Solomon Ballthazar Sallow is an insufferable and deluded man who believes he is God's greatest gift to women and the sport of basketball. This is the true story of his life (according to him), as an ex-professional basketball player before he was fo...
What you're about to read is an entirely true story...
I remember it like it was yesterday.
Mostly women, married and unmarried from all across Scotland had congregated in my humble farming hamlet of Feldcroft. Desperate to witness the spectacle, they pushed against the barricades of the makeshift arena, corsets tight-laced and petticoats hiked up to expose their ankles to me. Perhaps it was to avoid the manure soiling their finest gowns – but I believe it not to be the latter.
A simple wink in their direction could ignite untold passions raging in their bosoms; as was the case for one such woman, who was fanning herself so forcefully despite the tepid temperatures of the Scottish summer.
The only logical explanation was that being in my presence had brought her to such a heightened state of arousal – an observation proven true by her husband's chagrin, engulfing him in the most violent shade of crimson. Unsurprisingly, the handsome woman collapsed to the ground, her body clearly weakened by such strong forces of lust.
I was later told it was caused by tuberculosis; to this day I do not believe them.
For a moment, I entertained the fantasies brought on by the overwhelming amount of female attention, being naturally curious to what their soft flesh might feel like when they threw themselves against me – lauding my muscular frame from years of plowing the field; but I digress.
Nothing, and I repeat: nothing, could be comparable to to the feeling of supple leather, cradling the beauty of which was firm and round, inflated with so much love that seeped into my calloused fingertips. The truth – was only she, my orange and spherical lover could fulfill me, and I desired for nothing more. My obsession for the game overshadowed everything, and all that mattered was her and the hoop. 'Wilsonette' is what I affectionately named her.
The sun had shone so brightly that day, it's warm rays bathing me in glinted golds and the promises of glory. It was the game of the century – the final showdown, so to speak. As captain of the Feldcroft Flobberworms, I'd assured our triumph against every opponent we had faced thus far. Today would mark our final and greatest victory in a worldwide basketball tournament, held for only the most talented of witches and wizards in the profession.
The crowd was vivacious, chanting my name before I'd even begun warming up with my trademark three-quarter shots.
"Sol-o-mon! Sol-o-mon! Sol-o-mon!"
I couldn't blame them; I had quickly risen to become one of Scotland's most revered basketball players – and arguably, one of the greatest in the world. I pencil-rolled down the court, grasping Wilsonette tightly above my head before knocking one– two– then three of my own teammates off their feet. When implemented during a match, my then wobbling teammates would knock down our opponents like bowling balls to pins.
With the other team flailing about for purchase, I'd use my immense strength to swing Wilsonette over my head and launch her into the air, having full trust she'd be caught by my ever-dependable teammate, Banshee. Holding the perfect amount of muscle and buoyancy in her tender-hammed calves, she'd use their power to float through the air, slam-dunking my Wilsonette into the hoop.
I expected to be met with raucous applause after graciously displaying a preview of my three-quarter shot, and yet, my ears were assaulted by a name I'd heard only in myths...
Aura. . .
"AURA, AURA, AURA!" The crowd cheered.
It was the infamous wild woman, captain of the Australian team the Darwin Dugbogs, who'd just arrived at the scene in a chariot drawn by a dozen Milo-drinking Abraxans, evident by the chunky malted drink dried at their muzzles. Rumors of her story had swept through the hamlets like a haze, with some claiming she'd been taken in as an orphaned child by a court of kangaroos and raised as their own. As a man of considerable intelligence and impeccable breeding, I was incredulous to believe such utter hogwash.
An air of mystery and intrigue surrounded the wild woman, flowing through her lustrous auburn hair she'd adorned with sticks from her homeland. As she approached me, I found no reason to believe such a lovely and diminutive lady was anything to be feared on the court; my reputation was secure.
'How ya goin'?' She said, her native tongue so exotic and beautiful it could only be compared to a siren song.
I was utterly speechless, and even more so as she'd managed to ignore my handsomely rugged features in favor of the view above my head. A confident and all-knowing smile tugged at the edges of her delicate lips, as if she already knew exactly how the view from above would appear.
A ball of nerves settled into the pit of my stomach then, but I stood my ground. Defending my territory, I repeatedly dragged one leg back through the dirt while firmly planted on the other, like a bull preparing to charge.
In my own native tongue, I answered her back.
'Fuck it, we ball.'
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AN: The idea for this hastily written crack fic was inspired by the image above, which I scribbled on after noticing it looked as if Solomon was about to slam-dunk a basketball through a hoop. I couldn't have written it without having met some insanely lovely people on a Hogwarts Legacy discord server 🩵✨HOPE YOU ENJOYED
