your-local-bi-panic

[your-local-bi-panic]

[your-local-bi-panic]

Masterlist

Series:

Aubrey Griffen

Off The Court:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Sculpt This, Griff

Part 1

Part 2

[your-local-bi-panic]

Part 9: Off The Court

Final part

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Saturday morning.

The sun slips through your window blinds, painting soft lines of gold across your floor. Your room smells like sweat, vanilla lotion, and her.

Aubrey's still wrapped in your sheets — messy bun half-fallen, one shoulder bare, cheek pressed against your pillow like she belongs there.

You’re already out of bed. Moving quietly. Calmly. Sliding your top over your head as you pick out jeans. You don’t say anything — you don’t have to. You know she’s awake.

She shifts just slightly when you tug your jeans up your hips, but not enough to be obvious. Her breathing stays slow, steady. Almost too steady.

You smirk to yourself.

“Aubrey.”

Nothing.

You pick up your phone from the desk, step a little closer to the bed.

“Aubrey,” you say again, this time quieter — and her shoulders twitch.

“I know you’re awake,” you say flatly, amused.

“…No I’m not,” she mutters into your pillow, voice all groggy and muffled.

You walk over and sit at the edge of the bed, watching her pretend to sink further under the covers like that might make her disappear.

“I could feel your eyes on me,” you tease.

“I was resting,” she argues, still hiding, still very much not resting.

You reach down and gently pull the blanket just far enough to see her flushed face. She's biting back a grin.

“Mmhm,” you hum. “Resting. While staring at me like you were about to risk it all.”

“I was admiring,” she whispers, finally peeking up at you. “Is that a crime?”

You lean in slightly. “After last night? Thought you’d be a little more forward.”

She groans and shoves her face back into the pillow, laughing. “You were the one making moves! I’m recovering!”

You just smile, brushing a bit of hair from her face. “You looked pretty alive when you were saying my name like that.”

She lets out a muffled scream into your sheets.

You stand again, slipping into your shoes. “You still wanna walk to class with me?”

Aubrey flips onto her back, hair a mess, completely unbothered now about the blanket slipping a little lower. “I mean… I wasn’t gonna not show up with the girl who ruined me the night before.”

You glance at her, one eyebrow raised. “Ruined?”

She nods solemnly. “Emotionally. Spiritually. Physically. All of it.”

“Wow.” You sling your bag over your shoulder. “So dramatic this early.”

She sits up, stretching. “You bring it out of me.”

You reach for your water bottle, toss her a hoodie from your chair — the one you noticed her eyeing last night. “Wear that if you’re coming.”

She catches it and just stares at you for a second. “Are you trying to make me fall harder or…”

You smirk, heading for the door. “C’mon, Griffin. We’ve got places to be.”

And as she scrambles out of bed, pulling your hoodie over her head, she’s smiling to herself like someone who already knows she’s in deep — and she’s not even mad about it.

——

It’s barely 9 a.m. and the sun’s not even fully committed yet, but here y’all are — walking side by side toward physics like you didn’t completely wreck her the night before.

Aubrey’s in your hoodie, hair naturally styled, and she’s dragging her feet like the sidewalk personally offended her.

“I just feel like we shouldn’t be expected to exist before noon,” she mumbles, clutching her coffee like a lifeline.

You snort. “You chose this 9 a.m. class.”

“I was young and naïve when I did that,” she shoots back, eyes squinting dramatically at the sun. “I didn’t know I’d be… exhausted.”

You glance at her sideways. “Exhausted from what?”

She gives you a look that is so unserious. “Don’t play dumb. You know what.”

You bite back a grin, smooth as ever. “Just making sure you meant what I think you meant.”

She groans like she regrets everything and nothing all at once, tugging the hoodie collar up over half her face. “You’re the worst.”

“Nope,” you smirk, nudging her with your shoulder. “I was pretty damn good last night, actually.”

Aubrey looks at you like she wants to melt into the concrete and disappear—but she’s also grinning. “Why are you like this?”

“Charming?” you offer.

“Cocky,” she corrects, but she’s blushing. “And unfairly attractive this early in the morning.”

You pretend to think on that. “So I look good?”

She rolls her eyes. “You know you look good. It’s obnoxious. You got me out here in your hoodie and sweats, and you’re walking around like a runway model.”

“I just picked something comfy,” you say innocently, even though your jeans are doing exactly what you meant them to do.

“Mhm,” she says, not believing you for a second. “So you're just gonna dress like that and expect me to focus on physics?”

“Sounds like a you problem.”

She groans again, flopping her head back dramatically like she’s physically suffering. “It’s criminal, honestly. You’re gonna waste this outfit on Newton’s dumb little gravity?”

You raise a brow. “Dumb little gravity?”

She waves it off. “Whatever. The point is—since you’re already looking stupid cute and I clearly can’t concentrate anyway…”

You glance at her. “Yeah?”

“…We should go out,” she says, all fast and casual like she didn’t rehearse it in her head three times before saying it.

You blink, smile slow creeping in. “A date?”

“Yeah,” she says, trying so hard to sound casual. “Like, after classes. You, me. Something fun. Not physics. Something that doesn’t require equations or… pants with buttons.”

You laugh. “Is this your way of asking me out?”

“No!” she says too quickly, then immediately backtracks. “I mean yes. I mean—shut up.”

You keep laughing, bumping her lightly with your hip as you reach the building. “Fine. I’ll let you take me out.”

She narrows her eyes playfully. “Let me?”

“Yup. You’re lucky I’m generous.”

She groans again but her grin gives her away — she’s absolutely eating this up.

“Alright, fine,” she says, opening the door for you. “Tonight. I’m planning it. And you’re not allowed to distract me in class.”

“No promises,” you whisper just loud enough for her to hear as you pass.

And judging by the way she practically trips over her own feet, you might not even make it to tonight without some kind of detour.

Physics class.

You’re trying—really trying—to focus on the lecture. But next to you, Aubrey is hunched over your notebook, tongue poking out in concentration like she’s creating the next Mona Lisa

Except… it’s a lopsided stick figure with star eyes and a speech bubble that says, “I ❤️ the girl sitting next to me.”

You glance at her. She doesn’t even flinch—just keeps doodling, head tilted, fully invested in her chaotic little masterpiece.

Now there are hearts. Smiley faces. A very questionable looking basketball. And randomly, the number 44, scribbled over and over in the margins.

You nudge her arm. “What is this?”

“Art,” she whispers like it’s sacred.

You raise an eyebrow. “You just drew me as a stick figure in a ponytail with abs?”

She beams. “I believe in you.”

You can’t even be mad. Her little drawings are all over your notes now, but it’s stupidly cute. There’s even a doodle of her dunking on you, which you end up crossing out.

By the time class ends, your paper looks like a kindergarten valentine—but you fold it carefully and slip it in your bag anyway.

She looks smug. “You’re welcome for the masterpiece.”

“Mmhm. Gonna sell it on eBay.”

“To who??”

You shrug. “Someone with taste.”

She grins and slings her backpack on. “I’ll text you. Wear something date-worthy.”

“Are you picking me up?”

“Oh yeah,” she says, already walking backward toward her next class. “I’m going full rom-com. Doors. Playlist. Maybe even flowers. Who knows.”

You smirk. “Bold.”

“I had a good influence last night,” she calls, winking before disappearing down the hall.

Later that evening.

Your dorm door creaks open before you even walk in.

“Aubrey?” you call, stepping inside.

She’s on your bed. Fully sprawled out like she lives there, hugging one of your throw pillows to her chest, legs dangling off the edge.

“Hi,” she says, grinning like a kid.

“You let yourself in?”

“You gave me the spare key.”

“For emergencies.”

“This is emotionally urgent,” she deadpans.

You drop your bag. “Why are you like this?”

“I missed you,” she shrugs, still grinning. “And I came to escort you to your night of romance.”

You laugh as she dramatically rolls off your bed and lands on her feet. “Night of romance, huh?”

“Oh yeah. Dinner. Adventure. Possibly an impromptu karaoke performance. The works.”

You both clean up and head out, and true to her word — she opens every door. Restaurant, car, even the passenger side like it’s her car (it’s not). She even fastens your seatbelt.

“You’re aware I have arms, right?”

“I’m making memories,” she says, shutting the door with a wink

The Italian restaurant.

She gets spaghetti and meatballs. You order something that doesn’t involve potential sauce disasters. Aubrey, however, is living on the edge.

“I’m about to Lady and the Tramp this meatball,” she whispers.

“Please don’t.”

She rolls a meatball slowly across the plate toward you. “C’mon. Just one tiny bite—”

“No.”

She pouts dramatically and then immediately forgets because the breadsticks arrive and she cheers like she just won a game.

“You are a menace,” you laugh, sipping your drink.

“And yet you’re still here. Wonder why,” she teases.

“Maybe I’m into chaos.”

She waggles her brows. “Hot.”

After dinner.

You’re jamming in her car, windows cracked, her playlist bouncing between 90s rap, early 2000s pop, and random modern hits.

Aubrey is drumming the steering wheel, singing with zero shame, off-key but committed.

She glances at you mid-verse, grinning wide. “You’re not singing. That’s illegal.”

“I’m observing,” you reply. “This is a cultural event.”

She fake gasps. “You’re lucky I like you.”

You grin. “That so?”

“Mhm.”

She parks in front of the dorm building and turns down the music. You’re both still smiling, still riding the glow of good food, good music, and this — this soft, goofy, charged thing building between you.

She opens your door again before you can even move.

“Chivalry,” she says.

“You’re ridiculous.”

She grins. “Yeah, but I’m your ridiculous.”

Outside the Dorm

You and Aubrey are heading back to the dorm, your hands still comfortably intertwined, smiles lingering from the night’s events. There's a lightness in the air between you, the kind that comes from good food, good music, and something... extra that neither of you is quite ready to label.

As you round the corner, you spot a few of the team hanging outside, chatting and laughing, and as soon as they see you two, everything shifts.

Aaliyah’s the first to speak up, giving you both a once-over. “Okay, I see you two—look at those to-go boxes! What’s the deal, huh? Date night?” She teases, giving you both a look, her eyebrows raised.

Caroline immediately jumps in, giving you a dramatic gasp. “Oh my God, look at the interlocked hands! I swear, if I wasn’t standing here, I’d think we were witnessing something straight out of a rom-com.”

You feel your cheeks heat up but try to play it off. Aubrey’s quick to respond, squeezing your hand a little tighter. “It’s nothing,” she says, feigning indifference, but there's a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Just a casual dinner date with the most amazing company. Nothing special.”

Nika, who’s been quietly observing, pipes up with a sly grin. “Nothing special? Y’all are wearing the same goofy grin, and you’re holding hands like you’re in a high school drama. Come on, spill it. Did you guys even go anywhere else besides dinner, or was the whole night just one big love fest?”

Paige smirks at Nika’s words, turning back to you with a knowing glance. “Wait a second, I think I’ve cracked the case. The whole hickey situation? That wasn’t just some random thing... this is your doing, right?” She points at Aubrey, clearly referencing the time you had both been a bit more... enthusiastic in private.

Aubrey grins, giving a dramatic sigh. “Wow, Paige, you’re so sharp. Yes, we’ve got a thing,” she says, giving you a playful wink. “But seriously, don’t expect any further details.”

“Ohhh, I see how it is,” Paige teases, throwing her hands up. “So are we just supposed to pretend like this isn’t an official thing now? Because we’re all dying to know.”

Caroline smirks, leaning in and giving you a nudge. “Y’all are pretty cute together. Don’t worry, we’re not going to hold it against you... much.”

Aaliyah chuckles, adding her own jab. “Can you two stop making googly eyes at each other for like two seconds? Seriously, I feel like I’m in a sappy Netflix movie.”

Aubrey grins, her hand still on yours. “Well, we’ll just have to let the world deal with it. It’s not our fault we’re this adorable.”

The girls all burst out laughing, clearly enjoying this playful banter. But then Dorka, ever the instigator, adds with a wink, “I’m not gonna lie. You two are really cute together. It’s almost sickening.”

“Almost?” Aubrey grins back. “Yeah, I’ll take ‘almost.’ Thanks for the compliment.”

After a few more playful jabs, the team starts to head inside, each one adding their own little comment as they walk by.

“You guys are a mess,” Aaliyah says with a grin. “But seriously, you two are so cute together.”

“I’m just shocked Aubrey scored on y/n.”

“Whatever,” Aubrey shrugs with a smile. “We know. Now, can I go inside before I accidentally kill someone with my jacket?”

As the girls head inside, the energy between you and Aubrey is relaxed again, and you both make your way to the dorm in comfortable silence, your hands still entwined.

Aubrey’s Room

The moment you enter Aubrey’s room, the chatter and jokes of the hallway fade away. You’re met with the calming atmosphere of her dorm, soft lighting, and that familiar scent of her cologne.

Aubrey kicks off her shoes and falls onto her bed dramatically, letting out a fake groan as if she’s utterly exhausted. You follow, sitting on the edge as she pulls a blanket over herself and pats the spot next to her.

“So, are we gonna pretend like that didn’t just happen?” Aubrey asks with a smirk, her head propped up on her hand, looking at you sideways.

You chuckle, shrugging. “No need to. They were just messing with us.”

“True,” she says, eyes twinkling. “But I think we’ve got some explaining to do.” She makes a mock-serious face. “Did you know the entire team now thinks we’re, like, officially together?”

You raise an eyebrow, giving her a playful side-eye. “Didn’t you just tell them that?”

She shrugs innocently. “Yeah, but I’m pretty sure they’re still not buying it. We might have to kiss in front of them tomorrow just to make it official.”

You laugh, lying down next to her. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know,” she grins. “But at least I’m entertaining. I swear, you’re lucky to have me.”

You turn to her, a smirk forming. “Yeah, I think I am.”

Aubrey snickers, cuddling into your side. “Well, if we’re stuck being cute together, I guess I’ll just have to put up with all your charms.”

You laugh again, both of you relaxing into the quiet of the room. The teasing had died down, and now it’s just the two of you, telling silly stories and winding down from the excitement of the evening. Aubrey talks about practice, sharing an absolutely ridiculous story about a prank gone wrong, and you laugh so hard your stomach hurts.

“Best night ever,” she says quietly, her head nestled into your shoulder, her voice a soft whisper.

“Agreed,” you murmur, threading your fingers through her hair. “Thanks for everything, Aubrey. Seriously.”

She looks up at you, giving you that crooked smile you’ve come to adore. “Anytime, babe.”

And with that, you both drift off into comfortable silence, knowing tomorrow would bring more teasing from the team, but for now, everything felt perfect.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ok I think I’m gonna end it right here. I honestly don’t know what else to write for this story. So I hope y’all enjoyed!!!

[your-local-bi-panic]

Part 2: Sculpt This, Griff

Final Part

Description: You’re peacefully sculpting in your dorm when you get swarmed by notifications on a TikTok live. Is the UConn team actually talking about your artistic abilities?

Warnings: none

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your screen goes black as the live ends, leaving you staring at your reflection in the camera — flushed cheeks, clay-streaked fingers, and a slightly dumbfounded look on your face.

“…what just happened,” you mutter to yourself, tossing your phone down and flopping back on the floor.

One second you were sculpting in peace, the next you were going toe-to-toe with Aubrey Griffin on a live in front of thousands of people — and not just arguing. Flirting. Hard.

Your phone buzzes again.

A text. Unknown number.

[Unknown Number]

You’re a menace. But I’m kinda obsessed. 😌

You blink, heart skipping. Then another message comes in.

[Unknown Number]

It’s Aubrey btw. Don’t block me. Unless it’s part of your sculpting process or whatever.

You sit up, snort-laughing. Before you can even respond, she sends a third.

[Aubrey Griffin]

Seriously though. That was fun. We should actually do something. You, me, some clay… we can see whose “art has more depth.”

You type, pause, then delete. Then type again:

[You]

Only if you promise not to bring crayons this time.

A beat. Then:

[Aubrey Griffin]

No promises. I like to express myself in vibrant primary colors.

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are already aching from grinning.

Then a final message pops in.

[Aubrey Griffin]

Saturday? You teach me how to not embarrass myself artistically. I’ll bring snacks.

[You]

Deal. But I take payment in coffee and humility.

[Aubrey Griffin]

Humility? That sounds fake. But I’ll try for you.

Saturday afternoon.

You hear the knock before you even finish tying up your apron. You wipe your hands on a towel and open the door to find Aubrey leaning against the frame, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair in a bun, and a cocky little grin on her face.

“You ready to lose?” she says.

You raise an eyebrow. “You brought the crayons, didn’t you.”

She pulls a jumbo pack out of her hoodie pocket like she’s presenting a rare artifact. “The deluxe set. With glitter.”

You snatch them, toss them onto your desk. “Disqualified.”

She laughs and steps inside, eyes widening as she takes it all in. Your dorm’s been transformed — shelves full of ceramic bowls, handmade mugs, a corner stacked with sketches, a massive canvas-in-progress propped against the wall. Half a dozen half-finished clay pieces sit on a table near the window, bathed in soft light.

“Whoa,” Aubrey says softly, turning in a slow circle. “This is… like, an actual artist’s studio. I thought I was stepping into a dorm.”

You smirk. “Yeah, well, some of us have hobbies that don’t include trash-talking on TikTok lives.”

“Bold of you to call yourself humble,” she teases, then nods toward the small easel you’ve set up. “Alright, let’s get this over with. Portrait time?”

You hand her a pencil and paper. “Try to capture the essence of my soul.”

She squints at you, dramatically. “Mmm… chaos. And maybe caffeine.”

Twenty minutes later, you're holding in laughter as Aubrey reveals what looks suspiciously like a stick figure wearing hoop earrings.

You hold yours up beside it — her, drawn in soft graphite lines, detailed and focused, somehow both casual and intimate. She stares at it for a long moment. “...Okay, rude. That’s actually good.”

You shrug. “Told you I’d win.”

She’s still looking at the drawing when she says, quieter, “How do you do that?”

You glance up. “Do what?”

“Make it look like someone’s… real. Like they exist on the paper.”

You pause. Then shrug your shoulders as a light blush makes its way up your neck.

Aubrey takes one more lap around your room, pausing in front of a painting with thick brushstrokes and colors that blend like storm clouds and sunlight. “You did all of this?”

You nod, a little sheepish despite the pride in your chest. “Yeah. I mean… I didn’t sleep much last semester.”

She crouches by a shelf of small sculptures — little bowls, abstract figures, a few animals mid-motion. Her fingers ghost the edge of a lopsided mug. “Okay, you weren’t kidding. You are the best artist at UConn.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is that an apology?”

She grins. “It’s a surrender.”

Then she turns toward you, head tilted just slightly. “Teach me?”

You blink. “Wait, seriously?”

Aubrey shrugs, suddenly bashful. “I mean… yeah. If you want. I’m not promising a masterpiece, but—”

“I didn’t think you could ask for help.”

Her mouth drops open in mock offense. “Wow. Clay to the face.”

You laugh and gesture to the little workstation by the window. “Come on then, art girl.”

She takes the seat beside you, knees bumping yours, her leg warm against yours even through jeans. You hand her a chunk of clay and she holds it like it might explode. You try not to smile too much.

“We’ll start simple,” you say, reaching for your own piece. “We’ll make a dinosaur.”

She blinks. “A what?”

You’re already shaping the base. “Everyone’s first clay animal ends up looking like a dinosaur anyway. Might as well lean into it.”

She laughs. “That’s fair.”

A few minutes in, she’s pressing too hard, fingers smushing the shape into something… vaguely tragic. You scoot closer, shifting behind her a bit.

“Here,” you say softly, slipping your hands around hers, “let me show you.”

She stills. Her breath catches just slightly when your fingers close over hers, guiding them gently over the clay.

“Less pressure,” you murmur, “just enough to shape it.”

Your voice is right by her ear now, and you feel her relax into the motion, shoulders unwinding under your touch. You keep your hands there for a few more moments, pressing your thumbs over hers to smooth the ridge of what might become the dino’s back.

Then you slowly let go.

“Okay,” you say, leaning back, “your turn.”

She keeps going, more focused now, tongue caught between her teeth. “I think he’s coming together.”

You nod approvingly. “He’s got character.”

“Wait—damn.” One of the legs starts tilting to the side, making the whole thing slouch. “Okay, rude. He’s trying to die.”

You lean in again, nudging the base gently. “Not on my watch.”

Aubrey’s hand bumps yours as you both try to fix it, your fingers brushing, clay smearing across her knuckle. She glances at you, something flickering in her eyes.

You raise a brow. “You’re messy.”

She swipes a streak of clay across your cheek without missing a beat. “So are you.”

“Ohhh. That’s how it is?”

The next thing you know, you’ve got a smear of clay-water on her jaw, and she’s laughing as she retaliates, a bit of clay landing right on your shoulder.

And just like that, it’s chaos.

Water drips across your apron, clay smudges in places clay should not be, and you’re both trying to sculpt and sabotage at the same time. But somehow — somehow — the little dinosaur makes it through.

He’s a little uneven, a little droopy, but adorable in the way only a battle-hardened clay creature could be.

Aubrey looks down at it, then over at you, grinning. “Not bad for our first kid.”

You laugh, the words slipping out before you can catch them. “We’ll put him on the fridge.”

She leans in, just slightly, eyes still on you. “You’d let me near your fridge?”

You meet her gaze, a little breathless. “Maybe.”

She doesn’t say anything right away, but she doesn’t pull back either. Your knees are still touching. Her hair’s falling slightly in her face, and there’s a streak of clay on her jaw you could definitely wipe away — if you weren’t afraid touching her would undo you.

The air between you shifts, thick with something unspoken.

And yet… she just smiles. Picks up the dinosaur gently and sets it on your desk like it’s sacred.

“Same time next week?” she asks casually, like she didn’t almost make your heart stop.

You nod. “Yeah. For sure.”

She starts to stand, but not before brushing her fingers over your wrist, feather-light.

Then she’s gone.

And you’re left staring at the door, breath stuck somewhere in your throat, with clay on your cheek and a little dinosaur on your desk who saw everything.

Next Saturday, late afternoon.

You’ve barely set your brushes down when there’s a knock at the door. You already know who it is — your stomach’s been doing that thing all day. You open the door, and there she is: Aubrey, paint-stained hoodie, curls loose today, holding an iced coffee in one hand and a tiny plastic bag in the other.

“For our son,” she says, wiggling the bag.

Inside? A mini paint set and a tiny foam brush.

You blink. “You got him his own supplies?”

“Excuse me,” she says, stepping inside, “but if he’s going on display, he needs to pop. I thought we agreed he was gonna be a star.”

You close the door behind her, already grinning. “What did you name him?”

Aubrey sets down the supplies and shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Blorbo.”

You stare. “Blorbo?”

“It’s his vibe.”

You lose it, leaning on your desk as you laugh. “Our child is doomed.”

But before long, you’re both seated side by side again, paint pots open, paper towels laid out (not that you’ll use them), and Blorbo the Dinosaur front and center like a king about to get his royal paint job.

“He’s going blue,” Aubrey announces, dipping the brush into the paint. “Because he’s cool under pressure.”

You snort. “That’s your reasoning?”

“Also it’s the only color I know how to use without making a mess.”

Five minutes in, you’re already laughing because Blorbo looks like he’s mid-makeover and panicking about it. Aubrey’s trying to do clean edges but keeps overdoing it.

“Careful—you're giving him a racing stripe,” you tease, reaching out to smooth the paint with your brush. Your hand brushes hers again. She doesn’t move away.

You both freeze for half a second, eyes flicking up to meet. Then—

“I meant to do that,” she says, too fast.

“Sure you did.”

She dabs a light blue dot on Blorbo’s back, smug. “Highlight. Boom. Natural talent.”

You tilt your head. “That’s actually not bad.”

“Say it louder.”

You roll your eyes and reach for the spot she missed. She moves closer to see better, and now her shoulder’s pressed against yours. You don’t say anything about it. Neither does she.

“I’m just saying,” she murmurs as she watches you work, “if this whole sculpting prodigy thing doesn’t work out, you could always start a custom dinosaur business.”

You raise an eyebrow. “With you as my business partner?”

“Obviously. I’m the branding.”

You lean back, inspecting Blorbo. “Okay. He’s kind of adorable.”

“He’s thriving,” Aubrey says. Then she dips her brush in water, looks at you mischievously, and flicks it—just barely—so a drop hits your cheek.

You gasp. “You did not.”

Her grin is dangerous. “You looked too clean.”

Without thinking, you swipe your brush across her forearm — a streak of blue, bright and bold.

She blinks. “Okay. War.”

The next few minutes are a blur of laughter and chaos — water splashes, streaks of paint, and somehow a dab ends up on the tip of your nose. Aubrey’s laughing so hard she nearly knocks over the water cup, and you end up both trying to catch it, your hands colliding.

You’re both breathless now, flushed, still too close. Paint clings to your skin, your clothes, your shared little world of brushes and ceramic dinosaurs and unspoken tension.

She looks at you — really looks — and something shifts again.

“You’ve got…” She reaches up slowly, fingers brushing your cheek. “Paint. Right here.”

Her touch lingers just a second too long.

You swallow. “So do you.”

You press your thumb gently to her jawline, wiping away a smear of pale blue. Neither of you move.

You could kiss her.

You could.

But instead—

“Blorbo’s judging us,” you say, voice soft and teasing.

She grins, leaning in a little closer. “He’ll get over it.”

And then… maybe she doesn’t kiss you.

But it’s damn close

——

Blorbo is officially complete.

He’s a little shiny from the sealant, his ocean-blue body dotted with careful light blue spots, and he looks like the proud, paint-covered child of two artists who had way too much fun arguing over how many dots was “too many.”

You both sit back, admiring him from across the desk.

“He’s a masterpiece,” Aubrey says, brushing dried paint from her wrist. “A little lopsided still, but that’s personality.”

You nod solemnly. “Like his mom.”

She throws a paint-stained napkin at you. “Rude. I’m the artistic one.”

You snort. “Right. You painted the left eye crooked.”

“He was blinking!”

Still grinning, Aubrey leans forward, resting her chin in her hand as she looks at Blorbo. “Okay, real talk… can I take him back with me?”

You glance at her, surprised. “Seriously?”

She nods. “Joint custody. But he should stay at my place first. First artistic child and all.”

You pretend to consider. “Only if you promise visitation rights.”

“Obviously. You can see him weekends and holidays.”

“Mm. Every other Wednesday too.”

“Deal.”

Back in Aubrey’s dorm.

She carefully places Blorbo on her dresser, centered like he’s royalty. She even adjusts a lamp slightly to give him better lighting.

“Look at him,” she whispers to herself. “Our perfect son.”

Before she can revel too long, the dorm door opens and in come a few of the basketball girls — KK, Nika, and Aaliyah, loud and laughing already.

“Aubreeeyyy,” KK sings. “Where’s the masterpiece?”

“I brought him back,” Aubrey says proudly, stepping aside.

They crowd around the dresser.

“Wait,” Nika says, squinting at Blorbo. “You made this?”

Aubrey shrugs casually. “Yeah. With help.”

“With a lot of help,” Aaliyah adds, eyeing her.

KK squints. “No way you did those details. You can barely draw a stick figure.”

“Excuse me?!”

They don’t buy it — and before long, KK’s already pulling out her phone. “We’re going live. People need to see this.”

Live on TikTok.

The comments explode instantly. People remember the last live. The teasing. The tension. The energy.

KK turns the camera toward the dino. “Everyone, meet Blorbo. Aubrey’s son. Also maybe the real star of the show.”

Nika leans in. “He’s like… actually cute. Which is sus.”

“Suspicious because there’s no way Aubrey made something this good,” KK laughs.

“Okay,” Aubrey defends herself, stealing the phone, “first of all, rude. Second of all…”

She turns toward the screen with a smirk and hits accept.

The screen splits. Your face pops up.

The comments go feral.

There’s no greeting. Aubrey just holds up Blorbo dramatically. “Say hi to your other parent.”

You blink. “Is this a custody check-in?”

KK howls off-camera. “YES! We’re trying to figure out which one of you actually made him!”

You shrug innocently. “He has my brushstroke genes.”

Aubrey gasps. “He got your chaos. That was your light blue splatter!”

“He thrives in that environment.”

“Hmm,” she smirks. “Well, just so you know, he’s sleeping on my side of the dresser. You get him next weekend.”

“Oh, we’re doing weekends now? What about mid-week playdates?”

Aubrey grins. “We’ll set up a calendar.”

The team in the background is living for it — loud, dramatic reactions, fake sobs, KK pretending to officiate a custody hearing. And the fans? They’re already clipping the live, comments pouring in faster than anyone can read.

“BLOBRO FAMILY SUPREMACY”

“just kiss already omg”

“when’s the custody swap vlog??”

“@UConnWBB pls give them a reality show”

“this isn’t about a dinosaur anymore is it 👀”

Aubrey looks back at the camera, her smile soft now. “Okay, but like… for real. He turned out so cute.”

You nod. “We did good.”

She catches your gaze through the screen, just a little longer than needed. “We really did.”

“I think he'll need a sister though”.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you have any requests please fill free to send them in. 😁😁

[your-local-bi-panic]

Sculpt This, Griff

Oneshot

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ok so don't kill me. 😁😁 Ik I haven't finished the Off The Court series, but I've had this in my mind all day while I was sculpting… soooo I had to write it.

Warning: none

Description: You’re peacefully sculpting in your dorm when you get swarmed by notifications on a TikTok live. Is the UConn team actually talking about your artistic abilities?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

UConn’s dorms weren’t exactly known for being aesthetic, but your room had become a mini art studio. Half-sculpted busts sat on your desk, a chunk of clay waited patiently under plastic wrap, and the faint scent of plaster always hung in the air.

You’re halfway through shaping the curve of a ceramic sculpture in your dorm when your phone buzzes for the third time in five minutes. You ignore it again, brushing your forearm across your forehead and staring down the clay like it personally challenged you.

The clay sagged a little on one side. You sighed.

Then a knock on your door broke your focus, followed by your roommate’s muffled voice through the door:

“Hey! Are you watching K.K.’s live right now?”

You frowned. “No?”

“You might wanna... check it.”

You set your tool down with a thud and reached for your phone, already annoyed —notifications flood your screen—DMs, tags, and then the one that makes your stomach twist a little:

@kkarnold23 wants you to join their TikTok Live.

And below it:

@aubzfan89: Aubrey Griffin is talking about you @sculptedby(y/n)

@wbbwatch24: OMG get (Y/N) in here.

@hoopjunkie: Sculptor vs stick figure artist LET'S GOOO.

“What the hell,” you muttered, swiping to open the app. The live was already in full swing.

KK’s face filled the screen, laughing like she’d just watched a reality TV plot twist happen in real time. Aubrey Griffin sat behind her on the couch, sipping a Gatorade with the smug expression of someone who had just been thoroughly roasted and secretly enjoyed it.

She was sprawled out in athletic sweats and an oversized black graphic tee. Her hair was being pulled up into a slicked bun, that rested up on the crown of her head.

KK spotted you joining instantly. “AYYYY hold up! She’s here!”

Aubrey straightened, eyes locking on the camera with sudden interest.

"About time," she said, grinning.

You rolled your eyes but couldn't help smiling a little. Your dorm camera flicked on as you accepted the invite. Within seconds, the screen split in two — their chaotic, snack-strewn common room on one side, your dimly lit art cave on the other. Clay smudged your hands and sweatshirt, leaving a thin smear of white dust across your cheek, while your long curly hair was thrown up in a messy bun, featuring some clay-infused strands.

KK’s jaw dropped. “Yo. She’s actually sculpting right now.”

“I told y’all,” someone shouted offscreen — probably Nika — “she lives in a literal museum!”

Aubrey leaned closer, brow raised. “Okay, so like… this is real? You're just casually in here shaping Michelangelo-level neck muscles?”

“Someone has to balance out your doodle energy,” you deadpanned.

KK choked on her water.

Aubrey blinked at you for a second, like she hadn’t expected you to bite back that fast. Then she smiled — slow and wide, like you just became her favorite new challenge.

“Wow. So you’re spicy.”

You smirked. “You’re the one calling yourself a generational art talent because you can draw hearts next to your name.”

“I’ll have you know my stick figure game is revolutionary,” Aubrey said, sitting up taller. “Minimalism. Abstract emotion. Movement.”

“You drew a dog yesterday and it had six legs,” KK muttered.

“Six legs of passion,” Aubrey corrected.

The chat was losing its collective mind.

@deep-threes.only: THE CHEMISTRY?

@rebound_fiend: Aubrey is blushing. Aubrey. Is. Blushing."

@swishsquad: SHIP NAME IDEAS GO.

You just shook your head, trying to suppress the flush threatening your own cheeks. “You keep talking like that and I might have to sculpt you. With all six legs.”

Aubrey laughed, the kind that started in her chest and spilled out, unfiltered. “Do it. Immortalize me in clay. But I want dramatic cheekbones.”

“Oh, those are already happening,” you said, casually smoothing the clay under your hands. “I’m sculpting you right now, actually.”

Aubrey’s eyes flicked to the half-formed sculpture on your desk. “Wait. No way.”

You said nothing. Just smiled.

KK’s jaw dropped again. “Is she serious? Are you serious?”

Aubrey looked stunned for a split second — then broke into a grin that had danger written all over it.

“I knew it,” she said, voice dropping a little. “You are obsessed with me.”

You laughed. “Get out of here.”

“Too late,” she said, lounging back. “I live here now. I’m your muse.”

KK was fully losing it by this point. “I’m ending this live before it turns into a whole romcom montage with pottery wheel scenes and slow-mo hair flips.”

You glanced back at your sculpture, at the smooth line of the jaw you were shaping — a little sharper now than before. Maybe unintentionally. Maybe not.

Aubrey caught the glance. “Is that me?”

You didn’t answer. But your smirk said enough.

[your-local-bi-panic]

I love your writing style!! Not that many people write for Aubrey, I love the story and plot sm I hope u keep writinggg

Aww thank you!! Yea I’ve been like begging people to write for Aubrey so I can read them. Bc like why not she’s so awkwardly cute and fineeee. 🙇‍♀️🙇‍♀️ I also believe that I’ve read every Aubrey fic there is but if anyone knows one 🌚 please tell me

[your-local-bi-panic]

‘Fuck the polic-‘ A GIRL IS TRYING HER BEST OVER HERE

[your-local-bi-panic]

Craving Like A Lungful - S.R

you ask spencer a question about breath play. he gives you a lecture, a safety demonstration, and a mind-shattering orgasm. in that order.

pairings: spencer reid x fem!reader warnings: 18+ MDNI, AFAB, reader wearing a skirt, breath play, choking (consensual), fingering, dirty talk, praise, experimentation, soft dom reid, power exchange, pet names, 75% smut and 25% love letter to spencer reid's fingers wc: 4.1k

He’s torturing you. Actually, genuinely torturing you. Spencer Reid, certified genius, closeted sadist, worst man on Earth. 

Except, well, obviously, he isn’t. You would qualify him as your favorite person in existence on any given day, and therein lies half the problem. 

Because right now, he’s just sitting there, reading, while his fingertips scrap absent-minded shapes along the slope of your neck. Each harmless pass managing to turn your thoughts to mush and bones to jelly. 

At this point, you’re convinced you’re less a person and more a limp collection of nerves slumped against his side, pretending (poorly, might you add) to watch a show you mentally abandoned about ten minutes ago.

You’re too busy contemplating just how blatantly you’d need to behave to distract him from those words and coax him into pursuits you deem far more exciting. Pursuits that involve significantly more touching.

His grasp on you briefly firms, just a heartbeat of strain if that.

You know it was surely accidental, but your body can’t compensate for the difference. You try to swallow the intrusion of indecent thoughts like sour medicine.

The dose doesn’t take.

You can’t help but wonder what it would be like to be pinned beneath him, discovering firsthand the perfect contradiction that is Spencer’s innate gentleness and the strength you’re suddenly craving from his hands.

You’re not crazy for this, you reassure yourself desperately. He’s safe. He’s the literal personification of comfort, disguised in scholarly tweed and tender kisses. 

Fantasizing him into something rougher, a little less cautious... it doesn't cancel that out. It just colors it deeper. Some might consider it acceptable, even. Right?

“Spence?”

“Hmm?” He answers preoccupiedly, the pad of his finger wetting against his tongue before flipping another page.

“What do you, um… what do you know about breath play?”

You hate the way your throat tightens immediately as the question leaves your mouth. (The universe is a huge fan of irony, you’ve discovered.)

“You know I love when you ask me questions,” he begins slowly. “But something tells me this one isn’t purely theoretical.” His regard eases as his eyes track over your shoulders, now curving inward. “Am I right?”

“Yeah.” 

You could try to pretend otherwise, but you’ve come to realize, faking it is futile with Spencer. You’re sure he already knows. He’s had months to figure you out, and he treats that like a privilege — just one he’s very good at using to his advantage.

“Alright, sweetheart. Enlighten me. What exactly has you curious?”

You flap your hand, unsure what you’re even trying to say with it, and instantly feel ridiculous. Silly even. 

But Spencer smiles like he thinks you’re charming and suddenly your embarrassment feels a little less terminal.

“I guess like, what’s the science behind it? Is it an adrenaline thing? A psychological thing? Or is it just, you know… a thing?”

Spencer’s hand drops from your neck, sliding to rest on your shoulder instead. It’s not exactly abrupt, but it’s unexpected enough to spark a little twinge of disappointment that sneaks out in the form of a tiny frown.

You hurry to erase it, but not fast enough.

“I only moved my hand,” he clarifies, “because I don’t want to introduce any external variables into this discussion.”

You stare, brows pinching together. “External variables?”

“Yes.” He nods. “If I kept touching your neck while describing breath play, I'd risk subconsciously steering your reactions. Maybe stirring up curiosity, maybe aversion, or maybe something more complicated. Removing the physical cue ensures you form your opinion independently.”

You squint at him. “That’s… weirdly considerate. And possibly a tiny bit intense, Professor.”

“It’s an intense topic.”

“Oh. Right. Guess that tracks.”

He’s got that look now, that particular smile he only pulls out when you’ve made him laugh without intending to. You should feel annoyed. You’re not. It's more like lucking into treasure when you were content sifting through scraps. 

“Okay, so… think of it like this,” he starts, already slipping into that half-professor, half-boyfriend tone. “When you restrict airflow, even briefly, your body interprets it as a stressor. That triggers a fight-or-flight response. Your heart rate spikes, adrenaline kicks in, and your brain releases dopamine to counteract the stress.”

He pauses slightly, eyes searching yours to ensure you’re still with him. You are, mostly. Enough, anyway.

“That dopamine rush is what makes it feel so good to some people. It’s the same principle behind things like sky-diving or high-intensity workouts, the brain perceives a mild, controlled threat and rewards you with a chemical high.”

You open your mouth to interrupt but Spencer’s lips are already curling into a sideways grin, like he’s already one step ahead of you.

“And before you ask, yes, it’s completely safe when done correctly. The key is control. It’s never about actual danger, just the illusion of it.”

You hesitate for a second, then ask, “I mean… how do you know when someone’s doing it right versus, like, actively trying to murder you?”

“First of all, it shouldn’t feel aggressive or sudden. You should feel an edge of intensity without genuine fear or distress. Your body’s reactions shouldn’t tip over into panic or actual pain.” He leans forward, his proximity suddenly sharpened. “And secondly, it has to be with someone you trust implicitly. This isn’t the sort of activity you’d want to try after a few drinks at a questionable frat party.” He lifts a brow. “Selfishly, I’d much rather you not explore something this delicate with anyone but me.”

“Spencer.”

“Just being responsible, angel,” he says lightly, completely unrepentant as he dips forward, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. “I’d hate to imagine you in the inexperienced hands of someone less qualified.”

You press your lips together, glaring in a way you hope reads as stern instead of hopelessly flustered. “Don’t make fun.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Which, given his shit-eating grin, is an outright lie. His hand finds your knee and squeezes. “Any other pressing questions?”

“Have you ever done it?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” You fumble momentarily, grasping to find footing that doesn’t involve imagining him with someone else. “Um, so, was it — did you like it?”

He tugs your knee a little closer. “I think you’re asking because you hope my experience will give you some clarity about your own feelings.”

You freeze, because, well, yeah, that’s exactly what you were doing. And hearing it out loud makes it harder to dodge.

“The thing is,” he continues softly, patiently, “my answer won’t really help, sweetheart. My role is fundamentally different, both physically and psychologically, from yours. You're the one feeling the rush. I’d be the one carefully controlling it.” He tilts his head, studying your reaction. “What you need to ask yourself is how the idea itself makes you feel.”

You stare down at your hands, willing an answer to manifest. But the truth is, you don’t have one.

Everything you know about this is secondhand. The way your friends talk about it, joking over drinks like it’s no big deal. The way it’s portrayed in movies, always intense and dramatic. The way a passage in a book makes you pause, reread it over again, just to be sure.

But all of that is distant, safely removed from your actual life. None of it feels like you.

“It’s complicated,” you admit, squirming under his gaze. “It feels interesting in theory. Like, hypothetically exciting. But actually enjoying it? That’s still an enormous, intimidating question mark.”

Spencer’s eyes flick over you once, assessing, before he nods. 

“Alright,” he says. “Well, this is a safe, controlled environment. We can take it step by step, nice and logical, okay?”

You nod quickly — probably too quickly. Spencer’s mouth twitches, but he’s kind enough not to call you on it.

His hand moves back to one side of your neck.

“Let’s start by narrowing it down,” he continues, “If I touched you right here —” his voice dipping intimately, “— what’s the first thing you feel? Excited? Nervous? Both?”

Spencer’s hand is cold, just on the edge of uncomfortably so, but by now, you’ve learned to anticipate it.

The first time, he’d explained away the chill, intertwining your fingers while he launched into a gentle explanation about blood vessels, circulation, and temperature regulation, as if medical jargon might warm you up faster. Your dazed, crush-drunk state had earnestly tried to soak up every word.

The second time, however, there had been no hope of retaining anything. His fingers tracing circles around your clit, whispering against your neck something vaguely scientific — vasoconstriction, maybe? — the words entirely lost beneath your own breathy sighs.

Maybe some responsible corner of your brain caught it and tucked it away for later. But right now, all you can feel is the heat flooding your skin, surging up to meet those same chilly fingers, smothering any hope of remembering a damn thing.

You wet your lips. “Yeah, I…I think I like it.”

Spencer raises an eyebrow. “Think?”

You try to swallow, but it’s clumsy. Like your brain forgot how, his touch is so light, it barely registers, and you're honestly not even sure he is touching you or if your brain's inventing it, already drunk on the idea.

“I do like it,” you clarify quickly, ears burning. “But it’s not like you’re doing anything unusual yet.”

“That's because I’d rather ease you into it than overwhelm you.” 

His eyes remain locked with yours as he slowly adjusts his hand, four fingers resting on one side of your neck, thumb curving around to the opposite side. 

“And this? How does this make you feel?”

You don’t plan to react, but your breath tangles mid-inhale, catching on something sharp. Too fast in, not enough out.

Your fingers tap aimlessly against your thigh, unsure where to go, what to do with all this feeling and nothing to burn it on.

Spencer must notice, because a second later, his free hand finds yours, cold fusing with warm.

“I like the weight of it,” you whisper, barely trusting your voice. “Feels… assertive. In a good way.”

Spencer hums before leaning in, close enough for you to see where his lashes clump at the tips, impossibly dark. 

“Yeah, it probably does feel that way,” he says, thumb brushing under your ear. “Doesn’t mean I’m trying to take control. Just means I like knowing I have your attention.”

You almost laugh. He has your attention, your focus, your heart, and a few other things you probably shouldn’t name. But you just nod like he’s not entirely right.

“What now?”

“That depends on you,” he says. “We can take the next step, and I can apply gradual pressure to let you experience the sensation, monitor your response.” His eyes drag over your face. “Or we can pause. Talk it through. Or we can stop.” A squeeze to your hand. “There’s no wrong answer.”

“I want to take the next step,” you say, trying to hide the urgency. “But I might not react the way I’m supposed to.”

“There’s no supposed to,” he says, thumb sweeping over your wrist. “You don’t have to react in any particular way. We’re just exploring. No expectations.”

“Okay,” you nod. “Just… talk me through it?”

“Always.”

His fingers tighten. Just a little. Almost like a symphony getting louder, but one instrument, one beat at a time. You don’t breathe, just to feel it better.

“Let’s stay here a second. Let you get used to it.”

The size of his hand dwarfs your throat, fingers splayed wide directly over your jugular, encompassing delicate skin and fragile bone. 

You’re not blind to the strength of him. But what strikes you is the control he exercises over it. The ease with which he could hurt and instead chooses to draw out something else entirely. Every move angled towards pleasure, not power.

He’s studying you now. You know it without meeting his gaze. You can feel the scrutiny everywhere, razor-sharp eyes stripping back every layer you thought you were hiding. Measuring. Tracking. 

But you realize it’s more than just simple observation. It’s also craving, masked behind patience. 

“Still okay?”

You nod.

“Alright I’m gonna tighten a bit. Tell me if it’s too much.”

He thumb sweeps over your windpipe without closing off any air. Your thighs clamp together accordingly, locking around your joined hands.

Spencer laughs, not at you, never that, but with the same quiet pride he gets when one of his obscure theories turns out to be correct. 

Trust you to be another equation effortlessly solved by his clever fingers.

His hand slips from yours, redirecting to nudge your legs apart, stern enough that resistance doesn’t even cross your mind. 

As he nestles between your thighs, you wonder if maybe you were purpose-built for this. Shaped by fate into the perfect receptacle for Spencer. It’s not the most absurd thought you’ve had when it comes to him.

“You know why this works?” His voice dips into something possessive, fingers kneading into the plush give of your thighs, sliding upward, a constellation of goosebumps being left in their wake. “Because you like knowing I could keep you here, but also knowing I’d never have to.”

You’ll never understand it — how Spencer manages to reach into the depths of your mind, extracting the exact words there, murmuring them back to you as though they were born on his tongue.

Your hips shift restlessly beneath him, craving friction you hadn’t even consciously acknowledged, your skirt climbs higher, revealing inch by betraying inch of skin without an ounce of remorse. 

Spencer’s gaze falls instantly, eyes growing heavy, pupils expanding into endless darkness, mirroring the ache brewing inside you.

“I’m going to introduce something called intermittent restriction, okay?” he says. “That means I’ll apply pressure for just a few seconds, long enough for your brain to notice, but not long enough to make you light-headed. Then I’ll release. That cycle, restriction and releasing, triggers a rush of oxygen back into your system.”

His mouth finds your jaw, so softly that the rush of your pulse seems premature.

“Your nerve endings will become hypersensitive, responsive to even the slightest touch.” And just to prove a point, his fingertips slip between your thighs, tracing fire over already scorching skin. “This, for example,” he whispers, “will feel ten times as intense.”

The pressure on your throat fades as his hand shifts upward, finding a new home cradling the back of your neck, fingertips twining through your hair. 

You’re left staring at his mouth, every heartbeat a fervent prayer — kiss me, please, please, kiss me.

Then, slowly, he tilts your chin upward, sweetening your unspoken wish.

When he draws away, your breath trembles, coming in shattered fragments. Your vision dims slightly at the edges, leaving only Spencer in vivid clarity.

“Is that something you’d like me to do?”

“Yes,” you breathe, everything in you reaching. “Yes, please.”

He nods slowly, pressing a kiss to your nose.

“Good. You know the safe word, but if you can’t talk and want me to stop, just tap my wrist twice.” He demonstrates against your neck. “The second it stops feeling good, we stop. No explanations needed.”

His hand settles again at the column of your throat, fingertips fitting into the tender hollow beneath your jawline. He tilts your head back, and for a second all you can think about is how exposed you are. The weird crease on your collarbone. That one spot that gets blotchy when you’re turned on.

You wonder if he sees all of it. If he likes all of it. 

He looks at you like none of it surprises you. Like he expected every detail and already decided it was his favorite part.

“What if I do it wrong? Like, should I be —?”

“Hey,” he soothes, thumb gently rubbing slow circles against the underside of your chin. Gentle kisses trail along the line of your jaw toward your ear. “You can’t do anything wrong.” He catches your earlobe between his teeth, tugging. “Just relax and let me do all the work, angel.”

“Oh,” you exhale quietly as every part of you goes warm and liquid.

“That’s it,” Spencer murmurs. “There’s my girl. You ready?”

“Yeah,” you mumble, “love you.”

His smile deepens, fondness glowing through him as he bumps your chin with his nose. “Love you.”

His breath is minty when it brushes yours again, tinged with that strange clove candy he orders from some European site. You’re still trying to place it when his hand moves — and just like that, you’re out of air.

It should set off alarms, should terrify you, but strangely all it does is strip away the noise, everything crystallizing. 

It’s exactly like the first morning after you fell asleep beside him, waking up in tangled limbs, realizing you’d never truly rested before him, the world realigning itself in high definition, as though you’d finally found the perfect pair of glasses after years of blurry half-truths.

Time seems to move in slow motion, each elongated second stretching into something much more infinite. When his fingers ease up, you feel the air whoosh back into your lungs, somehow sweeter than before.

“Good girl,” Spencer praises softly, lips curving into a smile you can feel even with half-closed eyes. “How did that feel for you?”

You pause. “I think I need a little more evidence before I can give a definitive answer.”

You conveniently omit just how much you liked it. How every cell in your body is quietly pleading for him to do it again, and soon. Immediately, if possible. Though judging by the look in his eyes, you’re not exactly fooling anyone.

“Ah,” he chuckles softly, thumb stamping over your bottom lip, “spoken like a true scientist.”

“Well,” you breathe, “there are worse traits I could’ve picked up from you.”

His fingers squeeze around your throat once more.

You’re dimly aware that his other hand has taken up occupancy on your thigh. How long had it been there? Five seconds? Five years? 

Both seem plausible, neither important. It’s there, and your lower half is already chasing the feeling, searching in desperate little movements. Anything — his palm, the couch cushion, a miracle — would suffice to ease the fever spreading through your hypoxic brain down to the sticky heat between your legs.

His fingers skim down to the edge of your panties just as his grip on your throat dissolves. One sensation gives way to the other, making it impossible to know where relief ends, and desire begins.

You, however, don’t take the opportunity to gasp for breath. Instead, you chase Spencer’s lips, gifting him your last lungful of air in a kiss that is decidedly messy and anything but falling under the category of graceful. He takes your clumsy devotion in stride, hands moving to haul you tighter against him, slotting your legs tighter around his waist.

You pull back only when your body calls for it, not your heart. And when you do, your head spins a little, most likely oxygen-related, but it feels more Reid-related. 

His mouth lingers barely an inch from yours. “Take a deep breath for me, angel.”

One shallow inhale, and then it’s gone. But it doesn’t matter, because his fingertips are dipping beneath your panties in the same motion, stroking through your folds, dragging pleasure through you so intensely, you’re scared you’ll break apart right then and there. 

He was right, you’re so unbearably sensitive, nerves bursting open beneath his touch, each one catching like a spark on dry glass, spreading before you can stop it.

He clicks his tongue softly, clearly pleased. “Look at you, making such a mess for me.”

There’s nothing rushed about the way he moves, but your body doesn't seem to know that. Frantic anyway, trembling anyway, gasping like he himself is a trap you’ve willingly walked into. 

He doles out air like it’s been earned, a mercy, always paired to the slow tease of his finger gliding up and down your folds, spreading you open, painting your clit with everything he’s pulled from you.

He gives you just the tip of his index, barely inside, and then pulls back like he's punishing you for wanting more than he offered.

You’re soaked now. Slick enough that it’s starting to drip where your pelvis meets his thighs, a growing mess that’s probably already bled through to the couch.

“Tell me what you’re feeling,” he murmurs. “I wanna hear everything running through that beautiful head.”

“I’m not — there’s not much going on up there,” you confess. “Just need your fingers. ”

“You have them,” he says.

“Inside,” you whimper. “Need you inside.”

He releases your throat just as his finger slides in.

“That’s what you needed, huh?” He smirks. “You sound so pretty when you beg for it.”

And your body answers for you, clenching around the intrusion, like it’s trying to hold onto him, pull him closer, keep him.

You used to watch his fingers like a secret obsession. Long before he’d ever touched you. The slope of his knuckle, the faint ridge of old scars, the exact spacing between his middle and index finger — you’d count it, like maybe the detail meant something.

Now one of them is buried inside you, barely, and it’s already too much.

When the second slides in, it feels like being opened from the inside out. Again. Like every other time he’s had his fingers in you. Or his tongue. Or his cock. You’d think your body would be used to this by now. It never is.

A moan punches out of your chest unfiltered. Your hands reach up for something to hold, finding purchase at the overgrown curls at the nape of his neck, fingers tightening there.

He leans in, eyes half-lidded, voice hushed. “Always so tight for me.”

“Spencer…” You reach, fingers closing around his wrist, moving his hand back to your throat. Your voice comes out pleading, every bit as vulnerable as you feel. “Please?”

He stops. Breathes. Absorbs it like a gift he hadn’t expected to be given twice. But he doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t need to.

“So polite, baby.” 

Your next inhale gets caught beneath his palm. Your lungs stay empty, but your body lights up in its place. Pulsing. Drenched. Stretched open around his fingers. The sound of it is filthy, wet and messy and loud enough to drown out whatever noise you just tried to make.

You’re grinding down on him now, mindless, rutting against the heel of his palm like shame doesn't even exist anymore.

Your head is light, skin buzzing, orgasm barreling toward you like a tsunami you can’t outrun.

“I wish you could see yourself like this,” he murmurs, breath warm against your cheek.  “You’re so beautiful. Every single time.”

You want to answer. Maybe cry. Maybe laugh. Maybe beg. But your core answers first — vision goes spotty, thighs twitching uncontrollably.

And then everything clenches, cracks open and takes you with it.

There’s a second of silence, brain fogged with nothing but static. Heat, stars, white noise. You only notice his absence when your body jerks, still chasing pressure that’s no longer there.

Your hands find him clumsily, clutching at his wrist, trying to pull him back without a word.

“I’m here. You’re okay. Come here, angel,” Spencer says, already folding you into his chest.

Your face stays pressed to his shirt, breath still shaky where it escapes in uneven puffs. Spencer’s hands stay steady on your back, but you can feel his heart beating a little too fast under your cheek.

“Not gonna ask yet,” he says lightly, “but my brain is running a post-scene checklist at full speed. So just… squeeze my hand if anything feels wrong. Please.”

“What counts as feeling wrong?” You ask. His heart skips a beat beneath you, and you wince. “Not that I feel that way. I definitely don’t. I promise. I’m just curious.” 

He strokes your hair once, twice.

“You’re sure?”

You nod, eyes fluttering closed as you nuzzle closer, lips brushing his jaw. “Mm. Yeah. Just a little floaty. And in love with you. But that’s normal.”

“Floaty and in love,” he repeats, pretending to consider. “Dangerous combination. Might have to keep you under observation.” He kisses your temple, voice gentling, “But seriously, if you feel off in any way. Dizziness, fingertips tingling, even a little headache, I need to know right away, okay?”

“Okay, okay,” you say, squeezing his shirt. “And, um… totally unrelated… how long is the average recovery time before we can do that again?”

“Realistically,” he starts, “we should wait a while. Especially since it was your first time experimenting with that.” Your lower lip starts to just slightly. He grins. “But… if you were interested in cutting off my oxygen, I might have a few ideas.”

You don’t even get the chance to react. One second, you’re in his lap, and the next — you’re airborne, guided up, forward, and set down over his face like he’s been planning this all night.

You let him take your breath. Now he gives you his in return.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[your-local-bi-panic]

Chapter 8: So good it’s criminal

Heavily suggestive basically brief smut

Morning spilled across their dorm, casting soft gold over tangled sheets, discarded clothes, and the two very naked bodies wrapped in each other like they were afraid of letting go.

(Y/N) woke first—bare leg slung over Aubrey’s hip, her cheek pressed against warm skin, the scent of sweat, sex, and Aubrey still thick in the air.

And Aubrey?

Aubrey was already awake.

Already watching her.

Smirking.

“Morning,” she whispered, voice rough with sleep and satisfaction.

(Y/N) mumbled something unintelligible and stretched, only for her hand to accidentally brush down Aubrey’s bare stomach—and lower.

Aubrey hissed, smirk deepening. “You trying to start something?”

(Y/N) blinked, still groggy. “No—”

“Too late.”

Aubrey rolled on top of her, pinning her down with a wicked smile and slow grind of her hips. “You started it last night, remember? With all those sounds you made? What was it you said? ‘Don’t stop, Aubrey, please—’”

“Shut up—” (Y/N) was blushing furiously now, but Aubrey wasn’t giving her space to recover. Her fingers were already sliding between her thighs, confident, smooth, skilled.

“Don’t be shy now,” Aubrey murmured, lips grazing her neck. “You weren’t last night.”

(Y/N) gasped as her body arched up into her, eyes fluttering shut. “Aubrey—”

“Say it again.”

“N-No.”

Aubrey pressed her thumb just right. “Say it.”

(Y/N)’s hands gripped the sheets. “Please.”

Aubrey rewarded her instantly, fingers curling just the way she remembered made (Y/N)’s back lift clean off the bed. She kissed her while she moved—deep, open-mouthed, swallowing every moan like it was her favorite sound.

And when (Y/N) came apart, trembling and wrecked and whispering her name, Aubrey smiled against her lips.

“Good girl.”

Practice should’ve been a reset.

It wasn’t.

They showed up late. Barely made it through warm-ups without stealing glances. And the moment (Y/N) was bent over tying her shoe, Aubrey walked up behind her, voice a whisper only for her.

“You’re lucky I let you walk today.”

(Y/N) straightened so fast she nearly tripped. “You’re evil.”

Aubrey grinned, brushing past her, letting her hand graze across her lower back. “Nah. Just better.”

They ran drills. (Y/N) sank every shot—every single one, like she always did. Flawless. Untouchable.

But her face?

Bright red.

Especially after Aubrey leaned in during a water break and said, “You’re the best on the court, no doubt. But in bed?”

(Y/N) choked on her water.

“I’m better,” Aubrey added, voice sinfully smug. “And you know it.”

(Y/N) refused to look at her.

“Cute when you’re flustered,” Aubrey whispered.

Across the gym, Paige narrowed her eyes at the scene. (Y/N) had missed a pass—not a shot, but a pass—and was now standing there blinking, pink in the face.

Paige nudged Nika. “Why does (Y/N) look like she hasn’t been touched in days but also like she got wrecked last night?”

Nika sipped her Gatorade, shrugged. “She’s either in love or about to pass out.”

Meanwhile, Aubrey was thriving.

She leaned on the wall during a break, arms crossed, watching (Y/N) with a lazy smirk.

(Y/N) stormed up to her, whisper-yelling, “You’re gonna get me killed out here.”

Aubrey tilted her head. “You weren’t complaining about dying this morning.”

(Y/N)’s jaw dropped.

“Eyes on the court!” Coach yelled.

They scrambled apart, but the damage was done—(Y/N)’s entire face was on fire. Aubrey winked at her from across the court.

And when they lined up for final sprints, Aubrey jogged past, whispering, “I’m not done with you.”

(Y/N) almost collapsed.

Locker Room

The locker room was buzzing.

Sweaty socks hit the floor. Beats bounced off the tile walls. Nika was harmonizing horribly with Azzi, Ice was spinning a ball on her finger, and Paige was giving the stink eye to the vending machine that ate her dollar.

But (Y/N)?

(Y/N) was frozen at her locker. Staring into the open compartment like it might suddenly offer her a portal out of there.

She hadn’t even taken off her shoes yet.

“Uh…” Caroline’s voice cut through the noise, “you good over there, superstar?”

(Y/N) snapped out of it, nearly dropping her water bottle. “What? Yeah. Fine. Totally fine.”

Too fast.

Too high-pitched.

Everyone turned.

Paige squinted at her. “You sure? You’ve been red all morning. You’re not getting sick or something, are you?”

“I don’t get sick.” (Y/N) laughed nervously, yanking her jersey off and immediately grabbing her towel to cover herself, like modesty was suddenly a new thing for her.

A few girls exchanged looks.

“Interesting,” Lou muttered. “She’s usually cool as ice. Now she’s all jumpy and nervous.”

Nika chimed in, eyes twinkling. “She’s got that… what do you call it? Post-something glow.”

Paige’s brows shot up. “Oh my God.”

(Y/N) turned to her locker so fast she nearly banged her head. “Nope. No, no, no. Don’t even go there.”

Aubrey, who’d been quietly stretching on the bench, finally looked up—smirking like the damn devil incarnate. “Go where, (Y/N)?”

(Y/N) shot her a glare. Aubrey just raised her brows innocently.

“Mmhmm,” Paige said, standing and walking over like a predator. “So let’s just say hypothetically… someone had a little late-night activity. Maybe skipped breakfast because they were too busy… eating something else.”

(Y/N) choked. “PAIGE—!”

Screaming laughter broke out across the locker room.

Azzi doubled over, Nika slapped her knee, and Aaliyah damn near fell off the bench.

But Aubrey?

Aubrey was watching (Y/N) with that same smug expression—cool, calm, completely entertained. She leaned back, arms folded behind her head like she had all the time in the world.

“You know,” Aubrey said casually, “(Y/N)’s been moving a little… slower today.”

(Y/N) whipped around, towel still clutched to her chest. “Aubrey.”

“What?” Aubrey’s eyes sparkled. “You were practically limping this morning.”

That did it.

The locker room exploded.

(Y/N) turned crimson. “I tweaked my hip during drills—”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?” Nika teased.

Lou cackled. “Gotta stretch properly before workouts, girl. All types.”

“I hate all of you,” (Y/N) muttered, face burning, practically folding herself into her locker.

And yet—Aubrey watched her with nothing but adoration. That kind of quiet pride, the “yeah, I wrecked her and she’s still thinking about it” pride. But she kept it subtle—only mouthing a single word when no one was looking.

Mine.

(Y/N) caught it.

And despite wanting to melt into the tile floor, she smiled.

Just a little.

The locker room finally cleared out. (Y/N) lingered, towel slung over one shoulder, pretending to organize her stuff but really just trying to slow her heart down.

Her cheeks still burned.

Her thighs ached in the best possible way.

And she could still feel Aubrey’s breath at her neck, from hours ago.

Footsteps behind her.

“Hey.”

That voice.

That damn voice.

She turned.

Aubrey was leaning in the doorway like a scene from a movie—arms crossed, her toned frame still in her black compression set, dark curls wild from the shower. And her eyes?

Unholy.

“You looked kinda… flushed in there,” Aubrey said, voice dipped in syrup. “Everything okay, sweetheart?”

(Y/N) narrowed her eyes. “You’re a menace.”

Aubrey smirked. “You weren’t complaining last night.”

(Y/N)’s jaw clenched.

Aubrey pushed off the doorframe, walking in slow, deliberate steps. Stopping just close enough to steal breath.

“I like you like this,” she said, one hand reaching up to tug (Y/N)’s towel loose from her shoulder. “Shy. Flustered. Still sore?”

(Y/N) stepped back.

But not far enough.

“I should smack that smug look off your face,” she muttered.

Aubrey grinned, stepping even closer, until her mouth hovered right beside (Y/N)’s ear.

“Do it. Or better yet—moan into my mouth again while I make you—”

“Aubrey.”

(Y/N)’s breath hitched.

She pulled away.

Eyes sharp now.

Smile slow. Dangerous.

“Oh, you wanna play?” (Y/N) said, tone flipping from flustered to flirty in half a second. “Fine. But you better be ready to lose.”

Aubrey raised a brow, intrigued. “You planning something, number four?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Phase One: Revenge

It started at dinner.

(Y/N) leaned across the table to grab a napkin—conveniently brushing her thigh against Aubrey’s under the table. Innocent.

Until it wasn’t.

She did it again.

And again.

Then she stayed there. Letting her hand rest on Aubrey’s knee. Thumb tracing lazy little circles just under the hem of Aubrey’s shorts.

Aubrey choked on her water.

“You good?” Paige asked, looking up.

Aubrey nodded, eyes locked on (Y/N) across the table. “Fine. Great.”

(Y/N) smiled sweetly. “You look flushed.”

Phase Two: Control

Back at the dorm that night, it was Aubrey who tried to gain ground—pressing (Y/N) against the door the second it closed.

But (Y/N) stopped her. Hands on Aubrey’s chest. A little shove.

“Not so fast.”

Aubrey blinked. “Excuse me?”

(Y/N) walked backward, shedding her hoodie slow and deliberate, revealing a sports bra and shorts so small they might’ve been illegal. She flopped on the couch, leg draped lazily over the armrest.

“I’m in charge tonight,” she said.

Aubrey stared.

Oh. She was feral now.

“Say that again.”

(Y/N)’s smile dripped poison and honey. “You heard me.”

Phase Three: Mayhem

Practice the next day?

Aubrey tried to stay focused.

She really did.

But every time she turned, there was (Y/N)—smirking. Biting her lip. Spinning the ball on one finger like she owned the court and her.

And Aubrey?

Couldn’t get a damn shot off.

At water break, she stalked over, panting, annoyed, wild-eyed.

“You’re playing dirty.”

(Y/N) stepped close. “You started it.”

“Okay,” Aubrey whispered, leaning in, brushing a hand over the small of (Y/N)’s back. “Then I’ll finish it.”

Her breath ghosted the shell of (Y/N)’s ear.

“I’m gonna drag this out next time. Make you beg for it. Like the filthy little thing you were last night.”

(Y/N) gasped, hand flying to her bottle to pretend to sip.

Across the court, Paige squinted. “Why does (Y/N) look like she just ran a marathon?”

“I think she’s broken,” Azzi added, raising a brow.

Aubrey strolled past, cool and collected.

Game: on.

The dorm was quiet when they walked in.

Silent, heavy with heat.

(Y/N) dropped her duffle bag near the couch. Aubrey kicked off her slides, already pulling her hoodie over her head, muscles flexing beneath her sports bra like she knew she was being watched.

(Y/N) leaned against the wall. Watching. Waiting.

"You're staring," Aubrey smirked, tossing her hoodie to the side.

(Y/N)'s head tilted. Smile slow. "No, just thinking."

Aubrey raised a brow. "About?"

"You," (Y/N) said. “Moaning.”

A pause.

A beat of tension so thick it could’ve swallowed the room.

Aubrey’s eyes darkened. “Getting bold now, huh?”

“No,” (Y/N) stepped closer, “getting even.”

Before Aubrey could reply, (Y/N) grabbed her by the waist and spun her—slamming her gently but firmly into the wall. The move was smooth. Dominant. Decisive.

Aubrey gasped—gasped—eyes wide, lips parted, stunned into silence for once in her cocky life.

(Y/N) was already crowding in, pinning her there with a thigh between her legs and a hand sliding up her side, over her ribs, across her chest.

“You talk too much,” (Y/N) whispered, mouth brushing against Aubrey’s.

Aubrey’s breath caught. “You like it.”

“I like you better speechless.”

And then she kissed her—hard.

Heat.

Aubrey’s hands scrabbled for purchase, nails digging into (Y/N)’s back as her mouth was claimed—open, messy, gasping. Her head thudded softly against the wall when (Y/N) pulled back just long enough to drag her hoodie the rest of the way off and drop to her knees—

“Oh my god,” Aubrey breathed, one hand tangling in (Y/N)’s hair, already buckling before she was even touched.

(Y/N) didn’t stop. She didn’t slow.

She took everything.

Made Aubrey fall apart over her mouth, hands, fingers—relentless and smooth and in complete control.

Aubrey couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Her knees gave out halfway through and (Y/N) caught her, tossed her onto the couch, crawled over her like hunger incarnate.

"You look good like this," (Y/N) said, breath hot against her neck. “Mouth open. Eyes glazed. Rethinking all your trash talk."

Aubrey whimpered. "Fuck."

"Exactly."

Aftermath.

The room smelled like sweat and sex and something a little sweeter—victory.

(Y/N) lay across Aubrey’s chest now, tracing lazy circles over her abs, smug as hell. Aubrey’s hand was buried in her hair, weakly tugging, like she still needed to prove she had some power left.

“You good?” (Y/N) asked innocently.

Aubrey scoffed, voice ragged. “You’re evil.”

“You started it.”

“I’m finishing it next time.”

(Y/N) tilted her head, grinning. “You sure you’ll be able to walk?”

Aubrey groaned. “Shut up.”

(Y/N) just laughed—low and wicked.

[your-local-bi-panic]

No words...just-

reblog if u want caitlin clark to rearrange ur guts 🎀

[your-local-bi-panic]

Chapter 7: Unspoken

Smut/heavily suggestive I kinda robbed y’all

Three days.

Three days since the kiss.

Three days of not talking about it.

Three days of glances that lingered too long, of fingers that brushed and flinched away, of voices that cracked on each other’s names.

It should’ve been easy to move on—chalk it up to heat-of-the-moment adrenaline, the buzz of a win, too many charged looks across a too-small dorm. But nothing felt easy now. Not when every word had an edge. Not when silence weighed heavier than footsteps. And definitely not when Aubrey swore she could still feel (Y/N)’s lips on hers every time they locked eyes.

The dorm felt smaller. Their separate rooms might as well have been walls made of glass. And the tension? It hung like mist in the air.

(Y/N) had been quiet, but not cold. Just... calculated. Controlled. Which somehow made it worse. She still bantered, still rolled her eyes at Aubrey’s antics, still smirked when their fingers brushed reaching for the same remote. But she never brought it up. Not once.

And Aubrey?

She didn’t trust herself to.

Not when her heart jumped every time she saw that smile.

Not when she caught herself staring at (Y/N)’s lips in the middle of a team meeting.

Not when she dreamed about that kiss like it was on repeat.

Thursday night – Dorm Suite

Aubrey had just come back from late study hall, brain fried and hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. The place was dim except for the faint yellow glow of the kitchen light. She dropped her bag, kicked off her shoes, and yawned—

—and then heard the bathroom door open.

Steam rolled out into the hallway like fog off a lake.

She looked up.

(Y/N) stepped out, towel wrapped around her body, wet hair falling over her shoulders, skin glistening under the light.

And Aubrey froze.

Like actually, literally froze in place.

(Y/N) blinked. “Shit—didn’t know you were back.”

Aubrey opened her mouth. No sound came out.

(Y/N) raised an eyebrow. “You good?”

Aubrey swallowed. “Uh-huh.”

“Sure?”

“Yep. Peachy.”

(Y/N) shifted her weight. The towel was short. Her legs were long. And Aubrey was in hell.

(Y/N) smirked. “You’ve seen me in less on the court.”

“Not like this,” Aubrey mumbled before she could stop herself.

(Y/N) tilted her head, stepping forward just a bit. “You think about it?”

“Think about what?” Aubrey croaked.

“This,” (Y/N) said, eyes dark now, voice lower. “Me. You. That kiss.”

Aubrey exhaled through her nose. “Constantly.”

(Y/N)’s smile was slow. Dangerous. “Then why haven’t you said anything?”

“I didn’t know if you wanted me to,” Aubrey admitted, voice soft, bare.

For a moment, (Y/N) just looked at her—like she was weighing something delicate in her hands.

Then she turned slowly, walking toward her room. “I’m gonna go change.”

Aubrey blinked. “Right. Yeah.”

(Y/N) paused in her doorway, not looking back.

“You coming, or are you just gonna keep standing there looking flustered?”

Aubrey’s heart stopped. “What?”

(Y/N) glanced over her shoulder, towel still clinging to her. “I said, you coming in here or do I have to kiss you again to get your brain working?”

Aubrey didn’t remember moving. She just knew her feet carried her forward like she was gravity-tied to (Y/N).

They didn’t talk about the kiss. Not yet.

But they would.

Eventually.

Maybe.

Right now, Aubrey had already stepped into the room, and (Y/N) was laughing softly, backing up toward the bed, towel slipping slightly lower with each step.

And all that tension?

It finally snapped.

Aubrey was at the door before her brain caught up with her body. (Y/N) stood there, towel low, damp skin glowing under the soft hallway light, and the world narrowed to just her. Steam clung to the air around her, like even the water didn’t want to leave her skin.

“You coming in,” (Y/N) said, voice dipped in challenge, “or you just gonna stand there drooling?”

Aubrey’s breath hitched. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

(Y/N) smirked, taking a slow step back, towel shifting with every movement. “I don’t need to. You’re already staring.”

God, she was. She couldn’t stop. The water tracked every curve, every line, like it was drawing a map for her hands to follow. Aubrey stepped in. The door clicked shut behind her.

The room felt hot. Not from the shower—this was something else entirely. Something that had been bubbling for weeks.

The kiss.

The one they hadn’t talked about.

The one Aubrey had been replaying every night since it happened.

And judging by the way (Y/N) looked at her—like she was starving—it wasn’t just her.

(Y/N) moved closer, letting her fingers graze down Aubrey’s arm, featherlight. “Still not gonna bring it up?”

Aubrey’s voice was rough. “Didn’t think you wanted to talk about it.”

“I don’t,” (Y/N) said, stepping even closer, their bodies nearly touching. “I want you to do something about it.”

That broke her.

Aubrey grabbed her by the waist, pulled her in like she’d been holding back for far too long. Their lips collided—not soft, not tentative, but hungry. Teeth clashed, breaths tangled, hands everywhere.

(Y/N)’s fingers twisted into Aubrey’s shirt, dragging her forward with a growl that hit low in Aubrey’s stomach. “You think I haven’t been dreaming about this?”

“I know I have,” Aubrey breathed, biting gently at her bottom lip.

(Y/N) gasped, head falling back just slightly. “Then stop holding back.”

The towel hit the floor.

Aubrey’s eyes raked over her like a storm. “Fuck.”

(Y/N) moved like sin incarnate—pressing her back to the bed, pulling Aubrey with her, nails dragging up under her hoodie. “Take this off.”

She did—fast, impatient, tossing the fabric somewhere behind her.

Hands roamed. Lips crashed. Legs tangled.

Every kiss was sharp, every moan like a secret dragged out from the depths. Aubrey's mouth traced a burning line down her neck, over her collarbone, pausing just to feel (Y/N)'s pulse flutter against her lips.

(Y/N)’s hands gripped her hair, pulling just enough to make Aubrey groan. “You like that?”

Aubrey kissed her harder. “You don’t play fair.”

“I don’t play at all.”

The tension snapped.

Clothes vanished, tossed to the floor in a trail of heat and wreckage. Their bodies found rhythm, their skin slick, desperate, and unrelenting. Fingers dug into hips, lips bruised from too much need, and yet not enough.

It was filthy.

Beautiful.

Breathless.

And when Aubrey finally collapsed beside her, chest heaving, her skin buzzing—(Y/N) turned to her, smirking.

“Well,” she panted, voice hoarse and eyes glinting, “guess we are talking about it now.”

Aubrey laughed, a little delirious. “That’s what you call talking?”

“No,” (Y/N) said, reaching over to drag a nail teasingly down her arm. “That’s just part one.”

[your-local-bi-panic]

Chapter 6 – “Crossing the Line”

It started small. That next week was packed—film sessions, weight room lifts, extra shooting after practice. The team was exhausted. Bodies sore. Tempers short.

But (Y/N) never slowed. She was a machine.

And Aubrey?

She noticed everything.

The way (Y/N)’s shirt clung to her back after conditioning. The way she bit her lip during free throws. The way she always, always found her first after a scrimmage.

It was becoming unbearable.

At Practice

Coach had the team running half-court drills. Contact-heavy. Competitive.

(Y/N) caught the ball on the wing. Nika closed in. One hard dribble. Step-back. Splash.

“Money!” she called.

“I’m guarding her next,” Lou groaned.

Coach Dailey shook her head. “Guarding her is optional, I guess.”

“You sure she’s human?” Ice muttered under her breath.

“She’s not,” Aubrey said, arms crossed, jaw tight.

(Y/N) winked at her from the court. “Jealous?”

“No. I just want my reps.”

Coach Geno clapped. “Alright, switch teams. Aubrey, you’re on her now.”

Perfect.

They lined up. (Y/N) gave her a smug little smirk, eyes locked like they weren’t just teammates anymore.

“Gonna stop me, Griffin?” she whispered.

Aubrey smirked right back. “Try me.”

Ball in. (Y/N) drove hard left. Aubrey matched her, hips colliding, feet tangled. The contact was brutal. Fast. Close.

Aubrey slapped the ball. It bounced off (Y/N)’s knee and out of bounds.

Whistle.

“Ball the other way,” Geno called.

(Y/N) looked stunned—and impressed. “Damn.”

Aubrey was breathing hard. So was she.

Neither looked away.

“That’s enough,” Coach Dailey muttered. “Get a room.”

Laughter exploded from the sideline.

“I KNEW IT!” Nika yelled. “I’ve been saying!”

Jordan pointed. “Y’all been weird since July.”

Aubrey flushed. “Nothing’s happening.”

“Sure,” Lou said. “That’s why you two breathe the same air and look like you invented tension.”

(Y/N) just grinned, unbothered. “They’re jealous.”

After Practice – Team Lounge

The team sprawled across the couches, bean bags, and floor of the player lounge, still sticky from practice but buzzing with the high of the win. Pizza boxes littered the coffee table, and someone had hijacked the Bluetooth speaker to blast a throwback playlist.

“Alright,” Nika said, holding up a red plastic cup like a microphone, “we’re playing ‘Call It Out.’ You see something, you say something.”

Aubrey groaned, sinking deeper into the bean bag. “This always ends in drama.”

“Exactly,” Nika grinned. “And today’s theme is... secret crushes.”

The room howled.

(Y/N), curled up on the couch in sweats and a hoodie, raised a brow. “Y’all bold. This what bonding looks like now?”

Ice pointed. “You scared?”

“Of you?” (Y/N) smirked. “Never.”

“Okay then,” Lou cut in. “I’m starting it off. I absolutely think Aubrey and (Y/N) are in love and hiding it.”

A chorus of gasps and fake-shocked faces exploded.

(Y/N) blinked. “Whoa—”

Aubrey choked on her drink. “Excuse me?!”

“You heard her,” Dorka said, barely hiding her grin. “The eye contact alone is criminal.”

“I do not look at her weird,” Aubrey said, flustered.

“You do, though,” Nika said, pointing dramatically. “You look at her like she cured your childhood trauma.”

The room erupted in cackling.

(Y/N), surprisingly quiet through it all, finally chimed in. “I’m flattered.”

Aubrey turned, wide-eyed. “Don’t—”

“What?” (Y/N) said, all innocence. “They think we’re in love. You gonna deny me now, after everything we’ve been through?”

More laughter. Some of the girls pretended to wipe tears. Ice started fake-clapping. “My favorite couple. My girls.”

“We’re not dating,” Aubrey said, though her face was a full-blown shade of crimson now.

(Y/N) just leaned back, smug as ever. “Not yet.”

And that’s when Aubrey knew she was screwed.

Later That Night – Shared Dorm Suite

They walked in quiet. Not tense, not awkward—just... aware. The teasing from the team echoed behind them, too fresh to ignore.

(Y/N) tossed her keys on the counter. “You were real quiet after Lou’s little declaration.”

Aubrey gave her a look. “I was trying not to combust.”

(Y/N) grinned. “Was it the ‘cured childhood trauma’ part?”

Aubrey crossed her arms, leaning against the kitchen island. “No. It was the ‘we’re in love’ part.”

“Oh?” (Y/N) said, stepping closer. “That bothered you?”

Aubrey blinked. “I didn’t say it bothered me.”

“Right. Of course. You love being called out.”

Aubrey tilted her head. “You were enjoying it.”

“Maybe.”

“And what was that little ‘not yet’ comment?”

(Y/N) shrugged. “Just keeping you on your toes.”

“Cute.”

(Y/N) walked past her toward the couch, but Aubrey followed. “You know what I think?”

“Tell me.”

“I think,” Aubrey said, circling the couch so they were facing each other, “you like making me flustered.”

(Y/N) leaned her head against the cushion, smirking. “What gave it away?”

“You’re evil.”

“I’m charming.”

“You’re dangerous,” Aubrey muttered, voice lower now.

The air thickened again.

(Y/N) stood slowly, closing the distance. “You’re the one looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want to do something reckless.”

Aubrey exhaled. “What if I do?”

(Y/N) tilted her head, brushing her fingers lightly down Aubrey’s arm. “Then do it.”

The air snapped like a rubber band.

Aubrey stepped forward—hands cupping (Y/N)’s face—and kissed her.

Not soft. Not uncertain.

Heat.

Months of sidelong glances, lingering touches, almost-confessions—all of it burned up in that one kiss. (Y/N)’s hands were in her hair, Aubrey’s grip firm at her waist. They moved like they knew each other’s rhythm already.

They broke apart only to breathe—foreheads touching, hearts racing.

“Still think we’re not dating?” (Y/N) whispered.

Aubrey laughed, breathless. “We’re so screwed.”

“Yeah,” (Y/N) whispered. “But damn, that was worth it.”

[your-local-bi-panic]

Chapter 5 – “Game Face”

Midterms loomed, and the UConn campus had gone from sunny, slow-moving mornings to caffeine-fueled sprints between classes. The energy on campus buzzed louder than usual—partly from the academic chaos, but mostly because tonight was the team’s first home game of the season.

And (Y/N) Griffin Fever™ was at an all-time high.

“Is that her?” someone whispered as (Y/N) and Aubrey walked across campus together, earbuds in, trying to act casual. A group of students trailed behind, phones out like (Y/N) was some kind of celebrity. Which, to be fair—she kind of was.

“You know they’re filming you, right?” Aubrey muttered as they entered the athlete academic center.

(Y/N) didn’t even flinch. “Let them. They’ve never seen someone shoot like me.”

Aubrey rolled her eyes. “God complex.”

“Accurate.”

Classes had been rough that week. Between early morning lifts, three-hour practices, and late-night film sessions, everyone was stretched thin. But (Y/N) didn’t miss a beat. Every time Aubrey looked over in class, she was either laser-focused or completely tuned out, chewing the end of her pencil like she wasn’t about to ace the quiz anyway.

She was infuriating. And mesmerizing.

Pre-Game Locker Room

Coach Geno’s voice echoed in the locker room, but half the team’s attention was bouncing between nervous adrenaline and (Y/N), who sat cross-legged on the bench, casually tying her shoes like this wasn’t a sold-out home opener.

“You ready, Gamecock?” Nika teased from across the room, throwing a towel at her.

(Y/N) caught it one-handed without even looking. “Don’t disrespect me like that. I’m a Husky now.”

“Oh? Is that why your locker still smells like victory cigars and Columbia?”

Laughter erupted around them.

Lou chimed in, “Someone check if she’s wearing UConn socks. We can’t trust her yet.”

(Y/N) smirked. “Y’all joke now. Let me get on that court.”

From the corner, Coach Dailey deadpanned, “You talk a lot of trash for someone who’s about to meet a Big East ref for the first time.”

“I’ll be polite,” (Y/N) said sweetly. “Until they blow the whistle wrong.”

More laughter.

Even Geno cracked a smile. “You better back it up.”

“She will,” Aubrey said before she could stop herself.

All eyes turned to her. She felt her ears flush.

(Y/N)’s gaze found hers across the locker room—steady, unreadable. And then that smirk again, like she knew something Aubrey didn’t.

The Game

It was chaos. Roaring students. Blinding lights. Adrenaline pumping through every breath.

Aubrey sprinted the court, body aching from the pace, heart thundering against her ribcage.

Then there was (Y/N). Smooth. Lethal. Never missing.

Step-back three? Swish.

Fast break layup? Perfect finish.

Mid-range jumper with two defenders in her face? Nothing but net.

She was electric.

The crowd started chanting her name before halftime.

And yet, in the thick of the noise, it was Aubrey she looked for after every shot. A glance. A nod. A grin only meant for her.

At one point, after dropping her third three in a row, (Y/N) backpedaled past the bench and blew a kiss—not at the crowd, not at the cameras—but directly at Aubrey.

Aubrey stared, frozen.

Christ.

Post-Game

The locker room was a party. Music bumping. Towels whipping. Jordan doing the worm for some reason.

“You did your thing out there,” Geno said to (Y/N), clapping her on the back. “I think our fans forgot what it looks like when someone doesn’t miss.”

(Y/N) smirked. “Let’s remind them every week.”

“You keep playing like that,” Dailey added, “and we’re renaming the court.”

(Y/N) leaned toward Aubrey as the others filed out toward media. “Did you see that step-back?”

“I always see your step-backs.”

(Y/N) turned to her with a smile that lingered a little too long.

The team was mostly gone. The music quiet now. Just the buzz of victory and something unspoken hanging in the air.

“Come on,” Aubrey said, voice softer now. “We should go.”

They walked the hallway together, shoulder to shoulder, still in jerseys, the smell of sweat and tape and gym floor thick around them.

Halfway down, (Y/N) slowed.

“What?”

(Y/N) didn’t answer. She reached up, brushing a stray curl off Aubrey’s cheek—an echo of what Aubrey had done nights before.

Their eyes locked. The silence between them sparked.

Aubrey swallowed hard. “We can’t—”

“I know.”

“—not now.”

“I know.”

But neither of them stepped away.

A breath passed between them. One second. Then two. Then—

A voice echoed down the hall.

“Lovebirds! Media’s waiting!”

It was Nika. Of course.

They broke apart instantly, faces flushed, the moment shattered.

“Saved by the bell,” (Y/N) whispered.

Aubrey turned away, laughing under her breath—because if she didn’t laugh, she might kiss her.

Media

The media room was bright, loud, and annoyingly cold. The UConn logo lit up the backdrop behind the table where players were already seated, bottles of water lined up like soldiers. Cameras clicked like angry insects. Reporters hovered in bunches, microphones primed.

(Y/N) and Aubrey slipped in behind the rest of the team. The noise rose the second the door opened.

“There she is!” one of the beat reporters called. “Miss Automatic!”

(Y/N) rolled her eyes playfully but flashed that grin—charming, casual, like none of this phased her.

“Didn’t miss a single shot tonight,” another added. “How’s it feel to set the tone for the season opener?”

(Y/N) leaned into the mic, resting her chin on her hand. “Feels like I’m home.”

That simple line made the entire room buzz. A few reporters exchanged glances. The storylines practically wrote themselves.

Aubrey sat beside her, hands folded tight in her lap.

“(Y/N), you were lights out. What was going through your head during that third quarter run?”

(Y/N) smirked. “Honestly? I was trying to see if Lou was gonna cry.”

The room burst into laughter—even Lou, who sat further down the row, dramatically wiped a fake tear.

“She’s a menace,” Lou called.

(Y/N) shrugged. “She dared me to shoot it. What was I supposed to do? Say no?”

“Didn’t you hit four in a row after that?”

“Five,” Aubrey corrected under her breath.

(Y/N) turned to her with a grin. “See? She pays attention.”

That earned a few curious glances from the press. One reporter leaned forward, eyes flicking between them.

“Aubrey, looks like you and (Y/N) have good chemistry off the court too. What's it like sharing a dorm suite with her?”

Aubrey’s heart jumped. She didn’t expect to be called out. She tried to keep her voice even. “Loud. She never stops talking.”

(Y/N) bumped her knee. “You like my voice.”

More laughter. Someone in the back murmured, “UConn’s got jokes this year.”

Another reporter raised her hand. “(Y/N), what made you leave South Carolina after winning a championship and transfer to UConn? That’s not exactly a common move.”

A shadow passed over (Y/N)’s expression. Just briefly.

But then that smile returned—crafted, flawless. “I’ve always wanted to be here. Some dreams stick.”

The way she said it—quiet, but with finality—shut the room up for a beat.

Aubrey looked sideways at her. It wasn’t the full truth, not even close. But the way she said it made Aubrey feel it deep in her chest.

“Next question?” Coach Geno cut in, voice laced with his usual timing. “We’ve got ice baths to get to.”

“Last one,” a reporter called. “(Y/N), do you ever miss?”

(Y/N) smirked. “No.”

Dead serious. Not a beat of hesitation.

Aubrey stared at her—jawline sharp under the lights, confidence like gravity—and felt her stomach twist.

Because she didn’t. On the court. And lately, Aubrey wasn’t sure she missed off it either.

Later That Night – Dorm Suite

The door clicked shut behind them. Quiet again. The media high gone, replaced with something heavier.

(Y/N) toed off her shoes, tossing her bag on the couch. “I crushed it.”

“You did.”

“Even Coach clapped. That’s like seeing a unicorn.”

Aubrey chuckled, pulling her hoodie over her head. Her hair stuck to her temple, still damp from post-game showers. “You know you’re a little unbearable when you win, right?”

“I’m unbearable all the time.”

“That’s fair.”

(Y/N) flopped onto the couch. “You were good tonight, too. The screens you set? Deadly. Also, you kind of saved my ass in that last defensive switch.”

Aubrey shrugged. “I always have your back.”

She said it too easily. Too honestly.

(Y/N) looked at her for a long second. That same unreadable stare from earlier.

“You know they’re gonna start rumors,” she said softly.

Aubrey blinked. “What?”

“The media. People on campus. The whole ‘roommates with chemistry’ thing.”

Aubrey exhaled slowly. “Let them talk.”

Silence.

Then (Y/N) tilted her head, eyes still locked on her. “And if they’re right?”

Aubrey’s breath caught.

The room shrank.

They stared at each other across the space between the couch and the carpet, something fragile and dangerous rising between them.

But before anything could be said, (Y/N) stretched, yawned dramatically, and stood. “I’m starving. Want to make ramen?”

Aubrey blinked, stunned by the whiplash.

“You’re gonna go from emotional whiplash to Cup Noodles?”

“Girl, yes. I just dropped 30. I deserve sodium.”

Aubrey laughed—too loud, too grateful for the out. “Fine. But you’re cooking.”

(Y/N) was already in the kitchenette, humming under her breath. She didn’t say anything more.

Neither did Aubrey.

But both of them felt it.

The shift.

The line they hadn’t crossed—yet.

———————————————————————

I'm starting to like how this is coming out. I'm almost done with this story and there should be some minor smut coming up!!!

Don't forget to like and comment!!!

[your-local-bi-panic]

Chapter 4: Close Contact

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sweat slicked across the hardwood as the team drilled through another brutal practice. The gym echoed with the sound of sneakers screeching, whistles piercing the air, and voices barking out plays.

Coach had decided today would be a full-contact scrimmage. No plays. No holding back. Just raw, gritty basketball.

And no one was more electric than (Y/N).

She moved like lightning — short, quick, lethal. Her shot never missed, not even when Aaliyah closed the gap with her wingspan or when Ducharme got aggressive on defense. The ball left her fingers and sank into the net with the same calm precision every single time. Nothing but net. Every. Time.

It was almost annoying.

“Are we sure she’s human?” Lou muttered to Aubrey as she jogged past during a water break. “Seriously, what do they feed them down in South Carolina?”

Aubrey just smiled, her eyes following (Y/N) as she reset at the top of the key. “Not sure. But I think she was born with it.”

Lou gave her a knowing look. “Mmhm. Or maybe you’re just watching her too hard.”

Aubrey rolled her eyes, but her chest tightened. She hated how obvious it was becoming.

Back on the court, Coach blew the whistle. “Aubrey, (Y/N)! One-on-one. Go hard.”

A few of the girls let out low whistles and “oooh”s. Even Inês laughed. “Here we go. Finally.”

(Y/N) gave a quick stretch, bouncing on her heels. Aubrey stepped up in front of her, jaw tight, heart pounding. They’d run drills before, but this felt different. The gym was watching now. Everyone wanted to see the two best athletes go at it. And both of them knew it.

Ball in hand, (Y/N) gave Aubrey a crooked little smile. “You sure you want this smoke?”

Aubrey smirked. “You talk big for someone six inches shorter.”

“Size doesn’t matter when I’m the one scoring.”

The whistle blew, and in a flash, (Y/N) moved. Her speed was insane — one step, a hesitation, a crossover so fast it made Aubrey flinch. But she recovered, keeping up stride for stride. Their bodies collided mid-drive, (Y/N)’s shoulder brushing hard into Aubrey’s chest, heat sparking where skin met skin. Aubrey reached for the ball, but (Y/N) spun around her like water slipping through fingers.

Fadeaway. Net.

Swish.

The gym erupted with cheers and hollers.

“Let’s gooo, number four!” Nika yelled from the bench, clapping wildly.

(Y/N) didn’t gloat — just turned, smirked, and walked backward toward half court, eyes on Aubrey.

Aubrey grinned despite herself.

“You okay?” (Y/N) asked casually. “I thought you were guarding me.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Aubrey replied, brushing a hand across her jaw. “I’ll remember that next round.”

Their next matchup was even tighter. (Y/N) tried to juke right, but Aubrey anticipated it, sliding into her path and pressing close. Their bodies collided again — this time harder, shoulder to chest, thigh to thigh. Aubrey could feel every shift of (Y/N)’s body through the tension, the push, the pull. It was like dancing, only faster, heavier, electric.

And even then — even under pressure — (Y/N) didn’t miss. Step-back three. Net. Again.

“Jesus Christ,” Aaliyah muttered. “She’s never missed a damn shot since she got here.”

Coach blew the whistle. “Alright, that’s enough. Get water. Good job.”

Aubrey lingered, panting, flushed. (Y/N) offered her a lazy grin and a hand.

“You good?”

“Barely,” Aubrey muttered, pulling herself up with a chuckle. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re a tank,” (Y/N) shot back, nudging her arm.

Their hands lingered for a second longer than necessary. No one else noticed — or if they did, they didn’t say anything. But Aubrey felt it like static. Like gravity pulling her in.

Later that night, the team crowded into the dorm lounge for a movie night. Lou and Nika were fighting over the remote, Caroline had already claimed the best seat, and Inês was making popcorn that somehow burned within thirty seconds.

“Guess we’re having crunchy popcorn tonight,” Aubrey said, slouching down onto the couch beside (Y/N).

(Y/N) smiled and handed her a soda. “Want the one that’s not flat?”

“You saved me?”

“Of course. Gotta keep you alive for the next one-on-one.”

Aubrey nudged her with her shoulder. “Cocky.”

(Y/N) leaned her head slightly to the side, eyes fixed on the screen but clearly not watching. “You like it.”

Aubrey didn’t answer. Instead, she just watched the soft glow of the TV reflect in (Y/N)’s eyes. She was surrounded by people now — talking, joking, smiling. But still, there was something distant in her, something she held close to her chest.

It made Aubrey want to know her more. Want to peel back the layers slowly.

“You ever gonna lose a shot?” Aubrey asked.

(Y/N) laughed. “Nope.”

“Not even in a dream?”

“In my dreams, I hit threes from half court with my eyes closed.”

Aubrey shook her head. “God, I hate you.”

“Liar.”

A quiet settled between them, the kind that wasn't awkward but charged. Like the static before a storm. Like the weight of all the things neither of them were ready to say out loud.

Their knees bumped. Neither pulled away.

After the movie, most of the team scattered, yawning and heading to their rooms. But Aubrey and (Y/N) lingered in the hallway just outside the dorms, bathed in the low orange glow of the outdoor lights.

“You were a menace in practice today,” Aubrey said softly.

“You weren’t too bad yourself,” (Y/N) replied, leaning against the wall. “You guard me like you’re trying to win something.”

“I am.”

“Oh yeah?” (Y/N)’s eyes sparkled. “What do you win if you stop me?”

Aubrey stepped closer — not enough to touch, but enough that (Y/N) had to tilt her head slightly to hold her gaze.

“I’ll let you know when I do.”

There was a beat of silence. Tension thick in the air. Neither of them moved.

Then (Y/N) smiled — soft, slow, something hidden behind it. She stepped back just an inch.

“You won’t,” she whispered. “But I’ll let you keep trying.”

And just like that, she was gone. Back into the dorms, leaving Aubrey standing there with a racing heart and fire in her chest.

She wasn’t sure how long she stood there.

But she knew one thing for certain.

She wanted more.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The hallway was still buzzing when they stepped inside their shared dorm. Their suite was quiet, the faint hum of the mini fridge and the soft tick of the wall clock the only sounds that remained. Two bedrooms. One small shared living room. Enough space to feel separate—but not tonight.

Aubrey kicked off her sneakers near the door, groaning. “My legs are dead.”

“You got cooked today,” (Y/N) said from behind her, grinning as she set her water bottle on the counter.

Aubrey turned around, mock-offended. “I got cooked? You threw up, what, five threes in a row?”

“Six.”

“Oh, my bad,” she drawled. “Six.”

(Y/N) walked past her to the couch, flopping onto it with a soft sigh and a crooked smile. “Look, it’s not my fault you can’t guard me.”

“You know, you’re kind of a menace when you’re comfortable.”

“You’re welcome.”

Aubrey rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the grin tugging at her lips. She walked over and flopped beside her, their knees bumping.

(Y/N) tilted her head. “You okay down there, tall girl?”

“Barely,” Aubrey muttered. “I’ve never been humiliated so gracefully.”

(Y/N) leaned in, voice low and teasing. “You looked pretty while I did it.”

Aubrey blinked—just a second too long. “Oh?”

(Y/N)’s smile didn’t fade. “I mean, if I’m gonna break ankles, might as well be someone cute.”

Aubrey’s heart stuttered. The room suddenly felt warmer.

She laughed it off. “Okay, now that’s uncalled for.”

“Is it?” (Y/N) stretched, arms over her head, shirt riding just slightly up her stomach. “Felt pretty accurate.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You like it.”

They sat there, quiet settling in again. The kind that made everything else—practice, movie night, the noise of the world—fade away. The soft couch cushions dipped between them, their thighs brushing with every small movement.

Aubrey’s eyes flicked to the wall, then back to (Y/N). “You staying out here?”

(Y/N) shrugged. “Not tired yet.”

There was a moment. A choice.

Aubrey stood, slowly, offering her hand. “Come on.”

(Y/N) looked up, one brow raised. “What’s this?”

“We’ve got a handshake to practice, remember?”

(Y/N) snorted but took her hand. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly.”

They stood in the small center of the living room, facing each other like they had earlier that week when they tried to come up with a handshake after (Y/N) had nailed a buzzer-beater in drills. It had started as a joke, but it was turning into a ritual. A thing that was just theirs.

“Okay,” Aubrey said. “So it’s—”

“Fist bump, up-down, slide, spin, and—”

“Finger guns,” they said at the same time.

They did it, half-smooth, half-messy, and burst into laughter when (Y/N)’s finger guns accidentally poked Aubrey in the ribs.

“Assault,” Aubrey gasped, catching her breath.

“You flinched!”

“You stabbed me!”

Their laughter died slowly, giving way to something quieter.

(Y/N) was still holding onto Aubrey’s wrist. Her thumb brushed just slightly along the inside of it, as if she hadn’t even realized.

“Hey,” Aubrey said, softer now.

(Y/N) looked up. Her eyes were warm, amused—but there was something else. That guarded flicker Aubrey had started to notice. Like (Y/N) always kept one foot off the floor, never quite grounding herself fully. Still half in the shadows of whatever she didn’t say.

“You okay?” Aubrey asked.

“Yeah.” A beat. “Just… long day.”

Aubrey nodded. “You’ve been talking more with the team.”

“I know.” (Y/N)’s lips curved upward. “They’re not bad.”

“They love you.”

(Y/N) raised an eyebrow. “Even Lou?”

“Especially Lou. She said if you hit one more three in her face, she’s filing a restraining order.”

(Y/N) laughed, head tilting back. “That sounds like love.”

Another silence—closer now. The kind of quiet where the only thing louder is your own heartbeat.

“You can talk to me, you know,” Aubrey said, voice barely above a whisper.

(Y/N) looked at her. There was something unreadable in her eyes for a moment—like she was about to say something real. But she swallowed it back, just like that.

Instead: “You’re such a softie.”

Aubrey scoffed. “What—”

“‘You can talk to me,’” (Y/N) repeated, mimicking her voice with dramatic flair. “So sensitive. So gentle.”

“You’re the worst.”

“You like it.”

This time, Aubrey didn’t argue.

Instead, she stepped closer. Their feet brushed. Their faces weren’t far apart now—too close for jokes, for teasing. But neither pulled away.

Aubrey watched the curve of (Y/N)’s mouth, the way it twitched like she might say something else. But all she whispered was:

“Goodnight, Aubrey.”

A pause.

Aubrey reached up, gently brushing a curl from (Y/N)’s forehead. “Goodnight, number four.”

(Y/N) stared at her for one second too long.

Then she stepped back, the distance flooding between them again.

But the air stayed heavy. And neither of them would sleep easily tonight.

[your-local-bi-panic]

Dont listen to them it doesnt sound like AI 😭😭 keep writing please

Omg, thank you. Their comment was eating at me and upsetting me all day. I used to write on a different platform and got hate for my writing, so I ended up quitting. When I read that comment I was actually debating on continuing my writing.

So thank you so much, this made my day!!

[your-local-bi-panic]

r u using ai to write?

i dont wanna be mean but it sounds like chatgpt

😭 No. Dude, I majored in English.

[your-local-bi-panic]

Chapter 3 – “Breaking the Silence”

The weeks had slipped by, and slowly, UConn was starting to feel more like home. (Y/N) had grown comfortable with the rhythm of it all: the early mornings, the long practices, the endless drills. But it wasn’t just the basketball that was beginning to feel natural — it was the people around her.

Aubrey and the rest of the team had drawn her in, little by little, and now (Y/N) found herself laughing with them more often than not. The banter during team dinners, the shared glances on the court when someone messed up a play, the inside jokes that bubbled up during practice. It was starting to feel less like a foreign world and more like the place where she belonged.

Still, there was that undercurrent. That quiet space between her and Aubrey that neither of them was ready to cross.

But it didn’t stop the way (Y/N)’s heart skipped a beat whenever Aubrey smiled at her, or when their eyes locked across the gym. It was subtle, but it was there, always there.

And yet, in front of the team, (Y/N) was just another player — a star, yes, but also a part of the group. They were getting to know her, slowly but surely. She wasn’t just the mysterious player who had transferred from South Carolina. She was becoming (Y/N) — the one who was always in the middle of things, laughing at the coach’s terrible jokes, clapping along to Lou’s impromptu dances, and getting into the typical team mischief.

One afternoon, after a particularly grueling practice, the team found themselves lounging around in the locker room, cooling down. Everyone was sweaty, tired, and sore, but that didn’t stop the conversations from flowing.

“So, (Y/N), what’s your deal?” Lou asked, propping her feet up on a bench. She was always the one to push the envelope, to make sure no conversation stayed too serious for too long. “I mean, you’ve been here for weeks, but you still haven’t told us much about yourself.”

(Y/N) was on the other side of the locker room, pulling her sneakers off. She glanced up, a playful glint in her eyes. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” Lou said with a grin. “You come from South Carolina, you’ve got this whole ‘mysterious’ vibe going on. What’s the deal? You can’t keep hiding behind that all season.”

(Y/N) chuckled softly. She knew Lou was just trying to get her to open up, but it wasn’t so easy. She wasn’t sure she was ready to share everything — especially not with people she’d only just started to really get to know. She had her walls for a reason, and even though they were slowly crumbling around Aubrey, they were still standing tall in front of the rest of the team.

“I don’t know,” (Y/N) began, leaning back against the wall, letting her gaze drift toward the ceiling. “I guess I’m just focused on basketball right now. And... being here. That’s all.”

Aubrey, who had been sitting next to Lou, leaned in with a smile. “You know, you’re really good at this whole ‘I’m not telling you anything’ thing.”

(Y/N) met her gaze, feeling the familiar flutter in her chest. Aubrey’s grin was soft, teasing, but there was something more in the way she looked at her — something unspoken, something that neither of them had quite figured out how to say. (Y/N) held her gaze a moment longer than necessary, then shrugged.

“I’m not trying to be mysterious,” (Y/N) said, a hint of amusement in her voice. “Just... private.”

Lou let out a dramatic groan. “Ugh, I’m so tired of everyone being so damn private around here. It’s like pulling teeth!”

The team laughed, but Aubrey caught (Y/N)’s eye again, and there it was again — that silent understanding, the quiet tension that only the two of them seemed to share. But they didn’t say anything. Instead, (Y/N) turned her attention to the group, letting herself get lost in the camaraderie, the laughter. She felt lighter when she did that, like the weight on her shoulders was momentarily lifted.

Later that night, after everyone had dispersed, Aubrey found herself walking the halls of the dorms, heading back to her room, when she saw (Y/N) sitting on the floor outside the common area, scrolling through her phone.

“Hey,” Aubrey said, stopping beside her.

(Y/N) looked up, her eyes lighting up for a split second before she caught herself. She quickly hid the emotion, but Aubrey had seen it. The way (Y/N)’s face softened when she saw her, the way she straightened up when Aubrey stopped in front of her.

“Hey,” (Y/N) said with a small smile, tucking her phone into her pocket. “What’s up?”

“Not much. I was just heading back to my room,” Aubrey said, sitting down beside her. “But you looked like you were deep in thought.”

(Y/N) shrugged. “Just... thinking about stuff.”

Aubrey glanced at her, but (Y/N)’s gaze was already fixed on the floor, as if she didn’t want to be caught lingering on whatever had been on her mind.

“You’ve been doing that a lot lately,” Aubrey said quietly, leaning back against the wall. “Thinking, I mean.”

(Y/N) glanced at her, her eyes soft. “Sometimes it helps. Clears the mind, y’know?”

“I get it,” Aubrey said, her voice softer now. “It’s just... you’re not alone anymore. You’ve got people here who care about you. You don’t have to carry everything by yourself.”

(Y/N) didn’t respond immediately. She just stared at her hands, fingers tracing the seams of her hoodie. Aubrey’s heart beat a little faster as she waited, unsure of what to say next. There was something raw about this moment, about the way (Y/N) was just sitting there, vulnerable in a way she rarely allowed herself to be.

Finally, (Y/N) spoke, her voice quieter than before. “I know. But sometimes it’s hard to let people in.”

Aubrey nodded, feeling the weight of her words. “I get it. But you don’t have to hide everything, not with me. Not with any of us.”

For a moment, they just sat there, the quiet stretching between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Not this time. It felt like they were both saying something without saying it, a shared understanding passing between them.

“Thanks, Aubrey,” (Y/N) whispered after a beat. “For... for being here.”

Aubrey smiled, feeling her chest warm. “Anytime.”

The silence returned, but it wasn’t awkward. It was peaceful. And as they sat there, side by side, Aubrey couldn’t help but feel that, no matter how much (Y/N) kept hidden, they were starting to unravel something — something that wasn’t just about basketball, but about the way they connected.

Maybe, just maybe, this was the beginning of something neither of them had expected.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Honestly idk how I’m gonna end this… but I’ve already got a lot of it written down I am just waiting to break them up and revise and edit them.

Don’t forget to like and comment!!!