#messier 25

[cosmonautroger]

Messier 25

[quiltofstars]

M25 // NANDO VARELLA

[pixelatedcosmosastro]

The Bubble Nebula (NGC7635) with the Scorpion Cluster (M52)

[bemorch]

¿Buscaban al caos? Pues hallaron al caos

Here’s my entry for the @de-fanzine-cpr-pale Pale_ fanzine! Chose the song El Outsider by Café Tacvba to illustrate Cindy's pov of Martinaise.

You can check out the complete zine here (for free)

Translation (or my best attempt at it):

(Page 1)

I am the outsider, I am the sidestepper

Misfit with a cause, I have found you

And there’s no one like you

(Page 2)

I’ve seen you around, kicking the rules

Walking desire paths better than roads, which are already walked

Life might be sad, for everyone else

(Page 3)

The joy that exists from opening the doors

Laughing at the mugs of those that have us locked up

This way the outsider, this way the sidestepper

Will never have anything, and neither will he need it

(Page 4)

He has himself

This is why, my friend

If you find others that are also other

(Page 5)

Tell them that fire burning away goes

[whoblewboobear]

Scott Pilgrim style crack fic where all 7 of Porter’s exes have formed an adventuring party to come kill him for being such a messy partner.

Porter has to fill Jace in so fast because if there’s anyone he needs to help him defeat them it’s his current boyfriend. Which? Can and most likely will backfire because they all have so much dirt on him it’s insane.

Jace is like “hey, babe.. maybe just talk to them? I don’t like the idea of murdering them bc things didn’t work out.” And Porter is just pleading with him, on his knees BEGGING Jace because, to quote John Mulaney, anyone that’s seen his dick or met his parents has to die. Jace PLEASE.

[riotshipping]

on the subject of accents every time i think about the fact that aries is from west virginia and has no accent whatsoever im like . we couldve had it all….. ):

[catherinnn]

Guilty as Sin

Eddie Munson x fem!reader

a blurb where Hopper catches you two in the middle of a cozy night at Lover's lake.

warnings: very smutty but (unfortunately) they can't get to anything.

masterlist

It was the middle of the night. Lover’s lake was practically empty since it was a Thursday night. But Wayne had interrupted your plans with your boyfriend when he announced that he had the day off and planned on watching a marathon of those really old movies he loves so much until he fell asleep on the couch. So the idea of watching some slasher with Eddie until getting bored and started making out was out of the question. Hence, plan B: parking at Lover’s lake to smoke, star-gaze and then a make-out session. 

You were currently in the back of the van, sat on Eddie’s lap, french-kissing him. 

His hands grab onto your waist like a dog to a bone. Your hands tangle in his hair and pull on it every so often like you know he loves. 

It isn’t until he starts to move your hips ever so lightly back and forth that it gets messy. 

You remove the leather jacket off of him, his hands get out of the sleeves to now grab your hips as if he wanted to leave marks. Tongues dance together as if it was a tango. 

Eddie was very talkative during sex usually. But there are times, like this one, where he just got lost in the moment, in your touch, in your body, and stayed quiet. Paying so closely attention to every single detail of you, that form sentences would just interrupt him.

He moves your skirt upwards to slide his hands under it and grab two handfuls of your cheeks. Moving you easier now to grind your clothed sexes together. The kiss gets even messier somehow. You lift his shirt and suddenly decide it’s getting in the way too much, so you take it off of him and throw it beside you two. 

He stops kissing your lips to move lower. One thing about Eddie is that he loves to mark you up. So his lips cling to your neck like ivy and you whisper your moans and whimpers in his ear. He keeps moving your hips to his liking. Back and forth and pushing them down harder to feel more friction. 

You can feel how your underwear gets wetter and wetter, just like he can feel his pants getting tighter and tighter. 

He nips and sucks and licks and kisses your neck with no mercy, like a lion to its haunt. 

Both of you so lost in each other that you don’t even hear the footsteps around the van. That is until a bright light is directed at both of you, scaring you and blinding you in a matter of seconds. 

“What the fuck?!” Eddie shouts, startled. And when your eyes get –kind of– used to the light, you are able to see Hopper standing there. 

“What the hell are you two doing here so late?” He asks tiredly and you get off of your boyfriend to sit next to him now, he still grabs you as if this was just a momentary interruption.

Eddie sighs. “If I said we were just talking, would you believe me?”

Hopper just looks at him unimpressed.

“Well, we were! just… quite a few minutes ago” Eddie adds.

“Kids, this is a public place, I can’t allow you to stay here and do this with no mind” 

“Oh come on, Chief! it’s called Lover’s Lake for a reason. Just give me 30 minutes and we’ll be out of here” Eddie tries to negotiate. 

“30 minutes?” Hopper bursts out laughing. “What will you do with 25 minutes of spare time after you’re done?” 

“What-?” Eddie rolls his eyes at the teasing and you have to bite down your giggle.

“You running some kind of scam, Munson? Cause I don’t see how else you landed a girl like her with this van and that hair of yours” he teases. 

That actually does make you chuckle. 

“Hop, buddy, be honest with me, we know each other well enough. Are you just jealous? When was the last time you got frisky in a van? Huh? I should lend you the keys sometime” Eddie mocks him too. 

“Alright, kid. You’re starting to piss me off. Put your shirt back on and get going. Go climb her window while her parents sleep or something, i don’t care” 

You try to get up to leave but Eddie’s hands on you tighten to stop you before you can even move forward. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, you’re kicking us out or whatever, but can we just take a second to appreciate the romance here? I mean, I parked the van under the stars with a perfect view of the lake. It’s practically poetic, man” 

You don’t even know why he keeps trying to fight with Hopper. 

“I’m tearing up, kid. Now get the hell out” 

“Let’s just go, Eds” you tell him. 

“Damn it, I get it! Public indecency and all that. But shouldn’t the police be more concerned with, I dunno, actual crimes? Rather than two –hot– consenting adults getting cozy?” he keeps rambling.

“Alright, what do you think? Should I be concerned about drugs being dealt in school instead?” Hopper throws at him.

“Alright! we’ll get out of here, officer” Eddie quickly catches the hint and gets up.

[goldfades]

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐍𝐄𝐓 ꩜ juju watkins ¹² (part 1/3)

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!

MASTERLIST | PART TWO

ᝰ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 7.7k

ᝰ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | she was born to be great—legacy inked in her blood, she was a taurasi. committing to usc was supposed to be her moment, her name, her story. but this is juju watkins' court. and kingdoms don’t like to be threatened.

ᝰ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | competitive tension, mentions of injuries, slow burn dynamics, rivals-to-something-much-messier, media speculation, college basketball politics... this is only part one to the lay the works for the next two parts

ᝰ 𝒆𝒗'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | listen. i just wanted to write about what happens when you throw two untouchable girls into the same gym and force them to coexist. this is about power, perception, and the kind of obsession you can’t quite name. it’s loud games and quiet bus rides. it’s two stars learning they shine brightest side by side.

You were born into greatness before you even had the language to name it.

The first thing you ever held was a mini basketball, your tiny hands clumsily wrapped around its worn leather like it had always belonged there. Your baby photos weren’t in soft pastels—they were draped in UConn blue and white, your mother’s old jersey hung behind you like a crown you hadn’t earned but would eventually grow into. You took your first steps on a basketball court. Learned your first words in locker rooms. The sharp scent of sweat, rubber soles, and Gatorade became as familiar to you as lullabies.

You were Diana Taurasi’s daughter. And that meant something.

Even when you were too young to understand the weight of it, other people did. They looked at you and saw potential. Expectation. In the eyes of coaches, scouts, fans—you weren’t just a kid. You were a blueprint. A second coming.

And you never got the chance to be anything else.

You were in second grade the first time someone referred to you as a “problem” on the court—meant as a compliment, of course. You dropped twenty-four points in an AAU game filled with girls four years older than you. By middle school, Gatorade was sponsoring youth events you headlined. By high school, you were trending every time you laced up. A walking headline. A phenom. A legacy in progress.

You didn’t just play basketball. You were basketball.

There was a calm that came with it. A clarity. You didn’t feel the pressure like other people expected you to. You felt something closer to instinct. The game spoke to you in a language you were born fluent in—cuts, passes, screens, shot clocks. It pulsed through your veins like memory. And your mother—your mother made sure you never coasted.

Diana Taurasi wasn’t just your mom. She was your coach, your mentor, your mirror. Brutally honest. Ferociously protective. She never let you fall for your own hype. Never let you take the easy road. You had to earn every point, every compliment, every step forward.

But still—there was no denying it.

You were that girl.

The number one recruit in the country for the 2024-25 season. The most scouted, most talked-about, most coveted player in women’s basketball. Some analysts said you were bigger than Cooper Flagg, more valuable, more marketable. Others called you a unicorn. A guard with a forward’s strength, a forward with a point guard’s court vision. You had Diana’s fire, but your own flavor of finesse. And you knew how to sell it. NIL deals rolled in before you turned seventeen—Nike, Beats, Gatorade, even a short documentary on your life that ESPN dropped during your senior year.

You didn’t ask to be the face of a movement. But you didn’t shy away from it, either.

They called you the princess of basketball. Not because you were soft. But because you were born in the castle and never once questioned whether or not you belonged.

Every program in the country wanted you. Coaches fawned. Analysts speculated. Your name was in every headline, your stats on every screen. Everyone—everyone—assumed you were going to UConn. How could you not? It was written in your blood. Your mom’s legacy was carved into the walls of Gampel Pavilion. Geno called you his “basketball granddaughter” before you could spell his name. You grew up running through their tunnels, watching legends take the court, dreaming in shades of blue.

But dreams change. Or maybe yours were never really yours to begin with.

Because when decision day came, you chose USC.

And the world? Imploded.

Headlines hit within seconds.

“TAURASI’S DAUGHTER SHOCKS BASKETBALL WORLD.”

“NUMBER ONE PROSPECT SNUBS UCONN.”

“PRINCESS TURNS REBEL.”

Everyone wanted a reason. Everyone needed an explanation. But it wasn’t complicated.

You didn’t want to inherit a legacy. You wanted to build one.

UConn would’ve been the safe path. The linear one. The predictable one. But you were never interested in repeating history. You were interested in rewriting it.

And USC—the City of Angels, the rebirth of West Coast basketball—was the place where you could do that.

Because LA offered you more than a court. It offered you a chance to step outside of your mother’s shadow, to start fresh, to make people see you for who you really were, not just who you were born to.

And maybe, deep down, it wasn’t just about legacy.

Maybe it was also about control. About owning your narrative before someone else could spin it for you.

You showed up to campus with cameras waiting. Your arrival was treated like the second coming. You weren’t a freshman—you were an icon in training. The team photographers caught you walking into Galen Center in a fresh pair of white and crimson Kobe 6s, your curls slicked back, diamond studs catching the California sun. The post went viral in under an hour.

“She’s here.”

“It’s over for the rest of the NCAA.”

“UConn fumbled the bag.”

People were already talking about championships. About rivalries. About changing the landscape of women’s college hoops.

But none of the buzz fazed you.

You’d been watched your whole life. You knew how to turn that into power. Still—there was one thing you hadn’t accounted for.

You weren’t the only star in town. And Juju Watkins? She wasn’t about to hand over the keys to her kingdom without a fight.

When people thought of USC women’s basketball, they thought of Juju Watkins.

It wasn’t up for debate. It wasn’t a question or a maybe or a footnote. It was fact. She was the headline, the face, the foundation. The hometown hero who chose to stay, to build, to bet on herself when everyone else was chasing dynasties across the country. She was the one who said no to UConn and South Carolina and Stanford and carved her own path under the California sun. And she was proud of that. She should be proud of that.

Because she didn’t just help put USC back on the map.

She was the map.

The jersey sales, the packed home games, the national coverage, the buzz—the heat that hadn’t touched USC in decades—it all started with her. She was a one-woman revolution in a bun and Kobe kicks, an LA native who brought cameras and fans and credibility back to the Galen Center.

And she worked for it. Every inch.

No one handed her anything.

She didn’t have a last name that made people bow. She wasn’t born into legend. She earned her way here—through sweat, and pressure, and expectation so loud it nearly drowned her more than once. And even now, with her name etched into the culture of this team, with her photos plastered on every poster and promo, she still didn’t feel safe.

Not when you were coming.

She saw the rumors online before she believed them. Saw your name floated in interviews, message boards, pre-season speculation. Everyone thought you’d go to UConn. It made sense. You were Diana Taurasi’s daughter, after all. Basketball royalty. UConn blue practically ran in your blood. But then the decision came, and it broke across social media like a crack of thunder.

You picked USC.

And everything shifted.

Juju was scrolling Twitter when she saw the official commitment post. A photo of you in cardinal and gold, arms folded over your chest, looking like you already owned the place. The caption was something cocky—something short, like legacy starts now or chapter one—and the likes exploded in real time.

At first, Juju just stared. Blinked. Read it again.

Then she threw her phone across the bed and laughed.

Not because it was funny. But because what else could she do?

You were coming here. To her house. To the team she rebuilt from the ground up. And she already knew what was going to happen next. All the headlines. The endless comparisons. The whispers that this—you—was the beginning of a new era.

As if she was already yesterday’s news. As if she hadn’t fought tooth and nail to give USC its identity back.

She hated it. Hated the way your name lingered on everyone’s tongue like some kind of prophecy. Hated how you were treated like the second coming of women’s basketball when she wasn’t even done writing her own story yet.

Most of all, she hated how easy it all seemed for you.

Juju watched your highlight tapes obsessively. More than she was willing to admit. Alone, late at night, headphones in. She’d scroll through hours of clips—AAU, USA Basketball, random TikTok edits—and she’d try to find the cracks. The flaws. Something she could use to tell herself you weren’t as good as they said.

But there weren’t any.

You were that good.

And that was the worst part.

You weren’t just hype. You weren’t just legacy and bloodline and pretty branding. You were legit. You moved like a pro—fluid, confident, calculated. Your handle was filthy. Your jumper, clean. You read defenses like they were written in bold font. And your passing game? That pissed her off the most. It was unselfish. As if the game didn’t revolve around you, even though everyone treated it like it did.

You were the kind of player who made the court look small.

And Juju knew what that meant. It meant she had a problem.

Because now she had to fight for her spot on her own team.

This wasn’t high school anymore. It wasn’t a one-woman show. She wasn’t going to get by on name recognition or local loyalty. There was another star on the roster now. And not just any star. The star. And no matter how hard Juju tried to downplay it, the truth kept showing up in her chest like a bruise she couldn’t ignore.

They weren’t just making room for you. They were rearranging things for you.

The trainers. The media staff. Even the coaches—Coach Gottlieb hadn’t said anything directly, but Juju could feel it. The careful balancing act. The subtle shifts in tone. The way they said your name like a promise.

It made her stomach twist.

It made her wake up earlier. Stay later. Work harder.

Not because she wanted to impress anyone. But because she wasn’t about to get pushed out of her own kingdom.

She’d bled for this team. She’d sacrificed for this team. She’d become the face of the program when no one else believed it could be done. And now everyone wanted to forget?

She wasn’t going to let that happen.

So yeah—she watched you. Studied you. Tracked your movements in every practice, every drill, every media appearance. Not out of admiration. Out of necessity. Because if she didn’t, she’d get left behind. Replaced. Reduced to a co-star in your story when she hadn’t even finished writing her own.

And maybe, just maybe, that obsession came with something sharper. Something deeper. Something she didn’t want to name just yet.

Because every time she looked at you—cool and collected, already being adored by everyone around you—she didn’t just see a rival.

She saw a mirror. A threat. A spark.

And she wasn’t sure which one scared her more.

--

You told them over dinner.

Not in a dramatic way, not with some big announcement or a video reveal or anything even close to that. Just the three of you—your mom, Diana, her wife, Penny, and you—sitting around the table in the backyard of your Arizona house. The kind of night where the sun stretched out long, warm and pink across the horizon, the cicadas were already singing, and the grill still smelled like steak and vegetables.

You’d been quiet most of the meal. Not tense, just… focused. Waiting for the right moment. You’d known what you were going to say for days—maybe even weeks. It had been building in you like a tide, inevitable. But knowing didn’t make saying it any easier.

Penny was the one who asked, voice soft and casual as she leaned back in her chair, wine glass balanced in her hand. “So, babe… where’s your head at with schools?”

You looked across the table at them. Diana, in her usual tank top and slides, her expression unreadable. Penny, barefoot, relaxed, but always watching closely. You pushed a piece of grilled zucchini around your plate for a second. Then you said it.

“I’m committing to USC.”

Diana blinked.

Penny smiled, almost immediately. “USC, huh? That’s exciting—LA, sunshine, staying West Coast. Great coaching staff. Good program.”

Diana still hadn’t moved.

You watched her fork freeze midair, hanging over her plate. She blinked again, slower this time, like maybe her brain was buffering. Then she set the fork down.

“USC?” she repeated, voice flat. “As in… the Trojans?”

You nodded once. “Yeah. I already talked to Coach Gottlieb. I’m sending my papers in tomorrow.”

It was quiet.

Penny sipped her wine. Diana didn’t say anything, just stared at you. You could practically hear her thoughts. You weren’t surprised, not really. You’d been bracing for this since the idea of USC first came into focus. Since the first whispers of doing something different—your thing—started to bloom.

Diana leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “So what happened to UConn? You know, you already have your spot on the team, Geno promised.”

You shrugged. “It’s not what I want.”

“And Stanford?” she asked, voice sharp now. “South Carolina? Notre Dame? You literally have offers from every top ten school. Every. Single. One.”

“I know.”

She scoffed. “So explain to me how you ended up choosing USC like it’s not a massive downgrade.”

“Di—” Penny warned gently.

“No,” Diana cut in, eyes still locked on you. “I’m serious. I need her to say it. Because it sounds a lot like she’s throwing away every advantage she’s got to go be on a rebuilding team for—what? A vibe? Sunshine and Instagram opportunities?”

“It’s not about that,” you said quietly. “It’s about making something mine.”

Diana didn’t laugh, but she might as well have. The sound she made was dry, almost bitter. “You have something that’s yours. Your name, your talent, your future—all of it. And you really think going to USC is gonna make people forget you’re my kid?”

You stared at her. “That’s not what I want.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I want to be great,” you said, firm now. “I want to win. But I don’t want to do it where people are already expecting me to. I want to do it somewhere I chose. Not somewhere that was handed to me because of you.”

The table went quiet again. Penny reached over and placed a hand gently on Diana’s forearm.

“She’s not trying to disrespect you,” Penny said softly.

But Diana wasn’t even angry. Not really. She looked almost hurt. Or maybe confused. Like she was staring at a stranger wearing your face.

“I get it,” she said finally, low and tight. “You don’t want to follow in my footsteps. You want your own lane.”

You nodded. “Exactly.”

Diana sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “Look, you know I respect USC. I do. But they don’t have a championship pedigree. They don’t have the infrastructure. If you really want to build something from the ground up, then go to Arizona. Hell, go to UCLA. At least those would make sense.”

Penny smiled behind her glass. “You’re negotiating now?”

“She’s not thinking it through.”

“I have thought it through,” you snapped. “I’ve thought about it more than anything in my entire life.”

Diana just looked at you, and for a second, it felt like you were ten years old again, after a bad game, standing at the free-throw line in the driveway while she drilled you on your form until the sun went down.

Then she exhaled, leaned forward, and said, “Fine.”

You blinked. “Fine?”

“But if you’re going to USC,” she said, voice suddenly sharper, “you’re going to do it like a Taurasi.”

You held her gaze.

“You’re not going there to participate. You’re not going there to be cute. You’re going there to win. And not just games—I mean finals. National championships. I don’t care if you’re a freshman or if you’re going up against five-star recruits. You go there, you better drag that team into the tournament and you better make it count. Or it’s a waste.”

There was a pause.

And then you smiled. A small one. The kind that came from somewhere deep in your chest.

“Okay,” you said. “Deal.”

She nodded once. “Then I don’t want to hear any complaints when you’re waking up at 5 a.m. every day for two-a-days and you’ve got cameras in your face asking why you didn’t go to UConn.”

“I won’t complain,” you said.

“You better not,” she muttered, but her voice had softened.

Penny looked between the two of you and shook her head. “God, you two are the same.”

Neither of you denied it.

Because you were. In ways you couldn’t run from, even if you tried.

You were Diana’s daughter through and through. The sharp edge. The attitude. The refusal to do anything halfway. And when she threw down that challenge, that line in the sand, it didn’t scare you.

It thrilled you.

You were going to USC. And now, you were going to prove that you could do exactly what she said.

Because making it to the finals wasn’t a request.

It was a promise.

--

There’s something about first impressions.

You know how they say don’t judge a book by its cover, but that’s exactly what everyone does—especially in women’s basketball, where reputation walks into the room before you do.

And yours?

Yours has been following you like a shadow since the moment you could dribble.

So when you showed up to Galen Center on the first day of summer workouts, it wasn’t just an arrival. It was a statement.

You stepped onto that court like it was already yours.

Custom Jordan 1s in USC colors, trimmed with metallic gold laces. Dutch braids tight and glossy, edges laid, diamond studs catching the light. Oversized vintage Nike tee tucked into black USC practice shorts. The look was casual, effortless—but make no mistake, it was curated. You weren’t just the new recruit.

You were the moment.

The gym buzzed when you walked in. Heads turned. Conversations paused mid-sentence. Girls nudged each other subtly, stealing glances over their water bottles. Someone whispered your name like a prayer. A few others just stared like they couldn’t believe you were real. That she—basketball’s golden child, Diana Taurasi’s legacy—was actually here.

You didn’t smile.

Not because you were being rude, but because you didn’t need to. You let the silence stretch a little. Let it settle.

Own the room first. Be friendly later, that’s what Diana always said.

Coach Gottlieb was already making her way toward you, clipboard in hand, eyes bright and slightly nervous—like she knew she had something valuable in her hands and didn’t want to drop it.

“Welcome to USC,” she said, offering her hand, and you shook it with a firm grip, your expression unreadable.

“I’m excited to be here,” you replied smoothly, voice low, even.

And you were. You meant it.

The rest of the staff followed—assistant coaches, trainers, strength coaches. They all greeted you like royalty. Like this was the day they’d been waiting for, the shift they’d been promised. You could feel it in the way their eyes lingered too long, in the way their smiles tightened when they spoke. The expectation was heavy. But it didn’t scare you.

You were used to it.

You’d been molded in the spotlight.

Still, even as you let them usher you toward the team, subtly placing you at the center of the gym, you felt her before you saw her.

That heat. That edge.

That silent resistance.

Juju Watkins stood off to the side, arms crossed, chewing on a piece of gum like she was watching a movie she’d seen before and already hated the ending.

She didn’t smile. Didn’t wave. Didn’t move a muscle.

Just stared at you with a look that could slice glass. And for the first time that day, you felt your pulse jump.

You turned your body slightly, acknowledging her. Nothing obvious. Just a glance. A barely-there curve of your mouth. A flicker of something beneath your lashes.

Juju didn’t flinch.

Didn’t acknowledge the coaches still circling you like satellites. Didn’t bother with the whispered conversations or the teammates already inching toward you like moths to a flame.

Her energy was solid. Grounded. Unimpressed.

And God, you liked it.

It fed something in you. Pulled the thread tighter.

Because everyone else had already folded. They’d smiled too wide. Said too much. Laughed too loud. They wanted to be close to you, to claim you before the season even started.

But not Juju.

She didn’t want to claim you. She wanted to test you.

“Watkins,” Coach Gottlieb called out, beckoning her over. “Come introduce yourself.”

Juju walked slowly, deliberately, like she was being summoned to something beneath her. Like she couldn’t care less.

She stopped in front of you, hands on her hips, her expression unreadable.

You extended your hand, polite. Calm.

She looked at it for a beat too long before finally shaking it. Her grip was firm. Just like yours.

“I’ve seen your highlights,” she said, voice flat.

“I’ve seen yours too,” you replied.

“You’re good.”

“So are you.”

Another pause. Neither of you smiled.

The gym was too quiet. Everyone else was watching like it was a live broadcast—like if they blinked, they’d miss the exact moment everything shifted.

Because it had.

Right there, in that subtle, loaded exchange.

She didn’t bow. She didn’t bend.

And you loved that.

Because if this season was going to be a war—and you already knew it would be—you didn’t want people behind you. You wanted someone standing across from you, sharp and hungry.

“You came here for the spotlight,” she said, still looking you dead in the eye.

“I came here to win.”

Juju’s jaw tightened just a little. Then she stepped back.

“Then I hope you can handle the heat.”

You smiled then. Not big. Just enough.

“I grew up in Phoenix,” you said. “I am the heat.”

A few girls nearby muttered, one of them letting out a soft, “Damn.”

Coach clapped her hands, trying to cut the tension with forced cheer. “Alright, alright! Let’s get this practice started.”

Juju turned and walked back toward her side of the court without another word.

And you followed, just a step behind, already measuring the distance between you.

Not to catch up. But to compete.

Because if she wanted this team to be hers, she’d have to earn it the same way you always had. By going through you.

The gym was thick with the scent of rubber soles and sweat and adrenaline.

Summer practice meant no fans in the stands, no cameras, no bright lights—just the brutal honesty of open court under high ceilings and fluorescent lights. Coaches watched from the sidelines, arms crossed, clipboards held to their chests like shields. The rest of the team had spread out along the baseline, hydrating and whispering, but their eyes stayed locked on you and Juju. Everyone was watching.

It had started off civil.

A few plays in, no one had said much. You took a three—clean, efficient, net barely moved. Juju answered with a drive, weaving through two defenders, finishing off the glass. It was back and forth. Electric. Mutual respect in motion.

But then things shifted.

It happened in the second rotation, when the scrimmage flipped and Coach had you both guarding each other.

And Juju’s mouth opened.

“Cute shot,” she muttered, brushing your shoulder with hers as she passed. “Let’s see you try it with pressure this time.”

You blinked.

That was… new.

You’d watched her tapes. You knew her rep. Juju wasn’t loud. She didn’t need to be. Her game was usually enough.

But now? Now she wouldn’t shut up.

“Left side’s dead, princess. You ain’t getting through there.”

“Where’s that Taurasi footwork? Lookin’ a little slow today.”

“Oh, we getting soft now? C’mon. That’s all you got?”

And the thing that got under your skin wasn’t just the chirping.

It was that she was good. Really good.

Her defense was sticky, her hips low, her reads quick. She played like she had something to prove—and maybe she did.

Your heart thumped harder every time she bumped you. Every time her breath hit your neck. Every time she cut in front of you, fast and mean, and forced you to reset.

She was fast.

You were faster.

She was sharp.

You were sharper.

But she was playing dirty. And you liked it.

You didn’t back down.

You locked her up the next play, forced her baseline, body tight against hers, your sneakers screeching against the court as she pivoted to escape you. You cut her off again. This time, she didn’t get the shot off.

You felt her frustration ripple like heat off her body.

“You reaching now?” she barked, eyes narrowing. “Gonna need more than your last name to stop me.”

Your grin was slow. “Good. I was getting bored.”

But inside, your blood was pumping like bass through a speaker.

You were not bored. Not even close.

This was not how it was supposed to go.

This gym—her gym—used to be silent when she moved. Used to breathe when she did. She built this place from the ground up. She made USC a name again. She chose it when no one else would, when people asked why she wasn’t going East, when they begged her to ride someone else’s legacy. She stayed. She led.

And now she was being overshadowed in her own house.

By you.

Diana Taurasi’s daughter. The golden child.

She hated how easy it looked for you. How clean your handles were. How smooth your jumper was. How you moved like the floor had memorized your rhythm.

You didn’t even look tired.

You were laughing, talking shit back. Like this was some kind of game.

But Juju knew better. This wasn’t a game. This was war.

Because you weren’t here to play second. You weren’t here to learn from her. You came to take her spot, whether you said it out loud or not.

And worst of all?

You were good enough to do it. She hated that more than anything.

By the third quarter of scrimmage, your jersey was sticking to your skin and your legs were starting to ache in the way that meant you were working—not for cardio, not for endurance, but for dominance.

Juju was right there, still glued to your hip, still yapping, still refusing to break. Her loose ponytail swished behind her as she moved, jaw clenched, sneakers relentless on the hardwood.

“She don’t pass, huh?” she called out mid-play, just loud enough for the others to hear. “Guess that’s what happens when you’re used to being the favorite.”

You spun on the drive, caught her slipping for half a second, and rose for the jumper—elbow high, wrist flick perfect.

Swish.

“Maybe if you kept your mouth closed,” you muttered as you jogged back, “you’d hear the whistle next time.”

The sidelines erupted with half-laughs, oohs, and fake coughs.

You were both breathing heavy now, chest to chest as the ball reset.

Juju’s voice dropped low as she leaned in for the next possession. “Don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing.”

You looked her dead in the eyes. “Good. I want you to see it.”

The ball snapped back into play.And there you were again.

Two stars burning too close. Too fast.

Her footwork was beautiful, all twitch muscle and timing, cutting angles like she’d drawn them herself. You matched it with precision. Hands up. Feet planted. You were reading her eyes now.

She was reading yours, too.

No one else on the court mattered anymore. The game had collapsed into the two of you, trading buckets and barbs, like this was all just a prelude to something bigger. Deeper.

By the final buzzer, your arms were burning. Your lungs, raw.

But so was your heart.

Because that tension? That unspoken current between you?

It wasn’t just rivalry. It was obsession. And neither of you had even scratched the surface of what it meant yet.

--

The next couple of weeks were harder than anything you expected.

And it wasn’t the drills. It wasn’t the lifting sessions or the playbook or the sweltering summer heat rising off the gym floor in waves.

It was her.

Juju.

She was everywhere. She was in your space, in your face, in your head.

You’d never had a teammate like her before—someone who didn’t just match your energy, but challenged it. Someone who pushed back. Who called you out. Who didn’t give a damn about your name or your highlight reel or the fact that Diana Taurasi was your mother.

Juju didn’t treat you like royalty. She treated you like a threat.

And you hated it. Hated the way she barked at you on defense like you weren’t doing enough. Hated the way she boxed you out with unnecessary force, like she was trying to send a message. Hated that she never gave you even a sliver of praise—never nodded, never smiled, never gave an inch.

You hated that she acted like you didn’t deserve to be here. And most of all—you hated how deep down, some part of you didn’t feel totally sure that you did.

Because this was the first time in your life you were sharing the court with someone who felt like a mirror. Someone who wanted it just as bad. Someone who could match you. Someone who reminded you that greatness wasn’t owed.

It had to be taken.

And that kind of pressure? It cracked things open.

You didn’t notice how bad it had gotten until that Thursday.

It was mid-scrimmage—five-on-five, game tied, coaches silent on the sidelines. You were running the wing, fast break after a turnover, and the ball hit your hands like lightning. You barely slowed your momentum as you cut in for the layup, extending toward the glass with your left.

And then—impact.

A hard shove. Not enough to break bone, but enough to throw your angle off, enough to send you stumbling into the padding beneath the basket.

You hit it with a grunt, palms catching your fall, knees scraping the floor.

Whistles blew, and the gym fell into a hush.

You pushed yourself up slowly, chest heaving, and turned around.

Juju was standing a few feet behind you, chest puffed, hands on hips, not even pretending to look sorry.

Your jaw clenched.

“Are you serious?” you snapped, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“It was an accident,” she bit back, already rolling her eyes.

“Bullshit.”

“You cut into the lane late,” Juju added to the coach, but her eyes never left yours. “Wasn’t my fault you can’t finish through contact.”

The dig sliced clean through your composure. You stepped forward.

“Finish through contact?” you echoed, voice rising. “You shoved me. You’re not slick. You’ve been doing this passive-aggressive shit since the day I got here.”

“Yeah?” Juju said, stepping toward you now. “Maybe if you earned your minutes instead of walking in like you own the place, you’d get some respect.”

You felt something crack.

“Respect?” you repeated. “You think I don’t earn my shit? You think just ‘cause my last name is Taurasi, I get handed everything?”

She shrugged, smirking. “If the shoe fits, princess.”

You took another step forward.

“Say that again.”

“Why? You gonna call Mommy to defend you?”

The breath you took was sharp, chest tight, heat blooming under your skin like fire.

“You don’t know the first thing about me,” you hissed. “You don’t know what I’ve had to prove just to exist in this sport without people saying it’s all because of her.”

“Well guess what,” Juju snapped. “This is my team. My court. I built this. I bled for it. And you? You’re just here to make headlines.”

“Then guard me better,” you spit.

“Then play better.”

The gym was deadly silent.

No one moved. No one breathed.

The two of you stood nose-to-nose, fire in your eyes, fists half-curled at your sides like you weren’t entirely sure what came next.

And then Coach’s voice cut through like thunder.

“HEY!”

Both your heads snapped toward her.

She was furious. Red-faced. The veins in her neck visible.

“I’ve had enough of this little pissing match.”

Neither of you said anything.

“You two think this is cute?” she asked, voice thick with venom. “Think you’re the only stars I’ve coached? Newsflash—I’ve seen plenty of talent crash and burn because they couldn’t get over their damn egos.”

She stepped forward, eyes darting between the two of you.

“You want to fight? Fight fatigue.”

She pointed to the baseline.

“Both of you. Suicides. Until I say stop. And if either of you open your mouths again, the whole team’s running with you.”

For a second, neither of you moved.

Your eyes locked with Juju’s, still crackling with tension, but something else simmered underneath it now. But whatever it was, it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

You turned first, storming to the line, jaw set, hands shaking as you settled into position.

Juju jogged beside you. You didn’t look at each other.

The whistle blew.

You ran.

Back and forth. Over and over.

Sweat blurred your vision. Your lungs ached. Your shoes burned against the hardwood. Your muscles screamed. But you kept running. Because you had to.

Because you weren’t going to be the one who quit first.

Not now. Not ever. Not while she was still watching.

And even as the coach’s whistle echoed through the gym, even as the rest of the team sat in awkward silence, even as the seconds ticked by like hours—there was only one person you were racing against.

And she was right beside you.

That night, you called your mom with your legs submerged in ice.

The dorm was quiet. Your roommate was gone for the weekend, the glow of the lamp by your bed the only light in the room. Your phone was propped against a half-drunk water bottle on your nightstand, speakerphone on as you tucked your chin into your hoodie and stared blankly at your swollen ankles.

“—and then she shoved me,” you were saying, your voice climbing with every word. “Like full-on, no regard for human life. I hit the floor so hard I’m pretty sure my rib cage is lopsided now.”

The sound of Diana Taurasi’s laugh crackled through the phone. Dry. Sharp. Annoyingly amused.

You blinked at the ceiling. “Why are you laughing? I could’ve died or like, torn something!”

“Oh yeah,” Diana said. “Because Juju Watkins was out there committing murder one hard foul at a time.”

“Mom.”

“I’m just saying. You’re alive. Your limbs are still attached. You’ve survived tougher.”

You pouted, even though she couldn’t see you. “You don’t get it. She hates me. Like she doesn’t even try to hide it.”

“That’s because you’re a threat.”

You froze.

The silence lasted long enough that you heard her settle into what sounded like a leather couch, maybe in the living room back home. A game was playing faintly in the background—probably EuroLeague or WNBA reruns. You could imagine her perfectly: one leg thrown over the armrest, probably in sweatpants, wine glass untouched on the coffee table.

“A threat?” you repeated.

“To her spotlight. Her ego. Her starting position.” Diana’s voice was calm, pointed. “This isn’t new, baby. That’s how the NCAA is.”

You huffed, dragging your fingers through your hair.

“She’s just—she doesn’t respect me. She talks down to me. Like I didn’t earn being here.”

Diana didn’t respond right away.

You waited, thinking she’d say something soothing. Something comforting. She’d been like that your whole life—brutally honest, yeah, but always protective. Always on your side. You expected her to say Juju was out of line, that the coaching staff needed to do a better job keeping her in check, that you were the star now and people should treat you accordingly.

Instead, what you got was: “So what?”

You blinked. “What?”

“So what if she doesn’t respect you?” Diana said plainly. “Why does that bother you so much?”

You sat there, stunned.

“Because—” you sputtered, “—because I’ve always earned my respect. I show up, I work, I win. People like me. People listen to me. This—this is the first time I’ve ever had someone act like I don’t belong. Like I’m just some spoiled brat with a famous mom.”

A beat of silence.

And then: “And what if you are a spoiled brat with a famous mom?”

“Mom—”

“I’m serious,” Diana cut in, still maddeningly calm. “What if that’s what she thinks? What if the whole team thinks that? Are you gonna whine about it for the next six months, or are you gonna go get that Natty like we talked about?”

Your jaw dropped. “You’re being so mean right now.”

“No,” she said, voice suddenly sharper. “I’m being honest.”

And that was the first time she’d ever said it like that.

Like she wasn’t just your mom anymore. Like she was a player. A champion. A Taurasi.

“You wanted USC,” she continued. “You picked this path. You chose to leave UConn and LSU and Stanford on the table because you wanted to be the one who turned this program into something. You said you wanted a legacy. You said you wanted the pressure.”

You stared down at your phone, your throat dry.

“Well, baby,” she said, her voice softening just a fraction. “This is what pressure looks like.”

You didn’t respond. Not right away.

There was a silence between you—something weighty, not quite painful, but real. Something that made you sit up straighter and take your legs out of the bucket. You wiped them dry with a towel as your heart thudded in your chest.

Because somewhere in the middle of that call, the fog lifted.

You remembered who you were.

You weren’t some freshman with big shoes to fill. You weren’t just Diana’s daughter. You weren’t just a shiny new recruit with a Nike deal and a highlight tape that made grown men gasp.

You were you.

You’d broken records before you could legally drive. You’d played against grown women in the Olympics. You’d stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the best of the best and dominated.

You didn’t have to be liked.

You just had to win.

And if Juju was going to come for you, push you around, run her mouth?

Good.

You’d run harder. Hit back cleaner. Score louder. And when the time came—when the lights were on and the title was on the line—she’d see.

They’d all see.

You wiped your eyes—tears you hadn’t even realized were building. Not sad tears. Just… heavy ones. Exhaustion. Frustration. A little clarity.

“Thanks,” you muttered finally.

Diana chuckled. “You done crying now?”

“I wasn’t crying.”

“Sure.”

You cracked the tiniest smile, pressing your phone to your chest.

“I’m gonna win it, you know,” you whispered. “I’m gonna win the whole damn thing.”

“I know,” she said.

And she meant it.

She didn’t say ‘if.’ She said when.

Because deep down, Diana had always known this day would come—the day you stopped playing like her daughter and started playing like yourself.

And it started here.

In a quiet dorm room, with your knees still aching and your ego a little bruised, but your vision suddenly, perfectly clear.

--

The air hangs heavy as you walk into the gym the next morning. It's not just the early heat, though it clings to the rafters like a thick curtain, but the palpable weight of yesterday.

Everyone feels it. The silence is thick enough to cut with a knife.

The upperclassmen, who witnessed the argument firsthand, avoid eye contact. The coaches, forced to end scrimmage after only twenty minutes of barely-contained hostility, wear tight-lipped expressions. And the freshmen, their eyes wide, dart between Juju and you, as if they'd just watched two titans clash.

You stride in with your usual swagger – custom Jordan slides, iced coffee clutched in your hand, the hood of your sweatshirt still shadowing your braids. But there's a new tension in your jaw, a barely leashed energy simmering beneath the surface. Your eyes sweep across the court the moment you step inside.

Juju is already there, headphones clamped over her ears, hoodie discarded, meticulously tying her shoes. She doesn't look up, doesn't acknowledge your arrival in any way.

But she knows. You both do.

Coach's whistle pierces the strained quiet the second everyone gathers.

"Alright, let's cut the shit," she declares, clipboard in one hand, the other planted firmly on her hip. "We need to talk."

The gym stills. Every movement ceases.

You lean against the baseline wall, arms crossed over your chest. Juju finally pulls off her headphones and joins the semicircle.

"I don't care if you hate each other," Coach says, her gaze sweeping between the two of you. "But what I do care about is this program. And the culture we're trying to build here."

A long, heavy pause stretches out. You can feel the heat prickling behind your ears.

"If I have to bench two of the best players in the country to make a point," Coach adds, her voice firm, "I will."

That makes everyone shift uncomfortably. Even Juju blinks, a flicker of surprise in her eyes.

"You think I won't sit you for the first game?" Coach says, her gaze now locked onto yours. "Try me."

Your jaw clenches tighter.

Coach pivots to Juju. "You think I care what ESPN ranked you? You act like that again, you're out."

The silence that follows isn't just awkward – it's charged with unspoken threats and simmering frustration.

And then, just as abruptly, Coach claps her hands together.

"Same teams as yesterday," she announces. "Watkins. Y/N. You're together today."

You nearly groan out loud. Juju scoffs softly under her breath. You both line up. The whistle blows, sharp and decisive.

And then something unexpected happens.

It begins as pure muscle memory. You take the inbound pass and your eyes instinctively scan the court, pivoting naturally to where Juju usually cuts across the top of the key – and there she is. Quick. Fluid. Your eyes meet for a fleeting second, and without even thinking, you pass the ball.

Juju catches it in stride and elevates for a mid-range jumper.

Nothing but net.

No celebration. No smug smile. Just two silent nods exchanged across the court.

Next possession, Juju finds herself trapped in the corner, two defenders closing in. You see it unfold even before she calls for help – you slip out of the paint, creating an open passing lane. Juju whips the ball to you without looking. You take two quick dribbles, spin off your defender, and hand it right back.

Juju drives baseline, two defenders clinging to her hip, and pulls up for another shot.

Swish.

And then it clicks.

You move together as if you're wired the same way. You dictate the pace, and Juju responds with perfect timing. Juju pushes the tempo, and you fill the lane without hesitation. It's intuitive. Seamless. Like two pieces of the same powerful engine finally finding their rhythm.

Coach folds her arms on the sideline, her eyes narrowed in observation.

You're not just good together. You're terrifying.

Even with the lingering tension, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air – neither of you smiling, neither speaking – it doesn't matter. Your bodies communicate in a language you haven't shared until now. Pure, instinctive chemistry. And the rest of the team feels it too. Plays that were once clunky and disjointed now flow smoothly, both of you orchestrating the pace with an effortless understanding.

You start anticipating Juju's footwork, trailing behind her and dishing the ball mid-step, trusting her to catch and finish. Juju begins trusting you to take the pressure off when she's double-teamed – something she rarely allows anyone to do.

For the first time in her life, Juju isn't the only one calling the shots.

And she doesn't hate it.

She wants to hate it – wants to ignore the way your timing elevates her game, makes her sharper. Wants to pretend the bounce passes that slice between defenders aren't the best she's seen since high school.

But facts are undeniable.

You make the game easier. You even make it fun.

But Juju isn't about to admit that. Not with yesterday's harsh words still lodged in her throat.

She glances at you after another assist – a fast break finish, clean and precise – and catches the faintest hint of a smirk playing on your lips.

Cocky. Effortless. Of course.

You don't say anything either.

You're not ready to voice it aloud, but this feels right. This is what basketball should be. Fast, ruthless, and beautiful. And for the first time in a long time, you're not the only one who can match your tempo.

You've spent weeks dreading Juju's presence, resenting her dominance. But out here, with the scoreboard ticking, sweat dripping, and no one else able to keep up?

You can't deny it. You need her.

And maybe, just maybe, Juju needs you too.

Coach's whistle blows again. "Hold it."

Everyone freezes mid-motion.

She doesn't speak for a few long seconds. She just looks at the two of you, her gaze intense. Then, a small, almost imperceptible smile touches her lips.

"That's what I'm talking about," she says, her voice low and steady.

She isn't grinning or clapping her hands like some overly enthusiastic little league coach. No – Coach looks satisfied. Like someone who's been patiently waiting for this exact moment to unfold.

"If you two keep playing like that," she says slowly, deliberately, "we're not just going to the tournament."

Another pause hangs in the air.

"We're making a deep run."

Your heart thuds in your chest.

Juju doesn't look over at you. But she doesn't have to. You both know what that means.

It isn't about becoming best friends. Or even about getting along.

It's about legacy.

About banners hanging in the rafters. About proving something – everything – to the world. And you're finally on the same page.

Even if neither of you is ready to say it out loud.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

[wosospacegirl]

My girl always gets so cranky - leah williamson

Summary: Y/n’s PMS is ruining her night out with Leah, but when things explode over messy eyeliner, Leah’s love and patience bring her back down.

Word count: 1.6k

Notes: just a little fluff fic because im o period, also, say reservation one more time.

..

Y/n tried to be a good person, a good friend, a good colleague and a good girlfriend. She always tried her hardest to be kind, patient and overall a nice person, but there was a specific time in the month that, somehow, turned her into a whole other person.

Y/n had begged Leah to take her out on a date a few days ago, saying she missed trying new foods with her. So Leah, as an amazing girlfriend, did just that.

She reserved a table at a new Arab restaurant in North London and was excited to go out with her girl, but Y/n was having a really hard time getting ready.

“Love, c’mon,” Lead said as she leaned in the archway of the door, watching Y/n doing her makeup in front of the mirror. “We need to go like–” she looked at her watch, “–now.”

Y/n sat at her vanity, gripping the eyeliner as if it had personally wronged her. She knew she was being irrational — knew she was too tired, too stressed, too overwhelmed — but that didn’t stop the frustration from simmering beneath her skin. The shaky lines on her eyelids felt like a metaphor for her entire week: messy, uneven, and impossible to fix.

Y/n had been trying to do cat eyes for the last 25 minutes, but none of her attempts were good enough.

Each line was messier than the last, and every time she wiped it away, it seemed to get worse. Her breathing hitched as she tried to steady her hand and try to do the eyeliner again, but the tension building in her body made it another failed attempt.

She was getting frustrated already, and having Leah breathing down her neck didn’t help with the situation.

She inhaled deeply, forcing herself to remain calm. “I’m almost done, Leah,” she called out, trying to keep her voice steady, though it came out more strained than she intended. “Just give me five more minutes.”

But Leah wasn’t having it. She appeared at the door, arms crossed. “You said that ten minutes ago, babe– I just don’t want to lose the reservation.”

“Well, we will lose the reservation if you don’t step away for a minute and actually let me do my makeup,” Y/n grumbled.

“Oh no! I actually don’t,” Y/n gave Leah the most faux-dumbfounded face. “Can you please explain it to me, Leah?”

Leah crossed her arms. “You do know how a reservation works, right?”

After she finished her sentence her face was back into her grumpy expression.

“Don’t give me attitude,” Leah said angrily, but slowly breathed in and out, calming down. “You know what? If you don’t wanna go, just say so.

“I wanna go! I already said I’m almost done, I just need to get this cat eye right–”

“You look great…I promise. It’s just makeup, Y/n.” The reservation is more important, don’t you think?” Leah said, her voice sharper now.

Normally Leah was very unperturbed by Y/n and her not-so-nice attitude. Mainly because generally, Y/n was very kind and loving, but Leah knew the girl had her moments, especially after a long and stressful day.

“I care about how I look, Leah” Y/n bit back, putting her make-up down again. “I just want to look nice for once–but this stupid eyeliner won’t cooperate.

Was Y/n being spoiled and kind of a brat? Yes. Did Y/n care about it right now? No.

She just wanted to look pretty once. Her whole week had been stressful, she felt ugly and bloated and…she just felt like shit, really– and now Y/n couldn't even have a little time for herself without Leah being annoying. 

She had an argument with her sister two days ago,  it was followed by a disastrous meeting at work where no one seemed to know what they were doing. And then Leah had been in a foul mood since her team’s loss.

Y/n just wanted some time to relax, a night to herself and Leah– a night she’d been looking forward to.

But everything was going wrong.

Leah sighed, stepping into the room and looking at her watch. “Babe, we’re going to lose the reservation if we don’t leave now,” she said, repeating herself once again.

“Bloody hell, Leah” Y/n snapped as she turned to Leah. “You can go alone if you want to.” 

Y/n clutched the eyeliner before throwing it at Leah, who dodged it while looking at Y/n as if she was crazy.

Leah stood frozen for a second after dodging the eyeliner, her eyes flickering from Y/n and the spot where the eyeliner landed. For a moment she felt her face hardened–her eyebrows getting drawn tight, her lips parted, ready to snap at Y/n. 

But instead, she sighed and ran her hands down her face in frustration before collecting herself. She breathed one, two, three times. But as she was ready to speak, Y/n’s angry voice filled the room.

For a second, Leah’s anger burned hot. ‘She can’t be serious’, Leah thought. She was just trying to get her out the door so they didn’t lose the reservation, the reservation to the restaurant Y/n wanted to go.

She wanted to scream at Y/n and tell her she was being irrational.

“You clearly don’t care about how I feel and how I look,” Y/n stomped her way to their bedroom. “I just wanted to do a fucking cat eye.”

As Y/n screamed the last quote, she slammed the door to the bedroom shut. She could already feel tear-pickering in her eyes. She cleaned the tears aggressively while going to the bathroom. 

Stupid. She was stupid. She couldn’t get ready on time. She couldn't do her make-up properly. She couldn’t even pick an outfit. Y/n was looking at herself in the mirror and realised she looked ugly in it.

She began crying even more, her hand pressed to her face. 

Nothing went as planned this week. Nothing went as planned today.

A gentle knock came on the bathroom door, and moments later, Leah walked in, crossing the room quietly and wrapping her arms around Y/n.

“Shh, it’s okay, come here.”

Y/n felt warmth and the sweet smell of Leah’s cologne. 

Leah held Y/n to her chest as she put her chin on top of Y/n’s head, rocking them silently.

It was like the physical comfort was just another trigger for Y/n’s tears. She pressed her body even harder against Leah as she sobbed.

“I’m sorry today’s been so hard,” Leah whispered in her ear. “I also didn’t contribute much to it, huh?”

Leah’s heart clenched, watching Y/n like that, shoulder shaking slightly, feeling the girl sobbing against her body. If Leah was feeling any kind of angriness or frustration, it disappeared the moment she landed her eye on Y/n. 

Leah knew the whole situation wasn’t really about the make-up or the reservation. Y/n had been snappier than usual in the last few days, and Leah had a pretty good guess as to why.

“No, it’s not your fault,” Y/n mumbled, Y/n sniffled, lifting her head slightly to meet Leah’s gaze.” I-I’m just pmsing, I think.” 

“Oh, so that’s what it is,” Leah said knowingly, her lips quirking into a small smile .“My girl always gets so cranky.” Leah pinched Y/n’s cheek playfully.

Y/n nodded, shyly.

“Come on,” Leah said, helping Y/n sit on the bathroom counter while she took some makeup wipes. “Let me help clean you up.”

Y/n sat quietly as Leah grabbed some makeup wipes, her hands surprisingly gentle as she wiped away the smudged eyeliner. Leah’s fingers lingered on Y/n’s face, her thumb brushing along her jaw as if trying to erase more than just makeup.

“I’m sorry I made us lose the reservation,” Y/n mumbled, her voice small “I was just…frustrated about how I looked and the make-up wasn’t helping.”

Leah leaned in and kissed her softly. “It’s okay,” she said quietly. “I get grumpy when I’m PMSing too. You don’t have to feel bad.”

“But I was a bitch,” Y/n muttered, her voice full of guilt.

“Nah,” Leah grinned, waving it off. “Okay, maybe a bit, but I was bloody annoying, so I don’t blame you.”

“I hope we can get the reservations soon?” Y/n asked, looking to the side as Leah gently turned her chin.

“I’ll try again next week, alright?” Leah promised.

“Okay,” Y/n mumbled, still sounding defeated.

“You know,” Leah murmured softly, placing a kiss on Y/n’s temple, “I don’t care if you show up with the messiest eyeliner in the world. You’re still the prettiest girl ever.”

They were in silence as Leah finished cleaning Y/n’s face, her thumb always so gently tracing the line of her cheeks and nose.

“Well, if this cat-eye thing doesn't work out, we could always just go for the ‘I'm so cute even when I cry’ look, "Leah said teasingly, as she wiped the last bit of makeup away.

“I’ll take the cute look any day,” Y/n said, rolling her eyes playfully.

“It looks great on you, darling,” Leah said, kissing Y/n on the lips. “Anything on you looks great.”

“Did you still think that when I had a raccoon-styled eyeliner just half an hour ago?” Y/n smiled, lifting one eyebrow.

“Yes,” Leah winked at her. “It looked edgy, I liked it.”

..

Please don't forget to like, reblog and leave feedback!!! plss <3

Masterlist

[sully-s]

Open in a different window to zoom in. So this is just a deep dive behind all the stuff I put in my last post I rolled back my picture before I did all the lighting and color changes to make certain details more visible. Fun fact I almost scrapped this whole picture at this stage because A. I was just burned out; this piece took me forever. B. As I kept getting more and more "neat" ideas to stuff in, I lost any real focal point, especially with the color scheme. After hours of trying to fix it in PS and failing, I was about to give up. I was like fuck it make it a night scene. Let me tell you all a world of lighting makes lol.

Anyways, enough about my struggles, let me give you the tour.

I love the idea that this corkboard was originally Phoenix's mood board in the beginning it just had his childhood pics from like the yearbook and that one time Larry got a polaroid camera. Then, a new year clipping about Edgeworth being Demon Prosecutor which led Phoenix to make his thesis about court drawings just so he could watch and see with his two eyes how much Edgeworth changed. - Then, later, he added Mia because she was his mentor. then Vinny (from the movie "My Cousin on Vinny") because like Vinny, Phoenix never understands court procedure but has very good instincts; and last Elle Woods who also went to law school for a boy basically his spirit lawyer lol. - Later, after Maya joined, she thought it would be funny to replace Phoenix's real reason to Steel Samurai. Also, it was fun because Will Powers was their client, so he should be their reason. Phoenix let them stay because it made Maya happy, and Phoenix knew that with Mia's death, she needed it. - I was going to add a sticky note from Miles that he approved, but I do like that Miles will never admit out loud or in writing that he enjoys the show. - A year later, Pearls tries to replace all the Steel Samurais with her drawings of Maya. Which Phoenix encouraged her to make during Maya's disappearance because facts. - Tid Bit: I was sad to cover up Will Powers' signature I really liked how it came out

Moving away from the mood board idea, I like that the cork board just became Phoenix's catch all. So his Law Degree which isn't the original it's just a sad printed-out version of what should've been his fancy embossed one. I like the idea that Phoenix never went to graduation. (Can't be bothered he's on a mission to save his childhood bff.)

Lastly are postcards from Edgeworth, his way of making up for all the years he couldn't write back to young Phoenix. - Also, this picture takes place some time after the 3rd game but before the disbarment.

Calendar whiteboard that I forgot to add the last row too so I guess in Japaniforina the months are only 25 days long.

I spent a frustrating amount of time trying to figure out the logistics of this paper trail. It really doesn't need to make sense It just has to make the room messier. - You can imagine Phoenix is looking over phone records or court stenographer's record.

So Edgeworth is a nerd; we all know this. But it annoys me just a tad that his nerd-isum is always just Steel Samurai (like I get it, it's canon), but all geeks have many fandom loves, okay. - So I just love the idea that Phoenix and Edgeworth (who are in a relationship at the time of this pic ) watch Better Call Saul, and they both bought each other a little plushie of the character they joke is them. -Edgeworth bought Saul for Phoenix (because of Saul's heart, not because he does shady practices), And Phoenix bought Kim (because she a really good lawyer who seems cold and is a workaholic who would break the rules for their Saul (used phoenix's badge in the third game )) - They keep each other's plushies in their offices, and if one of them stops by when the other isn't in, they put a sticky note on it. - Which we can see that Phoenix did need reminding because, as you can see, the date is 18th, and no mention of a dinner ;)

7. Now the whole reason I drew this picture was too show off my headcanon that Phoenix has a Harvey Birdman, Attorney at Law action figure that you know Gumshoe got him after Edgeworth vs. State happen because of Polly. And we all know that man would be a fan of old Hanabara cartoons. - I've loved this stupid tid-bit of a headcanon that it's been haunting me for years. That's it; that's all I really wanted to say with this piece, and look where it got

[quiltofstars]

M25 (right) and Pluto // Dave Erickson

The open cluster M25 can sometimes find itself behind some of the planets in our solar system on the sky. This was the case in 2012, when the dwarf planet Pluto passed near the cluster!

[apod]

2025 May 16

Messier 101 Image Credit: NASA, ESA, CFHT, NOAO; Acknowledgement - K.Kuntz (GSFC), F.Bresolin (U.Hawaii), J.Trauger (JPL), J.Mould (NOAO), Y.-H.Chu (U. Illinois)

Explanation: Big, beautiful spiral galaxy M101 is one of the last entries in Charles Messier's famous catalog, but definitely not one of the least. About 170,000 light-years across, this galaxy is enormous, almost twice the size of our own Milky Way. M101 was also one of the original spiral nebulae observed by Lord Rosse's large 19th century telescope, the Leviathan of Parsontown. Assembled from 51 exposures recorded by the Hubble Space Telescope in the 20th and 21st centuries, with additional data from ground based telescopes, this mosaic spans about 40,000 light-years across the central region of M101 in one of the highest definition spiral galaxy portraits ever released from Hubble. The sharp image shows stunning features of the galaxy's face-on disk of stars and dust along with background galaxies, some visible right through M101 itself. Also known as the Pinwheel Galaxy, M101 lies within the boundaries of the northern constellation Ursa Major, about 25 million light-years away.

∞ Source: apod.nasa.gov/apod/ap250516.html

[kikomii]

A LITTLE BIT SCANDALOUS.

໒ sum. It's only your second year as a singer under Vine studios, and things are going well so far. Your debut solo has hit the #1 on the billboard charts, and the following music has not disappointed either. Collaborators are sending you emails left and right, and even modeling agencies and movie studios are trying to cast you. However, every golden success has to come tumbling down; the media is outraged when a picture of you and your co-star breaks the internet, and things get even messier when he accidentally confesses his feelings for you live. A dating scandal with him is the last thing you need. But no need to panic, because the CEO has the greatest damage control ever planned: getting you in a dating rumour with another celebrity that your fans often ship you with- but wait, that's your ex!

Scaramouche x f. reader - smau, exes to lovers, fake dating, idrk what im doing this is my first smau pls

★ started : 8/2/25 . Status : ongoing . Masterlist ★

★ taglist (10/30) [OPEN]: @kunikuzushiit , @eternallykira-143, @kyouzki , @reixtsu, @happyjuhyun, @skyoverkill1, @scaraenthusiast1, @ilovecats-26, @lily-isalittlegirl, @bubblebellaz

Ⓒkikomii. 2025 on tumblr, do not copy, translate or palagrize.

[felassan]

Some info on the SAG-AFTRA strike:

Another post

Messages/info from Erika Ishii, Alex Jordan and Jessica Clark

A message from Jennifer Hale

SAG-AFTRA Interactive Media Agreement Negotiating Committee Chair answers a fan's question on how fans can show support and solidarity during the strike

SAG-AFTRA's page on the strike | News | FAQ

How creators and streamers can show support

Creators and streamers are not being asked to stop playing certain games

Only the American guild is striking. "The UK union are not able to strike due to LAWS in the UK, but do stand in solidarity! Do NOT attack UK actors for working at this time" [source]

"As far as Dragon Age Veilguard, several of the voice cast are SAG-AFTRA members, this would most likely mean they would not be involved in promotion [after SDCC] or would not be able to record any lines/do mocap moving forward." [source]

Also: "The game actors strike rules are messier than it first seems. They can't work on new projects, or ones recently started, but games in production a year or more ago and live service/ongoing games are excluded from the strike (for now)." [source]

Text in first image reads: "From a SAG-AFTRA spokesperson: Due to certain provisions in the IMA contract, games that were in production at the time that the union provided the company its notice of termination are not currently subject to the strike order. Most notices were sent in September 2022. We served a separate notice relating to live service games, which we can strike in less than 60 days. We will update the membership if we expand the strife order to include those games closer to that time." Text in the second image reads: "The language in the IMA is clear that video games that were already in production prior to August 25, 2024, including live service games, are not subject to the strike and remain covered by the ongoing terms of the 2020-2022 IMA. Performers would not be in violation of the strike order if they continue working on these games." [source]

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Derek Thompson at The Atlantic:

For decades, America’s young voters have been deeply—and famously—progressive. In 2008, a youthquake sent Barack Obama to the White House. In 2016, voters ages 18 to 29 broke for Hillary Clinton by 18 points. In 2020, they voted for Joe Biden by 24 points. In 2024, Donald Trump closed most of the gap, losing voters under 30 by a 51–47 margin. In one recent CBS poll, Americans under 30 weren’t just evenly split between the parties. They were even more pro-Trump than Boomers over 65. Precisely polling teens and 20-somethings is a fraught business; some surveys suggest that Trump’s advantage among young people might already be fading. But young people’s apparent lurch right is not an American-only trend.

[...]

There is another potential driver of the global right turn: the pandemic.

Pandemics might not initially seem to cash out in any particular political direction. After all, in the spring of 2020, one possible implication of the pandemic seemed to be that it would unite people behind a vision of collective sacrifice—or, at least, collective appreciation for health professionals, or for the effect of vaccines to reduce severe illness among adults. But political science suggests that pandemics are more likely to reduce rather than build trust in scientific authorities. One cross-country analysis published by the Systemic Risk Center at the London School of Economics found that people who experience epidemics between the ages of 18 and 25 have less confidence in their scientific and political leadership. This loss of trust persists for years, even decades, in part because political ideology tends to solidify in a person’s 20s.

The paper certainly matches the survey evidence of young Americans. Young people who cast their first ballot in 2024 were “more jaded than ever about the state of American leadership,” according to the Harvard Political Review. A 2024 analysis of Americans under 30 found the “lowest levels of confidence in most public institutions since the survey began.” In the past decade alone, young Americans’ trust in the president has declined by 60 percent, while their trust in the Supreme Court, Wall Street, and Congress has declined by more than 30 percent.

[...]

These changes may not be durable. But many people’s political preferences solidify when they’re in their teens and 20s; so do other tastes and behaviors, such as musical preferences and even spending habits.

[...]

New ideologies are messy to describe and messier still to name. But in a few years, what we’ve grown accustomed to calling Generation Z may reveal itself to contain a subgroup: Generation C, COVID-affected and, for now, strikingly conservative. For this micro-generation of young people in the United States and throughout the West, social media has served as a crucible where several trends have fused together: declining trust in political and scientific authorities, anger about the excesses of feminism and social justice, and a preference for rightward politics.

The Atlantic had a story on why a portion of Gen Z went rightwards, and COVID played a large role in that.

[astroismypassion]

It’s really unfortunate, astrologically speaking, what’s happening to Megan Fox currently. But I remember from looking at her chart that she has Saturnian influence over her Juno, which results in “karmic wife” energy. I think she might become fully stable and consistent in her love life only after experiencing her SECOND Saturn Return. I think her being a Sun at 25 (Aries) degree really shows how she needs to learn to be self-reliant, independent and not always needing people around her that make her environment dysfunctional (Ascendant at 19 (Libra) degree. Not to mention Moon at 15 degree (Gemini degree) things could get even messier for her than two baby daddys. Surprisingly a lot of Gemini and Virgo influence in her chart. Gemini Venus, Gemini Chiron, Virgo over the 8th house. I think those people she ends up dating withhold information from her. That’s why she can’t make an educated decision, which could be a manipulation tactic from her intimate partners (Virgo 8th house). A lot of information is revealed to her only later on.