I do not know."

The words were slow. Resigned. It had to force them out, had to drag them into existence.

Then, a pause. A long inhale. It straightened. its gaze sharpened, locking onto you with something unreadable. "I spoil you, my dear."

The shift was subtle but it felt like an iron door slamming shut between you. The fondness was back, creeping in like rot beneath fresh paint, like it hadn't just faltered, like it hadn't just broken for even a second. It leaned in, pressing closer as if seeking warmth you no longer bore. "Keeping your little mortal body alive is... taxing, you know."

Another pause. This one heavier.

"Perhaps you should make it easier for us. Go ahead—test it."

Barbed words—spite wrapped in velvet. A silent accusation. You had defied it too strongly tonight, and it resented you for it. So much was buried beneath its void-like flesh, history it would never share.

And yet, you still reached for it. Greedy, unyielding.

You pressed further, voice even, calculating. "Am I stronger than previous overblots?"

For a moment the tension cracked—not from unease, but from offense.

The Blot scoffed. "Of course—how weak do you think I am?" It straightened fully now, like the question itself was an insult. "I've given you everything. Far more than I'd have given to anybody else."

The words carried a weight—a reminder, a warning. Not of its power, but of your place. Of what it had poured into you, what it had made you. There was something else burned in that patronizing tone, something desperate and unspoken.

It couldn't stomach the thought of you leaving. Not in death. Not in defiance. It would rather have your hate than your absence.

And you—perhaps foolishly—let it pull you down into its grasp. Arms wrapped around you, pulling you to sit amongst the ruins, among the echoes of something long forgotten. It traced the shine of the stone in silence, as if admiring something you couldn't see, before finally resting its head against your shoulder.

The Blot's breathing was soft, Even. Too even.

"Now, now..." It whispered, voice honeyed, too gentle. "You're stressed, little star. I couldn't bear to witness a collapse from all of this..."

A pause. A careful lull in the rhythm of its words.

"Let's talk about it again later, yes?"

The arms tightened around you ever so slightly, as if securing you in place. "I'll walk with you home and—"

Another attempt. Another carefully placed detour. Another desperate bid to lead you away from things that could shatter the delicate illusion around you.

You had pushed too close to breaching something dangerous and now it was scrambling to lead you back.

"If I get rid of you, will I die?" The words were sharp, cutting through the thin air as you tilted your head back, your gaze unwavering. You stared into the vacant spots where its eyes should have been, your own eyes nearly devoid of any semblance of life. The coldness in your voice made it clear; this was no idle question. You were determined now, and the warpath you'd set yourself upon was one of demand. "Will I crumble and fold, returning to the state you found me in?"

It almost chuckled, but the amusement quickly faded into something darker. It was surprised by how much you had become like it, the blank stare, the chilling words wrapped in a thin veneer of a smile—you had become a mirror, and that reflection was something it hadn't anticipated. But beneath that initial amusement, something else coiled in the depths of its being; horror.

The idea of you pulling away, tearing it off of you, and crumbling in the process sent a deep shiver through its form. it couldn't lose you. Not now. Not after everything.

The Blot's grip tightened, just enough to make sure you knew it was still in control, still bound to you. Still connected. "You can't," it stammered, its voice rising in pitch, now tinged with panic. "You don't know how—you can't leave me anymore. You were meant to be here. If you leave me, I'll have to—"

It stopped abruptly, as though the thought was too much to handle. The flicker of its form, the instability in its presence, revealed how deeply that fear ran. The idea of losing you was more than just an inconvenience; it wasn't an existential terror that caused it to falter.

Satisfaction bloomed cold in your chest as you watched it unravel just slightly. The realization that you had more power here, more leverage than you'd ever given yourself credit for, was strangely comforting. but something darker followed—a flicker of unease, a sickening worry that it seemed far too willing to go to extreme lengths to keep you bound to it.

"You belong to me, my dove." Its voice softened, returning to the euphemistic tone it favored, the flowery language dripping with soft, seductive quality. "It's in the contract..." The words were wrapped in honey, almost coaxing you to accept its hold the same way it had when you first met. "I'd hate to see you wither away again. It broke my heart seeing you like that. I worked so hard... bringing some things back from your world. It was difficult, you know. That keychain, that call. I thought you'd be happy having a few things to make this feel like home. Do you know how hard it is to keep you hidden from them?"

Voice dropping lower, breathing blooming against your neck, the words now little more than a whisper meant to burrow beneath your cold flesh. "Stop digging. You will only find rot and carnage."

The words slithered into your ear, a sick, twisted whisper that sent a strange shiver down your spine—one that shouldn't have felt the way it did, but it did anyway. Your neglected heart, long buried beneath layers of apathy and indifference, beat just a little harder in response. You hated it. You certainly hated yourself for responding. This was all so sick

You're both sick.

But enough was enough. Enough rot. Enough desensitization.

You weren't done digging. You weren't done looking for the answers, whether that meant finding a heart that would warm the body against yours—or tearing its chest open until you saw all the lies laid bare, no heart, no warmth, nothing left but an empty, rotting shell.

Your head fell back against its shoulder, a motion that felt almost natural despite the heaviness pressing in around you. You tilted your gaze away from the Blot, eyes sweeping across the ruined remnants of the structure surrounding you. The ruins gleamed in the pale moonlight, fragments of marble and stone reflecting the chill, but the lifelessness of it was undeniable. Once, perhaps, this had been a place alive with warmth and movement—now it was little more than a husk, torn open and emptied, its ribs exposed to the indifferent sky above. The people who once filled it, with their quiet chatter, their bustling lives, were no more.

Just like you.

But the Blot held you in its grasp as if you were the most magnificent thing it had ever laid eyes on—as if you were the sun itself, illuminating the sky, or the moon, shining with a beauty too radiant to touch. To it, you were perfection, a creation so divine it could only have come from the heavens themselves.

"Do you love me? Or at least care for me?" The question slipped from your lips almost without thinking, soft and vulnerable. The words, simple and laden with months of quiet desperation, carried the weight of loneliness you hadn't known how to bear. The months had piled grief and yearning into your chest until it felt like grime, coating every inch of your thoughts, every inch of your soul. Beneath all the hatred, all the rage, there was a simple longing for affection, for anything that resembled warmth, from it or anyone else.

The Blot didn't respond immediately. It didn't move, didn't flinch. its form remained perfectly still as your hand rose slowly, almost instinctively, to trail across its chest, up to its neck.

A heartbeat. A pulse.

Strong and rapid, it thrummed beneath your fingertips like a living thing, blood rushing through its arteries at an unusual pace. "Your heart's beating fast." you noted quietly.

At your touch, the Blot's hand shot up, grabbing your wrist with a force that could have broken bone. It tried to pry you away, but it faltered—its fingers trembled slightly, and its body leaned into your touch, as if unwilling to be let go of. Its neck craned further into your hand, a subtle surrender you could feel even through the tense, frozen air. You could hurt it, squeeze the life from it if you wished, and yet it stayed, willing, waiting—it would let you.

A shuddering breath escaped from its lips. Defeat lingered there, but beneath it, something else. Something like longing. And then, it spoke. The words were soft, dripping with something close to affection. "It is, my love. It is."

It didn't directly answer your earlier question, but its actions told you everything you needed to know. The Blot—this strange, unknowable entity—was more fragile than you had realized. it was closer to mortal than you had ever expected. Perhaps, it was more like you than either of you cared to admit.

The Blot's reticence was exhaustive, yet with every word it avoided, every vague response, only served to further unravel it more, to make it slip further from its carefully constructed façade. And with each fragment of truth revealed, it seemed to grow weaker to you, spilling secrets it desperately wished to hide. You could see it now—how much it feared being vulnerable, how much it needed you to remain close, even if it wouldn't admit it outright.

The air grew thick with silence. In the distance, the sea on Sage Island crashed against the jagged rocks, its roar a distant but constant reminder of something larger than both of you. A cold memory surfaced, one you'd try to bury deep in your mind. You had cast it into the sea, hoping it would be carried away forever, but like the tide, it always returned, washing back up to haunt you.

"So you care." It was a statement, not a question.

The Blot's pulse quickened, the rapid rhythm an unsettling contrast to the tenderness in its voice. "More than you could think." its shadowy fingers moved to cover your hand, pressing your cold touch closer to its neck, as if binding you to it in a way words never could. The pulse beneath your fingertips thrummed louder, faster, as if it was trying to prove something to you. Something it could never say with just words.

It was too much. All of it. And yet, somehow, the weight of its affection—distorted, twisted, and terrifying as it was—felt more real than anything else.

"Have you ever cared for another?" The question slipped from your lips with a quiet force, your gaze unflinching as the Blot's fingers twitched slightly against your hand. Another subtle tell. For a being you had once believed to be a master of deception, impervious to these small signs of weakness, it was becoming more and more apparent that the Blot wasn't as untouchable as it seemed. hesitation lingered in the air between you, the kind of silence that stretched on for far too long. Time itself seemed to drag, the irritation that had once simmered beneath the surface rising again.

"...Once." The response came quietly, almost inaudible. "Long before you. They saw every face I wore and loved me regardless. They loved me. And we were happy." The last part came out with a sharpness that was almost bitter, as if the mere mention of that happiness had reignited something long buried. Something painful. The words, harsh and raw, betrayed a history the Blot had tried to bury, and in its voice, you could hear the wound still fresh and tender.

You didn't let up, your questions firing like arrows aimed to kill. "Who?" "How did you meet?" "What happened to them?" But instead of answering, the Blot chose silence, almost petulantly ignoring you. It let out a disappointed whine when you retracted your hand from it, as if punishing it for not complying.

Frustrated, you pressed further. "Are you all the Blot in the world? Some kind of phantom?"

"I am beyond that," it snapped, its voice growing defensive. "How low do you think I am? The other overblots are handled by the others below me—followers." How else could I dedicate all my time to you, my dear?" There was offense in its tone, as if the suggestion you made had wounded its pride. it seemed to have an image of itself as something greater, something more powerful, and the idea of being reduced to something lesser, something controlled, disturbed it.

Your brows furrowed as the weight of its words began to sink in. A creature beyond the Blot, handling others beneath it, followers that served its whims. It spoke as if it were a rule of the shadows, an entity so ancient that time, the concept of it, no longer mattered. And yet, it had once cared for someone. Someone it loved. That alone contradicted everything you thought you understood.

"What were you before you became this then?" The question, even to your own ears, felt dangerous, too personal. The Blot froze at your words, momentarily stiffening. You could feel its nails dig into your sides, a sudden spike in tension coursing through it.

"What do you think?" The response came back sharp, the anger in its voice barely veiled. "Could you dare to comprehend me?" Its tone was almost accusatory, as if you had crossed some unseen boundary by even suggesting it. "I was beautiful—" it paused, the breath it exhaled coming out ragged, as if that single word had drained something from it. The Blot seemed to shrink in on itself, its presence dimming slightly, before it seemed to collapse into you. It sought comfort, but there was no embrace to give.

"Do you still think I'm beautiful, little star?" The question hung between you, vulnerable in delivery, though it was wrapped in layers of something deeper. A need, an ache that was buried beneath all the darkness, all the endless hunger.

It waited, form tense with anticipation. The mendacious creature seemed to yearn for your acceptance and confirmation, seeking an answer you cannot give. Could a creature of shadow with no appearance be classified as beautiful? Could you consider its nature—one of corruption, a motley of despair as something beautiful?

In the silence that followed, you realized something you hadn't before. You didn't know the Blot at all. its personality, its desires, its nature—all of it remained a mystery to you. It had always been desperate to please, to give, to entertain, and even torment, but beneath it all, there was a deeper need—one that hadn't been satisfied in the way it thought it would be. Every gift, every smile, every word it spoke was given in hope that you might—just once—give something back.

Every sin it bears is for you.

And perhaps that was why, despite all of it, you softened, just slightly for a moment. A fleeting softness that you couldn't control, that you didn't want to have. Perhaps it was why, in the midst of everything, you spoke the words that you knew might not be true, but were still true enough to leave your lips.

"You are."

part six

Thank you to all those that submitted questions!! <3 <3

Hope this goes well. It's really late.. or I guess early for me right now so I might edit this in the morning if I read it again and think its shitty.

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#twisted wonderland #twst #twst x reader #twst angst #twst fanfic #blot!reader #twst blot #blot x reader #bug writing #kalim al asim #jamil viper

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