#fully body ref

[asuraid]

hmm, the itch to do a revamped body reference for sylvie using their actual body claim as a ref …

[retrosupernova]

Whatever go my freakass sona

Sketchy new art plastered on top of old ref attempt

Wow look it's my actual main sona Retro it's me !!!

[Extra expression stuff + old unfinished ref [this new one still missing some small things tho] under the cut]

I wanna give him more stickers on the back of his head [and mmmmmaybe the sides..?] But yeag.

[pokespefangirl]

When I repress my emotions, my stomach keeps score —John Powell

"Trauma victims cannot recover until they become familiar with and befriend the sensations in their bodies. Being frightened means that you live in a body that is always on guard. Angry people live in angry bodies. The bodies of child-abuse victims are tense and defensive until they find a way to relax and feel safe. In order to change, people need to become aware of their sensations and the way that their bodies interact with the world around them. Physical self-awareness is the first step in releasing the tyranny of the past."

[nethertrolls]

gonna get something like this made for my WCP guys

it’s stuck in my head so long and it seems so funny to me in a way that I can’t explain

[bonestrouslingbones]

human designs are genuinely so much fun because i get to actually REALLY stretch my character design muscles and play around with different facial features and body types and such, as i have discussed a million times and probably will discuss a million more

however. it is also often devastating. because i am constantly being forced to confront the fact that the characters who suck the most and deserve it the absolute least WILL without fail be the most fitted to the exact designs that are so extremely obviously My Type that there are a couple that i can’t show to my friends without them giving me a look

[vampirejuno]

Well ok I made an artfight account, remains to be seen how much I'll be participating. Started thinking about character ref sheets and it has me considering previously unheard-of questions such as "what does Ander, my favorite oc whom I've been developing for 6+ years, actually wear"

[serendipitous-mage]

op this shit was VIVID (trigger warning: op's post contents - some gore/blood and blurry/implied animal bodies)

(other than the bright reds and the white in the last panel, everything was color picked from my dash with how i saw the post, greens/browns/low contrast reds were all from op's avatar :3 was trying to keep As Much of the vibe as possible)

Geological horror. You find a geode and crack it open and the crystal lining its walls is human blood that can't be genetically matched to anyone. You find a human skeleton but every one of the bones is made from rock, a rock that you know can't be whittled into those shapes. You find layers of clay and loam that sport ancient fossils at the top and the still-rotting corpses of modern animals at the bottom.

[hometownrockstar]

I think having to make refs for art fight is kinda overblown, people get all stressed about making fully rendered perfect refs in time but honestly just using one or two full-body pics of your character that youve already drawn will work just fine. if you need a new pic then do a quick sketch, put the basic color palettes under it, and that works too. I just dont want people to feel intimidated about doing artfight cus they feel they HAVE to make brand new perfect refs or get burnt out on drawing after they make a bunch of them

[recallback-art]

Now, Masaru is the last character of mine who needs a refset considering his whole thing is that he's constantly changing appearance and wouldn't even know his real face..... but I know so I get to draw it.

My favourite canonical 35 year old catboy and destroyer of worlds.

[pookalicious-hq]

365 party girl ...

library | navi | next

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ : paige ends up having to pull you away because who the fuck did Ashlyn Watkins think she was, talking shit to your freshman? tags: swearing, paige bueckers x baddie!reader, mention osf "wife beating", bballl player reader, not proof read so many typos, established relationship

Anyone could tell when someone was made to perform. There was always a distinct look in their eye, a deep breath released in what should’ve been a career-changing action. It didn’t take an expert to figure out that you were meant to be seen.

It was in the way the cameras always found you—during warm-ups, during time-outs, even in those fleeting moments between plays. Your presence wasn’t just noticed. It was felt.

UConn’s most dominant defensive guard alongside with an offensive playmaking machine. A nightmare for any offense, quick-footed and relentless. You were everywhere—pressuring passes, cutting off lanes, moving in ways that turned good guards into hesitant ones. They knew if they fumbled, if they hesitated even a second, you were already on them.

And still, even in the chaos of the game, you looked perfect.

A flawless base, lashes full and fresh, nails a sleek, polished set—practical enough for the court, but still you. Hair laid to perfection, untouched by sweat despite the intensity of the game and atmosphere. When the camera cut to you, lips slightly parted, eyes burning with intensity, everyone watching across the nation didn’t know if they wanted you or wanted to be you.

The arena was electric. The matchup was personal. Everyone was here to watch UConn, to watch South Carolina.

To watch your girls.

And tonight? Under the blinding lights of March Madness, against South Carolina, with the whole world watching?

This was your stage.

So who the fuck did Ashlyn Watkins think she was, talking shit to your freshman?

The piercing tone of a whistle broke through the crowd’s outraged cries, and the image of Sarah Strong on the ground.

The foul was blatant—a hard block, sending Sarah sprawling onto the hardwood. But it wasn’t just the foul that set you off. It was the way Ashlyn stood over her, staring her down, like she had the right to intimidate her.

Like she had the right to intimidate anyone.

Before the refs could even get between them, you were already there. Your body moved before your mind fully processed it, stepping right into Ashlyn’s space and giving her a solid push—just enough to separate her from Sarah, just enough to send a message.

Ashlyn barely budged. But her expression shifted instantly—no longer that smug, self-assured look. Now, it was something harder, something pissed. She wasn’t used to anyone daring to move her.

Sarah, still wide-eyed and holding her head, reached up for your hand. Without hesitation, you gripped her wrist, pulling her up with authority, keeping your focus locked on Ashlyn. Sarah stumbled slightly, her hand coming up to her head, but Paige was there, steadying her her voice low, checking in on Sarah.

The gym was in full chaos—shouts, gasps, the air so thick you could feel it in your chest. Everyone felt the heat radiating off you. You were like a fuse waiting to explode, and Paige? She’d seen it before. Knew how deep that fire ran. You’d fight through hell for anyone on your team, and right now? Sarah was yours to protect.

Ashlyn’s smirk came back, but it was laced with pure irritation. She tossed her head back, then scoffed. “Make sure you hit the weight room, fucking rookie,” she muttered, her voice a venomous drip of arrogance.

And that was it.

Your jaw clenched. The muscles in your neck tensed. Your nostrils flared. Ashlyn knew better to keep her mouth shut. Before you could even think, the words shot out of your mouth like a bullet.

"Better stop hitting anyone else or we might hafta call the cops again, fuckin’ wife beater."

The gym froze.

For a half-second, just long enough for the weight of your words to crash down. The crowd was silent, processing what you just said, trying to piece it together. 

Then? Chaos.

The crowd exploded. Some in shock, some in laughter—loud, boisterous, the kind of reactions that only March Madness could ignite. On the UConn bench, Geno’s face was already in his hands, an exhale that said he’d seen this trainwreck before. One hand on his hip, the other rubbing down his face, mentally preparing for whatever he’d have to explain later.

In front of you, Ashlyn’s face twisted from irritation into pure rage.

Before you could fully process the chaos around you, Ashlyn was already in your face. Her steps were heavy, chest puffed out, eyes burning into yours.

“The fuck you just say to me?”

You didn’t move a muscle. If anything, you stood taller, chin lifted just enough to show you weren’t scared. The air between you two thickened, crackling with tension. The gym wasn’t silent—far from it. Whispers swirled through the stands, the crowd unsure whether to stay quiet and hear what was going down, or to keep up with the drama. 

“I said,” you drawled, each word slow and sharp, “maybe you should stop hitting people… or should we check the police reports, sweetheart?”

Behind you, Paige muttered low enough for only you to hear, “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Sarah, still holding her head, glanced between you two, unsure whether to step in or just let you handle it. Her hand stayed by her temple, like the hit was still rattling around in her head.

Ashlyn’s nostrils flared, her voice dropping lower, filled with venom. “Watch your mouth.”

You laughed. It wasn’t just a chuckle—it was a mocking, unapologetic laugh, sickingly sweet. “Or what? You gonna hit me next?”

The gym hummed with tension now. People were leaning in, trying to hear every word exchanged, but only a select few could actually catch what was said—UConn's team, some of the players around you, and those courtside. The rest? They could only pick up on the heat radiating off the exchange.

Paige was still close enough to mutter under her breath, “She’s not worth the tech.”

You didn’t care. Not one inch. You stood your ground, your voice low but cutting. “Honey, I’ve got 911 on speed dial and two thousand witnesses who’d love to see you with an ankle monitor.”

Ashlyn’s face twisted in anger, her eyes narrowing, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. But before she could respond—before you could provoke her further—Paige made her move.

With effortless ease, Paige wrapped her arms around you, lifting you off the ground as if you weighed nothing.

“Nope,” Paige’s voice was firm, carrying through the chaos around you.

“Paige, put me down, right now.” You kicked your feet, your anger still boiling just beneath your skin. You could feel the crowd’s eyes on you, the way they were all in suspense, waiting for something to happen. You weren’t about to let them down now.

“Nope.”

“I’m fucking serious—”

“I know, babe.”

Still kicking, still throwing insults over Paige’s shoulder, you shot a look back at Ashlyn. “Yeah, that’s right, keep walking, Ashlyn. You got more fouls than made shots, anyway.”

The gym exploded. The noise went from tense whispers to full-blown shouts and laughter. The stands were electric, people on their feet, some hooting and hollering, others still trying to catch the tail end of what had just gone down. UConn’s bench was fired up, while South Carolina’s players shifted, looking to see who would make the next move.

From the bench, Azzi’s voice cut through the noise like a knife: “Paige, sit her ass down. I’ll grab the duck tape.”The crowd’s laughter reached a fever pitch, some of the students clapping, others just shocked at the boldness of it all. This wasn’t just a game anymore. This was personal. You’d stood up for your team, your freshman, your entire squad. And the gym knew it. Ashlyn? She was in over her head, and everyone watching could see it.

a/n: from a situation that just happened with me and my teammates...

I LOVE MY WIFE

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚛 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which your court vision will always have her back

part one - part three - part four - part five

Wings vs. Sky. Packed house.

It’s physical from the tip.

Not in a dirty way. Just relentless. Elbows, hips, pressure defense. You’ve got your tablet in hand, clipboard under your leg as you track every Paige rotation.

So far, she’s holding her own. You can see the fatigue in her legs—second night of a back-to-back—but she’s still moving with intent.

And then, it happens.

Paige is curling off a high screen when Courtney Vandersloot turns too fast on help.

CRACK.

Head to head. A collision that echoes through the arena.

Both players go down. But Paige stays down. Flat on her back. Clutching her head. Knees drawn in, fingers in her hair. You stand instantly.

Your clipboard falls off your hands as you step forward—only stopped by the out-of-bounds line. You're not allowed on the court unless summoned.

But the bench?

The coaches?

Coach Koclanes just… stares.

He’s barking orders. Trying to call out a substitution. Not once looking at her.

Not one fucking time.

Your voice cuts through the noise. “Hey.”

He ignores you.

The ref glances at Paige, who’s slowly pushing herself upright, dazed. A trainer finally jogs out late. Paige waves them off, wobbling to her feet.

You stare at Koclanes.

“Are you serious right now?”

He doesn’t turn.

You step closer behind him, voice low but shaking.

“She hit the floor hard. She held her head.”

“She’s up, isn’t she?” he snaps back.

You blink. “So that’s the bar now? She can stand, so who cares how bad it was?”

��Back off, Assistant,” he mutters without looking.

“Oh no,” you say, stepping fully beside him now. “Don’t you dare pull rank with me when your point guard just collapsed on national TV and you couldn’t be bothered to check on her.”

He finally turns, face tight.

“I’m the head coach. I manage the rotation. If she wants a sub, she can say it.”

You take another step. “She was holding her head, Chris. That’s not about rotation. That’s a player safety issue.”

“She waved off the trainer.”

“She was dazed. You saw the hit!”

“You’re way out of line—”

“And you’re not protecting your players!”

A couple staffers behind you start moving. The assistant next to you puts a hand on your arm, sensing the energy shift.

Koclanes leans closer, voice dropping venom.

“You know I could fire you, right here, right now?”

You don’t flinch.

“Do it.”

That stuns him.

You say it again—louder.

“Go ahead. Fire me. But I’ll walk out of this arena knowing I gave a damn when you didn’t.”

The bench behind you is dead quiet.

Arike is standing now. DiJonai has a hand half-raised like she’s ready to step in. Maddy's eyes are wide. Someone mutters, “Yo…”

Two staffers grab your arm, trying to pull you a step back. You don’t budge.

“She is not just your franchise piece,” you growl. “She is a person. A person who’s taken more hits this season than you’ve acknowledged, and all she gets in return is a stare and a substitution?”

Koclanes clenches his jaw. “Let. This. Go.”

“There’s a concussion protocol for a reason,” you fire back. “You’re lucky she’s upright at all.”

“Assistant L/N—”

“She is not going to keep sacrificing her body just because you’re afraid to sit your starters for two goddamn possessions!”

A whistle blows from the refs. Time-in. The game resumes.

But you’re still standing. Face-to-face with the head coach. Seething.

Only when Paige walks back toward the bench, face pale, head still shaking off the hit—do you back off. You meet her eyes. She gives you a small nod.

She’s okay.

For now.

You sit down. Not because you’re done.

But because she needs you calm again.

“Oof, looks like there’s some heat on the Wings bench. That’s… Coach Koclanes and Assistant Y/N L/N—yep, that’s definitely not just a standard rotation conversation.”

“Y/N has a long history with Paige Bueckers, dating back to high school. She’s not just a development coach—she’s been Paige’s personal trainer, recovery coordinator, and from everything we’ve seen, something much closer than just staff.”

“You hate to see that kind of public tension, but… she’s not wrong. Paige went down hard. Someone had to say something.”

@/user Y/N L/N is fighting for her life on that bench and honestly??? I’d take her as head coach right now

@/user She was HOLDING HER HEAD. That wasn’t a foul. That was a fucking red flag. Thank god Y/N stepped up

@/user Y/N: “Fire me then.” Me: “oop—”

@/user I’ve never wanted to be protected by anyone more in my life than I want to be protected by Y/N L/N

@/user Paige doesn’t need a bodyguard. She has Y/N

The room is tense. No music. Just a dull, quiet hum of postgame routine. Paige is sitting on the floor with ice on her neck, head resting against her locker.

You crouch down slowly beside her, finally away from the spotlight.

“You good?” you ask, eyes scanning her carefully.

“I’m alright,” she whispers. “Just… saw stars for a sec.”

You nod. “You told the trainer?”

“Yeah. They’re doing protocol now.”

You pause.

“I almost got fired.”

She turns, brows raised.

“Coach said he could fire me. I told him to do it.”

Paige stares for a second.

Then she reaches out, curls her hand around yours, and squeezes tight.

“You always fight for me.”

You lean your forehead to hers, quiet. “Every time.”

You're barely through the front doors when your phone buzzes again. It’s the third message this morning, this one from your department lead.

“League office just requested footage of last night’s hit. They’re reviewing it for unsafe play and delayed medical response. FYI.”

You stop in your tracks.

You stare at the message.

Then you exhale, mutter “Finally,” and keep walking.

The entire coaching staff is present. Assistant coordinators. Player development. Medical team. Even media relations.

Coach Koclanes walks in last, drops his notes on the table like nothing’s out of the ordinary.

But the tension is different today.

Because the email came from the league office.

The head of player safety.

And it wasn’t just about a Vandersloot’s head butt.

It was about him.

“The league is conducting a formal review of last night’s on-court incident,” says the director of team operations, adjusting his glasses. “They want full sideline audio, player testimony, and post-concussion clearance reports from our staff.”

Everyone’s quiet.

Then one of the assistants asks, “Are they looking into the contact… or the way it was handled?”

“Both,” the director replies. “And specifically, whether proper protocol was followed.”

Coach doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look at you.

But you’re already sitting straighter. Ready.

“Do they want staff witness accounts?” you ask calmly.

“They do.”

You nod once.

Coach finally speaks. “This is being blown out of proportion.”

You turn toward him slowly. “She hit the floor hard.”

“She waved off the trainer.”

“She shouldn’t have had to.”

Another assistant murmurs, “It was a concussion risk play. That’s automatic review.”

“And the broadcast picked up your argument,” the team director adds. “Social media lit up.”

Coach leans back in his chair, clearly annoyed. “I’m more concerned with winning basketball games than internet drama.”

You stare at him flatly. “I’m more concerned with protecting the players you rely on to win them.”

The room stays silent.

You lean forward, hands on the table. “If we’re not protecting our franchise players—our rookies—especially when they’re visibly shaken, then we are failing them. Period.”

No one interrupts you this time.

And this time, Coach doesn’t fight back.

@/user The league has confirmed it is reviewing the on-court collision between Paige Bueckers and Courtney Vandersloot. Sources say the investigation includes the Dallas bench's handling of the aftermath

@/user SAY IT LOUDER! we do not normalize letting elite players get concussed mid-game and left to shake it off. The league stepping in is the bare minimum

@/user So we all agree that Y/N L/N was the only adult in the room last night right?

@/user She said “fire me” while protecting the only rookie carrying the backcourt and the league listened. Icon behavior

You’re sitting on the floor of your living room, tablet on your lap, rewatching the collision in slow motion. Frame by frame. Over and over. You’re memorizing the exact second Paige’s head hits the floor, the way her hand goes up, the dazed blink, the delayed bench reaction.

You’re so locked in you don’t hear the front door open.

“Still watching it?” Paige’s voice is quiet behind you.

You glance over your shoulder.

She walks toward you slowly, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. Her eyes are tired. She’s still on watch from the medical team—symptoms mild, but present.

“I couldn’t let it go,” you admit. “Not when no one else said anything.”

She sinks down beside you on the carpet, shoulder to shoulder.

“You didn’t let them look past it.”

“I couldn’t,” you say. “You could’ve blacked out. You could’ve gone down harder. It could’ve been worse.”

She rests her head against your shoulder.

“But it wasn’t. Because you stood up.”

You don’t answer.

Instead, you turn your face toward her temple and press a kiss there.

“I’ll never stop standing up for you.”

Her voice is softer now.

“I think the league knows that.”

You exhale. “They should.”

She smiles faintly, murmuring into your shoulder, “And if they don’t… you’ll make sure they do.”

The apartment is too quiet for a game day.

The only sound in the living room is the faint hum of the pregame broadcast coming through the TV speakers and the soft pop of an ice pack settling against fabric.

Paige is curled into the corner of the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands, the drawstrings tied in a loose knot under her chin. She’s got a pillow behind her neck, and one bare knee propped over your thigh. Her eyes are locked on the screen, but her focus is scattered.

You sit beside her—shoulders straight, arms folded—wearing a Wings staff tee and warm-up joggers that feel more like salt in the wound than uniform. You haven’t worn anything else since the league issued the notice two days ago.

Temporarily removed from bench duties pending internal review.

Which was protocol, they said. Nothing personal. Nothing disciplinary.

And yet.

It felt like exile.

The game is minutes from tip-off.

The broadcast cuts to the court.

Blue lights dance across the hardwood. The crowd is on their feet, music thumping through the arena. The camera pans the bench, scanning down the Wings sideline.

You’re not in the frame.

Neither is she.

“The Dallas Wings are without two major pieces tonight. Rookie guard Paige Bueckers is officially in concussion protocol following last game’s collision with Courtney Vandersloot—”

“And for the first time this season, development assistant Y/N L/N won’t be on the bench either. The league is still reviewing the aftermath of that play, and how the coaching staff—well, how it was all handled.”

“There’s been a lot of conversation about that. Video of their sideline confrontation went viral. And I think what you’re seeing now is the fallout of a team trying to walk the line between accountability… and silence.”

“We’ve talked a lot about how close Y/N and Paige are. What that chemistry looks like on-court. What we’re about to see tonight is what happens when that link is missing.”

Paige reaches for the remote and turns the volume down.

“I can’t listen to them talk about it like that,” she says softly.

You glance at her. “Like what?”

“Like you’re a problem.”

You shift, laying a hand gently on her thigh. “I’m not worried about how they frame it.”

“You should be,” she mutters. “You were the only one who gave a damn when I hit the floor.”

“You gave a damn, too.”

She huffs. “Yeah. I gave a dazed thumbs up. Very heroic.”

You shake your head. “You just wanted to keep playing. You always do.”

Paige looks at you then. Really looks.

“Do you think they’ll fire you?”

You pause, then answer honestly. “I don’t know.”

She’s quiet.

You squeeze her leg gently.

“They might sideline me. They might suspend me. They might decide I crossed a line.” You exhale. “But if I had to do it again? I would. Exactly the same way.”

Her voice is a whisper. “Even if it costs you this?”

You nod. “Especially then.”

The first quarter tips off.

And from the very beginning, you both see that the team is off.

Spacing is clumsy. The pace is slower. The ball sticks longer than usual.

The rhythm’s broken.

Because the one who commands it—and the one who reads it—isn’t there.

“It’s worth mentioning, that even when Paige isn’t scoring, she orchestrates spacing. And Y/N’s feedback on the bench—non-verbal corrections, in-time tweaks—you can’t replicate that mid-season.”

“They’re not just player and coach. They’re… a feedback loop.”

“And the loop’s cut tonight.”

Midway through the second quarter, Paige shifts uncomfortably, eyes fixed on a missed defensive rotation.

“She would’ve had that,” she murmurs.

You nod. “I would’ve told her to switch early.”

She leans further into you.

“You’re really not okay, are you?”

You glance at her. “No.”

She hums. “Me neither.”

She adjusts the ice pack on her neck, then pulls your arm around her shoulder, tucking into your side like a puzzle piece. The screen glows quietly in the dark.

On the court, her teammates grind out the half. But here—on this couch—you both sit quiet. Bruised. Benched. Watching the game you love play out without you.

It’s a text.

From an unknown number.

“We heard you. The review is almost done. Hang tight.”

You show the screen to Paige. She doesn’t say anything. She just takes your hand in hers and threads your fingers together like she's anchoring herself to you—because if you're not on the court, not on the bench, then at the very least, you’re here.

And here? You’re still hers.

The meeting is private, unscheduled, and dead silent when Paige Bueckers walks into the room.

Her steps are soft, but her expression is anything but. She’s in a Wings hoodie and black sweats, hair pulled back in a bun. No press-ready smiles. Just the cold, steady fire of a player who’s tired of watching everything go down from the sidelines.

Across the table, General Manager Curt Miller. Two assistant GMs. And Coach Chris Koclanes.

None of them expected her.

“Paige,” Curt says, standing politely. “You shouldn’t be up. Protocol says—”

“I’m not here for a physical,” Paige interrupts, dropping into the empty chair like she owns the room. “I’m here to talk about Y/N.”

Coach Koclanes shifts uncomfortably beside the GM. “This isn’t—”

Paige turns her head sharply. “Don’t interrupt me.”

The room stills.

No one speaks.

Paige’s voice stays calm—but there’s weight behind every syllable.

“I’ve played this game since I was six. I’ve taken elbows to the face. I’ve blown out my knee. I’ve spent more hours with athletic trainers than my own family.”

She locks eyes with Curt Miller.

“But the only person who has ever watched over me like it mattered—on and off the court—is Y/N L/N.”

Curt exhales. “We understand your connection to her, and the review—”

“No, you don’t,” Paige says, louder now. “Because if you did, she’d be on the bench tonight. Not sitting in our apartment pacing the floor with a game plan that none of you even read.”

“She escalated a sideline situation,” Koclanes cuts in. “That could’ve—”

“She defended me,” Paige snaps. “Because you didn’t.”

That shuts him up.

Paige leans forward.

“I was clutching my head after a violent collision, and you didn’t even glance my way. You were too busy managing your substitution flow to check if your rookie could stand up straight.”

“You waved off the trainer,” Koclanes mutters.

“I was concussed,” she hisses. “I shouldn’t have had to make that call.”

Curt interjects, gentler now. “We hear your frustration, Paige. And we want to be sure you’re feeling safe within the team structure.”

Paige turns to her again. “Let me make it clear, then. If Y/N loses her job over protecting mine, I walk.”

The silence is immediate.

No one blinks. No one breathes.

Lisa finally clears her throat. “You’re serious.”

Paige nods. “Dead serious.”

Koclanes scoffs under his breath.

“She doesn’t get to dictate personnel decisions,” he says.

“She knows this roster better than you do,” Paige fires back. “She watches our feet, not just our stats. She tells us what’s off before the film catches it. You’re reckless with our bodies, Chris. You push starters past warning signs. You gamble with rotations and call it ‘intensity.’ But Y/N? She works to preserve us.”

Curt looks between them.

“Paige… you’re one of our franchise pieces. This team has invested heavily—”

“Then listen to me. Because I’m telling you now. If Y/N’s not here? Neither am I.”

The room is tense.

And Paige? She’s not backing down.

“She’s not your assistant,” she finishes. “She’s our protection. Our voice when we’re too scared or too trained to speak.”

She stands slowly. Her head is still aching from the concussion. Her balance isn’t perfect. But her voice never wavers.

“You want to talk about trust? I don’t trust a single system that punishes someone for giving a damn.”

Your badge scans in clean again.

You're back.

Officially reinstated. No fine. No reprimand. No apology from the league — but the silence is as good as an admission.

The rest of the staff pretends like nothing happened. You get polite nods. Familiar claps on the shoulder. Even a “glad you’re back” from one of the interns.

But you don’t come back for the pleasantries. You come back to do your job.

Paige isn’t cleared to practice yet, but she’s there — sitting off to the side with her arms crossed and a soft smile in your direction every time she catches your eye. She looks better. Brighter. But you still check her hands every time she stretches. Still watch her pupils when she blinks too long.

Because now more than ever, you’re watching what no one else does.

You’re mid-cone setup near the baseline, clipboard under your arm, when you hear it.

“Coach L/N.”

You turn, slow and sharp.

It’s Koclanes.

Standing just off the court. Neutral expression. Neutral tone.

But you know better.

“Got a second?”

You glance at your watch. “We’re two minutes from footwork warmups.”

He steps closer. “It won’t take long.”

You exhale through your nose and follow — just far enough off the court to give the illusion of privacy. But Paige is still watching. So are the assistants. The players may not be listening, but the energy around you shifts.

You keep your stance open, but your face is a locked door.

Koclanes speaks first.

“I just wanted to say I respect your fire,” he says. “What you did? It came from a place of care. I didn’t see it then, but I see it now.”

You don’t move.

“You’re a passionate voice for the team. For Paige. It was a heat-of-the-moment thing. We both lost our cool.”

He waits. Watching you. Hoping for a nod. A hand-shake. A let’s-move-on.

But you give him nothing.

“Are you finished?”

He blinks. “Excuse me?”

You tilt your head. “Was that supposed to be an apology?”

“I said I respect what you did.”

“No,” you say. “You said you see it now. Which is cute. But it doesn’t erase what you didn’t see when she was laid out on the floor.”

He stiffens.

You step closer — not aggressive. Just tired of holding it in.

“You want to patch this up? You want to shake hands and pretend we’re good?” You lean in slightly. “You should’ve done that then. You should’ve cared then. When your franchise rookie was blinking through a possible concussion and you didn’t move.”

Koclanes crosses his arms. “You don’t need to drag this out.”

You smile coldly. “I’m not dragging anything. I just don’t pretend.”

He exhales, trying to keep his voice even. “You’re not going to win anything by holding a grudge.”

You shake your head once. “This isn’t a grudge. This is a memory.”

You take a step back.

“And I don’t need to win. I just need to protect my players.”

You turn and walk away.

Paige watches the whole exchange.

Doesn’t hear every word. Doesn’t need to. She sees your shoulders square. Your jaw tighten. The way you walk back toward the court like nothing touched you.

She smiles to herself.

Because she knew you’d come back stronger.

And this time? They all saw it.

It was the second week of February and the third game in five days.

Hopkins was undefeated. Paige was averaging 26 points per game. She was already on the national radar, already getting SportsCenter highlights and whispered UConn promises. But that week? She looked… slow.

Not bad. Just off.

You noticed it before anyone else did. The slight hitch in her landing after every Euro step. The way she winced when she rotated off her left foot. She hadn’t said a word. Of course she hadn’t. Not Paige.

But you’d been training with her long enough by then to know her body better than she did.

So when Coach called another full-speed scrimmage the day after a back-to-back, you spoke up.

At first, it was just a glance.

You caught her limping slightly off a cut and you looked at him. Expecting him to notice.

He didn’t.

“Keep pushing!” he barked from across the gym. “You want to play D1, you play tired. No excuses.”

Paige’s jaw clenched.

You took a step forward.

Coach blew the whistle again. “Run it back! I want more pace!”

“Coach,” you said, calmly. “She’s limping.”

He waved you off. “She’s fine.”

“She’s not.”

Now he turned. “Y/N, this isn’t your lane.”

“She hasn’t planted off her left clean in ten minutes.”

“She’s tougher than that.”

You stepped between them.

“No one’s questioning her toughness. But if you keep pushing her on that leg, she’s not going to finish the season.”

Coach’s expression shifted — more annoyed than concerned.

“She said she’s good. That’s all I need.”

You turned back to Paige.

She wouldn’t meet your eyes. You watched her swallow, force her shoulders up. That brave little smile she wore like armor when she didn’t want to be seen through.

So you said it for her.

“She doesn’t have to say it. I’m saying it. Pull her.”

The gym went quiet.

Later, she found you outside the locker room, hoodie over her head, limping a little more now that the drills were done.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she muttered.

You leaned against the wall. “You always say that.”

“I would’ve been fine.”

You tilted your head. “No, you would've played through it. That’s not the same.”

She didn’t answer. Just scuffed her shoe against the hallway tile.

“You were protecting me,” she finally said.

You shrugged. “Always will.”

Paige looked up at you then. Really looked.

And her voice came out quiet, almost too vulnerable for her.

“Even if I don’t ask you to?”

You didn’t hesitate.

“Especially then.”

[casssmalefantasy]

hello can i request teammates paige x reader fic based on that game with villanova where paige sprained her knee? just reader being super concerned and paige being frustrated to be injured so close to march madness but also lowkey enjoying getting doted on by her girlfriend while she recovers

thank you sm love your work 🫶🏼

you always play with fire - paige bueckers x reader

s: villanova week means war—at least to paige bueckers. a year into dating, you’ve seen how fired up she gets. practice is intense. the game’s brutal. and when it all takes a turn, all you want is to be near her, even if all you can do is love her from the bench

w: established relationship, injury scare (non-severe), emotional tension, fluff, comforting, swearing, soft angst, basketball stress, uconn team dynamics, private relationship themes

word count: 4.6k

author’s note: i hope i brought your vision to life 💗. thank you for loving my stories.

⸻

the gym feels like it’s holding its breath.

geno’s yelling again—something about closing out stronger, sharper. you’re locked in on the defensive drill, but you feel the pressure tightening like tape, winding tighter with every whistle blow.

villanova week. there’s a certain tension in the air, the kind only paige bueckers can bring when her least favorite team is coming to town.

“again,” geno calls, arms crossed, and you’re moving before the word’s fully out. your body aches but your brain doesn’t care. none of yours do. not this week.

paige is a blur on the perimeter, all grit and precision. jana’s fighting for every board. sarah’s boxing out like her life depends on it. azzi sinks another three.

the energy isn’t friendly. it’s focused. and geno’s feeding it.

you catch a glance at paige as she jogs back on defense. sweat slicks her hairline. her eyes cut sharp, locked in. she looks like she’s on fire.

“move the ball, faster!” he barks. “we don’t have time for hesitation. villanova’s not gonna wait around while you think about it!”

you pass to ice, cut through the lane, catch the feed, and finish at the rim. a sharp whistle. a grunt of approval. water break.

paige meets you at the baseline, already smiling. “he’s tweaking today.”

you nod, bending to rest your hands on your knees. “he’s been tweaking all week. i don’t think he’s slept.”

“same,” she mutters, grabbing her water. “i’ve been watching tape. i hate villanova.”

you smile, wiping your face with a towel. “you always say that.”

“because it’s always true.”

she’s not wrong. something about villanova always lights a fire in her—maybe it’s their scrappy defense, maybe it’s their smug little pressers, maybe it’s just that paige likes to win and hates when anyone thinks she can’t.

geno calls the next drill and the pace ramps up. it’s footwork. defensive switches. rebounding battles. bruises forming on hips and elbows. paige is everywhere—diving for loose balls, directing traffic, barking out coverage. you love watching her like this. it’s like her body knows what it was made for.

“you’re locked in,” you murmur when you pass each other.

she glances at you, smirking. “you know how i get.”

⸻

you’re curled on the couch in the team’s lounge, legs draped over paige’s lap, kk and jana debating loudly over who’s better at fortnite. ice is half-asleep on a beanbag. sarah’s scrolling tiktok with her headphones on.

“yo,” jana says, tossing a piece of popcorn at you. “you ready for tomorrow?”

you smirk. “you ready to argue with the refs again, paige?”

“i don’t argue,” paige says, all mock innocence. “i just… present my case. calmly. like a professional.”

jana snorts. “calmly? ‘present your case’ means flailing your arms in the ref’s face?”

“she’s passionate,” you say, trying not to laugh.

“she’s a menace,” sarah mutters, but she’s smiling.

paige shrugs, unbothered. “they just don’t see the game how i see it.”

“sure, lawyer bueckers,” jana teases. “go plead your case.”

you bump your knee into hers gently, feel her fingers trace your shin in quiet response.

the room feels like home and you look at her— cheeks pink, eyes bright, that little dimple showing—and you’re so in love it almost hurts

⸻

game day hits hard than you expected.

warmups are sharp. sneakers squeak on hardwood. music blares. lights feel brighter. the crowd’s already loud, buzzing with anticipation.

villanova’s physical. you knew that. you always know that.

but this time’s worse.

paige gets a block in the first quarter that nearly sends the place into orbit. jana’s battling in the paint, ashlyn’s pulling down rebounds like she was born for it, sarah hits back-to-back threes and your own jumper falls smooth from the corner.

but with every missed call, every shove, the game starts slipping into something uglier.

paige’s frustration is simmering. you see it in the way she talks to the refs—tight-lipped, pointed. in the way her hands move. in her eyes.

you pull her into a quick huddle after a foul’s ignored. “breathe,” you say low, just for her. “stay with me.”

she nods, jaw clenched. “i’m trying.”

and she is. god, she is.

until the third quarter.

a loose ball. bodies diving. and then—

paige’s body hits the court hard—her knee bending wrong, her stomach slamming into hardwood floor.

the arena went silent.

and your stomach drops.

she rolls to her side, face scrunched in pain, one hand gripping her knee. the trainer’s already running. the bench is frozen.

your legs move before your mind does, sprinting to her side.

her breathing’s shallow. her fingers dig into the court. she doesn’t scream, but her face says enough.

“that’s a flagrant foul, god damn,” she yells to the refs, voice strained, fury and pain tangled tight. she lets you and kk help her up, limping toward the tunnel. the crowd claps. your heart’s in your throat.

geno signals a sub, and you barely register it before you’re on the bench, jaw tight, watching the tunnel like she might come right back out.

she doesn’t, not right away.

⸻

when she does, the arena erupts in applause.

she’s walking, barely limping now, eyes glassy, shoulders tense. she slides beside you on the bench, and you shift closer, hand brushing her knee.

“you okay?” you whisper.

she nods, once. “sprained, probably. hurts like hell.”

you rub gentle circles on her thigh. “i’m sorry.”

“i hate this shit,” she breathes, eyes darting to the court. “i hate being out. i hate that they decided to call the fucking fouls once i get hurt. i panicked for a second, thought—” she stops herself before her mind goes there.

you look at her. she looks back. then lower. at your mouth.

you’re both still. still too close to the cameras, still too public. you look away first. she does too, with a tiny smile like she knows. like it’s enough.

⸻

you go back in the game like something’s burning in you.

you play for her. for what she couldn’t finish. and you win.

UCONN 83–52.

⸻

later, she’s at your apartment, a brace on her knee and an ice pack melting on your table.

“it’s a sprain,” she says. “i’m out a week. sucks. but—could’ve been worse.”

you nod. you’re trying not to cry.

“i hated being back there when i was getting scanned,” she admits. “felt helpless. and when i landed—my mind just… spiraled.”

you pull her closer. “you’re okay. you’re here. i’ve got you.”

she presses her face into your shoulder. “thank you for taking care of me. for being here.”

you kiss her forehead. “always.”

“i needed that earlier,” she whispers, pulling you in.

your lips meet slow. soft. she tastes like mint gum and relief.

“i love you,” you say.

“i love you more,” she murmurs.

and you fall asleep curled into each other, her heartbeat steady against yours.

[v3writes]

OFF NIGHT HEAT

Paige Bueckers x fem!reader

synopsis: paige and the wings are playing against the indiana fever. it seems like paige is so called having a off night, but a smirk she does after getting hit with no foul call lights her up.

warnings: fluff! light smut! sensual!kissing (not that sexual)

The squeak of sneakers and the low rumble of the Gainbridge Fieldhouse crowd had been tense from tip-off. The Dallas Wings were fighting to stay ahead of the Indiana Fever, and Paige Bueckers was feeling the weight of every possession.

She wasn’t bad tonight — her stat line was fine — but nothing felt smooth. Her jumper was rimming out more than usual, Indiana’s perimeter defenders were playing her body-to-body, and every cut to the basket ended with a forearm or hip check. By the middle of the second quarter, she was gritting her teeth after nearly every whistle — or lack thereof.

You sat courtside, leaning forward in your seat, watching Paige move like she was made of restless electricity. You knew that look. The one where frustration simmered just under her calm, where every missed call built into something bigger.

Beginning of the 3rd

The Wings were up, but Indiana’s defense had sharpened. You were already gripping the edge of your seat when Paige took the ball at the top of the key, crouched low, and drove right. She slid between two defenders, her blonde ponytail whipping behind her—then it happened.

A tangle of legs.

A hip check from the side.

And Paige went down. Hard.

The sound of her hitting the hardwood made your stomach drop. You were on your feet before you realized it, your palms flat against the scorer’s table.

“Paige!” The name came out before you could stop yourself.

She stayed down for a second longer than you liked, rolling onto her side. One of the Fever players bent over to check on her, but she waved them off, jaw tight.

Coach Chris Koclanes was already at the scorer’s table, signaling for a sub. “Paige, come sit—”

She pushed herself up on one knee, shaking her head with a fire you recognized all too well. “NO. I’m fine.”

“Paige—” He yelled.

“I said I’m fine. Don’t pull me.” Her voice carried over the low murmur of the crowd, sharp enough that even from your seat, you felt it in your chest. She stood fully now, flexing her leg once before jogging—slightly stiff-legged—toward the free-throw line for the inbound.

You exhaled shakily, sinking back into your seat but unable to stop your knee from bouncing. Your eyes stayed locked on her every movement, watching for the smallest limp, the slightest wince.

When she caught your gaze across the court for half a second, she didn’t smile—just gave a small nod. You nodded back, pretending it was enough to calm you.

Midway through the third, it happened again.

Paige caught a pass on the right wing, lined up and attempted a 3, she missed and fell down. Fever player Aliyah Boston blocked her shot. Then set a screen that Paige ran into causing her to fall down again. She quickly got back up and touched her bottom lip.

No whistle.

You saw her tongue swipe along her lip before she smirked — a sharp, dangerous expression that told everyone she was done being polite. A thin bead of red traced along the edge of her mouth. She glanced at the ref, shook her head, and jogged back on offense after the fever had scored with a new intensity.

That exact moment was so hot, the smirk, the tongue swipe. You nearly screamed and jumped out of your seat for her. You know you shouldn’t like to see her hurt but the way she casually just smirked and looked at the ref like “wtf?” was attractive.

From there, her game changed — not flawless, but fierce. She started attacking more, finding Maddy Siegrist in perfect rhythm, dishing a no-look pass to Li Yueru for an easy bucket. Even so, Indiana clawed back in the fourth, erasing what had been a 17-point lead.

The last minute was chaos — Kelsey Mitchell nearly stole the game, but her shot bounced off the rim as the buzzer went, sealing Dallas’ 81–80 escape.

⸻

You could tell the second Paige walked into the tunnel that her mind wasn’t on the win.

Back in the locker room area, she ripped off her shooting sleeve and muttered under her breath about “blind refs” and “getting mugged out there.” When she emerged, she found you waiting.

“Hey baby” you started, offering a small smile. “Good game—”

“Good game? Did you see what they were letting happen out there?” she snapped, her voice sharper than she meant it to be. “I’m out there getting hit in the face, no calls… It’s like they don’t even care.”

Your smile faltered. “I was watching, Paige. I’m just saying—”

“Whatever,” she muttered, brushing past you toward the car.

The ride home was quiet, tension sitting between you heavier than the summer night air. You knew she wasn’t mad at you — not really — but it still stung.

When you finally got inside, she dropped her bag by the door and let out a long breath. Her eyes softened when she saw you still standing in the hallway.

“Hey… I’m sorry,” she murmured, stepping closer. “I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I just… I hate feeling like I can’t control the game.”

You nodded, your voice gentle. “I know. And I get it. But you don’t have to carry it alone, you know?”

She reached for you, pulling you into her chest. “I don’t deserve you.”

You smiled into her shoulder. “Probably not. But you’ve got me anyway.”

⸻

The rest of the night was slow, warm, and unhurried. She let you take her hand, leading her to the couch where you curled together under a throw blanket. You traced your fingers over the faint swelling on her lip, brushing your thumb lightly over it.

“It’s not bad,” you whispered.

She smirked. “Still makes me look tough, right?”

“You looked hot when you smirked” You spoke softly.

“Did i?” she teased.

You smiled as you rolled your eyes and kissed her anyway, tasting the faint hint of mint from the gum she’d chewed after the game. One kiss turned into two, then three, the tension from earlier melting into something softer.

Eventually, she tugged you toward the bedroom. Clothes slipped away slowly, each touch deliberate. Paige laid you back, kissing down your neck, her hands warm on your waist. She took her time with you — mouth and fingers working in sync until you were trembling, your hands gripping her shoulders.

When you came down from the high, you switched places, wanting to give her the same unhurried care she’d given you. Your lips traced down her stomach, savoring every sound she made until her fingers curled in the sheets and her breath caught.

You ended the night tangled together, her arm around you, your head on her chest. The earlier frustration was long gone, replaced by the slow rhythm of her heartbeat under your ear.

“I love you,” she murmured sleepily.

“i love you more p” you spoke softly.

a/n: did i eat or did i eat?

💋💋

[raekensluver]

hey can i request a fic or headcannons for the uk yt boys on how they would react to you flashing them to shut them up if they’re rambling on 🤭🤭

masterlist | main masterlist

i got multiple asks for this so here ya go!

contains: fluff, non-sexual nudity,

arthur frederick x fem!reader, chris dixon x fem!reader, george clarke x fem!reader, harry lewis x fem!reader

arthur frederick - he is mid-explanation of some bizarre niche theory - this time, it’s about how the monopoly man is actually a corrupt landlord. you love him, but you’re dangerously close to sleep. so, naturally, you flash him.

he stops immediately. just stares. mouth open, hands frozen mid-gesture, like you’ve temporarily removed his brain from his body. "...what the fuck?" he says after a beat, eyes flicking up to yours with disbelief. then he turns in a slow circle, hands on his head like he’s processing trauma. "you can’t just do that. i was making a serious point." you smirk, shrug, and he groans. "nah, you’re evil. you’re actually evil."

he’s flustered for a solid twenty minutes, trying to go back to his monopoly slander while glaring at you suspiciously, like you might do it again.

chris dixon - he is deep in football rant territory, walking in circles, going off about how his team was robbed, again. he’s all passion, frustration, and "if i was on that pitch" delusions. you let him go for a solid two minutes before you calmly lift your top.

he stumbles mid-step.

"nah. no. what was that?"

you smile sweetly. "just needed you to stop."

he blinks like you slapped him. "you’re not normal. that was psychological warfare." he shakes his head, eyebrows high, lips twitching like he’s fighting a grin. "i was on a roll. do you know how rare that is?" but he doesn’t even remember what he was saying. he sits down dramatically, throws a pillow at you, and mutters something about never speaking again without a helmet.

george clarke - the first time you do it to him, he’s in the middle of telling you some absurd theory about how the opposing team cheated and the ref should be banned for life. he’s pacing a little, one hand on his hip, the other gesturing wildly, voice rising with dramatic flair. and then, mid-sentence, you just lift your top. no warning. no build-up. just pure chaos.

his entire body jerks like you’ve launched a confetti cannon in his face. "oh my god," he gasps, immediately turning bright red. "you’re insane." he shields his eyes dramatically with one hand, peeking through his fingers. "that’s so rude. i was making a point!"

"and now you're not."

"yeah, well, congrats. you broke me."

he doesn’t finish the story. instead, he spends the rest of the evening side-eyeing you, waiting for another surprise attack.

harry lewis - he doesn’t even see it coming. he’s bouncing off the walls, mid-rant about cereal not being soup, fully animated and borderline feral. you flash him in the middle of his chaos.

he screams.

not a yell. a full-blown, dramatic shriek.

"WHA-."

he trips over the couch, knocks over a bottle of water, spins in a circle like he’s just seen a ghost and his future flash before his eyes. "you’re mad. actually mad. i have a girlfriend and she’s unhinged." you just raise your eyebrows at him and he points dramatically. "you. are. the girlfriend."

he walks out of the room and comes back two minutes later just to laugh into your neck and call you a menace.

[lethesbeastie]

Finally got my visual refs for the Wanderer's Jaws drawn up! My beloved mimic ship and her insatiable appetite for flesh and blood <3

Extra lore and visuals beneath the cut!

Intro to the Wanderer's lore is here. <3

The Wanderer is rather strange for a mimic; beyond her colossal size, her physical adaptations for a fully marine existence show evidence of the possible divergence of mimic subspecies specializing in unusual environments. Her close bond with (and refusal to eat) the people she considers her crew makes her even more of a mystery, though the secrecy with which she is shrouded is well earned. Few encounter the Wanderer and live to tell the tale, and those who do may find it in their best interest to keep such stories and speculations to themselves.

It's well known among her crew that the relationship they have with the mimic is a strange sort of symbiosis; her great size would be unsustainable without their assistance. They protect her from sickness and starvation, and she, in return, guards them from the elements and injury. The ships she sinks at their behest supply the material with which she builds her protective disguise, and the crews of those ships provide her with the nourishment needed to grow and heal from injuries.

Even so, the relationship goes beyond simple convenience. There is a bond shared between them all, an understanding. The Wanderer makes herself vulnerable to her crew, keeps them close beneath the carapace of her wooden hull. Within the sanctuary of her own body she guards them from harm, and cares for them as her own. The loyalty of the crew to their beloved vessel surpass that of most seafaring folks, and for good cause.

Any sailor can learn to love a ship, but it is a rare ship that has learned to love its sailors.

[gunnerfc]

Look at me | Leah Williamson x Reader (18+)

Summary: You and Leah celebrate a tough win that left you both extremely frustrated 

Warning: smut minors DNI!, top leah, bottom reader, strap use (r receiving), leah spitting in R’s mouth, multiple orgasms

WC: 1.6K

You huffed as the final whistle blew, your hands resting on your hips as you took a few deep breaths. The past one hundred minutes against City had been full of rough tackles and poor calls from the ref that frustrated both teams. After extra time, Arsenal walked away with the win, and you were grateful to be done for the evening. 

You quickly shook hands with the away team and a few of your teammates before interacting with the fans. You signed a few things and took a few pictures before thanking the fans around you and making your way to the locker room. You huffed as you fell to your cubby, earning a light chuckle from Caitlin next to you. 

You shot her a not-so-serious glare, which only earned another chuckle from the Aussie, but she didn’t offer any jokes about your frustrations. As you removed your boots, you locked eyes briefly with Leah, the blonde sitting back in her cubby filled with her frustrations from the match. By the look on her face, you could tell the car ride home would be filled with a bit of complaining from both of you. 

You took your time showering, letting the water attempt to wash away your anger, though it didn’t fully work. You were still riddled with annoyance as you got dressed in more comfortable clothes and met Leah outside the locker room. You mumbled a quiet ‘goodbye’ to the few teammates left as the two of you headed to Leah’s car. Both of you were quiet at first before Leah broke the silence. 

“Can’t believe those calls, genuinely a joke,” she huffed as she stopped at a stop light, her jaw tight as she stared at the rear lights from the car in front of you. 

“Don’t even get me started on the cards she gave! For some of the softest fouls of the night,” you groaned, shaking your head at the memory of the ref showing you a yellow card for a foul that did not deserve a card to begin with. 

Leah scoffed at the mention of fouls but opted to stay quiet as the light turned green. Neither of you spoke again, too busy replaying the full match in your head and making yourselves upset again. You sighed softly when you arrived home, hoping that being in your own space, relaxing, would help diminish the anger you both felt. 

Leah had other plans, though, and the moment you were both through the door, your back met the wall next to the door, earning a small gasp from you. Leah blindly pushed the door closed as her hands kept you locked against the wall. The blonde’s lips were on yours in an instant, her hands bunching up your shirt as her body was flush with yours. 

You moaned into the kiss as you moved your hands up to her shoulders, holding her closer as she moved to trail kisses down your neck. “Fuck,” you groaned as your head rested against the wall, your eyes closed tightly. 

“Bedroom,” Leah mumbled into your neck in between small nips to your skin, “Now.” 

The defender pulled away to let you walk, though it was her pulling you with her to your shared bedroom. You let out a soft grunt when your back met the bed, eyes locked on Leah as she pulled her shirt from her body and let it fall to the floor. “Take it off,” the blonde gestured to your clothes with a finger as she moved around the room. 

You were quick to listen, stripping your clothes from your body and tossing them off the bed. Your chest heaved at the thoughts of heated sex with Leah, something that always happened when both of you had a rough game. Your legs closed in anticipation as you felt yourself grow wetter. 

Your eyes were back on the defender as she pushed her shorts to the floor and harnessed a strap-on around her hips. She normally would have teased you a bit, but with both of your frustration levels through the roof, she opted for a more direct path. Leah didn’t waste any time climbing on the bed, moving to hover above you. 

Her lips met yours in a heated kiss, her tongue instantly swiping along your bottom lip, asking, demanding entrance. You moaned into the kiss as her tongue explored your mouth, your hands moving to her back as you tried to pull her down more. The blonde propped herself up with a hand next to your head as her hand ran along your body, stopping when it reached your chest. 

You whined when her fingers pinched your hardened nipple, your back arching into her hand as your hips bucked, seeking more. Leah pulled away from your lips to kiss down your neck and to your chest, replacing her fingers with her mouth. “Fuck, Leah,” you whined at the feeling of her mouth wrapped around your nipple. 

Leah gave your other hardened nipple the same attention quickly before propping herself back up and reaching a hand between the two of you. Your legs spread further, feeling her run the tip of the strap-on through your folds before pushing it in until she bottomed out. You both groaned softly, your frustrations slowly leaving your body as pleasure took over. 

You tilted your head back and closed your eyes tightly as Leah started moving her hips, hers snapping against yours as she picked up speed. You moved to wrap a hand around her wrist that was by your head, squeezing tightly as she fucked you. 

“You’re always so worked up after rough games,” Leah commented as she pulled one of your legs up, allowing her to fuck you at a new angle. “I think you like being pushed around,” she smirked. 

You couldn’t even try to defend yourself if you wanted, moans kept falling from your lips as her hips thrust into you. The lewd sounds of her skin hitting yours mixed with your moans and whines echoed off the bedroom walls, adding to the pleasure you were experiencing.

Leah let go of your leg to grab your jaw, turning your head down, “Look at me,” her voice was lower as she squeezed your jaw slightly, 

Your hazy eyes fluttered open, meeting hers that were dark with arousal. “Open,” she muttered as her thumb ran across your bottom lip. You did as you were told, your mouth opening slightly as she leaned down, spitting into your mouth. Leah closed your mouth for you, her thumb rubbing your bottom lip once more. 

You tried to keep your eyes open, but your eyes rolled back at her actions, and a whine fell from your lips. Leah smirked down at you before rearranging her position so that she was sitting up straight on her knees with your leg extended against her. Her hips continued their fast movements, and you could barely form a sentence to tell you were close. 

You didn’t have to say anything, though, Leah knew. The blonde knew how to read your body well enough to know when you were about to cum, and she didn’t let up at all. “C’mon, baby,” the blonde grunted as she littered kisses along your calf. 

She didn’t need to say more, you threw your head back as you let go, coming all over the toy buried within you. Leah didn’t slow down, her hips stayed at the same pace as she fucked you through your orgasm, searching for a second in quick succession. 

You gripped the cover beneath you tightly as your back arched off the bed, silent moans leaving your mouth as you felt a second orgasm quickly approaching. “F-fuck,” was all you muttered as you gasped, coming once more from the simulation. 

Leah was close to coming as well, the pressure from the harness and toy pushing her to an orgasm. The blonde continued to fuck you, the toy hitting deep within as you clenched around it, making it harder for her to move. “So close,” Leah muttered more to herself as her body jerked as her orgasm hit. 

Leah stopped to catch her breath, both of you heaving as she lowered your leg back to the bed. You whimpered as she pulled out of you, missing the fullness. Leah unharnessed the strap-on from her body and tossed it to the floor to be cleaned later. 

You laid still for a moment as she dropped to your side, her hand pushing away strands of hair that were stuck to your forehead. “Still angry at the game,” you joked in between breaths. 

Leah laughed at your words before kissing your forehead. “Not right, ask me in the morning,” she joked, her hand tracing random shapes along your collarbones. 

You went to respond but were interrupted by a yawn, which earned one from the defender as well. “Don’t do that,” she mumbled between yawns. 

“Can’t help it,” you pouted up at her, eyes dropping slightly. 

Leah didn’t respond; instead, she pushed herself off the bed and made her way to the bathroom. You heard the water running before she returned, offering you a hand to help you off the bed. “You can sleep after a shower,” she smiled as she led you to the bathroom. 

You groaned but didn’t bother arguing with her, instead, you took turns helping each other take a quick shower before you spent a few minutes just letting the water hit the both of you. After a few moments under the water, you both decided to call it. 

You each took a few moments to dry off and get clothes to sleep before doing nightly routines. Both of you finally returned to bed, and you made yourself comfortable at her side before whispering a soft ‘I love you.’ Leah gave you a quick peck on your forehead before repeating your words, and both of you were out, your bodies exhausted from the game and the orgasms.