#juju imagine

[demie90s]

juju x reader where it’s the trend where reader acts like a random girl to see how juju reacts https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTjpvABS4/

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Playing Games

JuJu Watkins x fem!reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You decide to prank JuJu with the “random girl” TikTok trend to see how she’d react.

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~ 0.3k

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: Fluff, comedy, couple chaos

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: Light language, intense flirting, fake jealousy

You’re feeling bold. Got your camera set up, low angle from the sidewalk, facing JuJu’s parked car. She’s inside, window halfway down, scrolling her phone and minding her business.

You smooth your hair, adjust your tank so your arm muscles pop a little more, and walk up slow with that fake “random girl” confidence.

Attempt 1

You tap the window with two fingers and she glances up.

“Hey,” you start in a sweet voice. “Are you single?”

She raises a brow, recognizes your voice immediately but plays along. “Yes,” she says too fast. “Yup. I am. No girlfriend. I’m so single. What’s up?”

You blink. “Oh, word?”

“Yeah, tryna be my girl or what?” She grins, hand already reaching to unlock the door like she don’t live with you.

You step closer, slow, and grip her hoodie through the window with one hand—bicep flexing just enough. Her smirk fades a little.

“Don’t play with me, JuJu.”

She sucks her teeth, laughing. “Aight, damn, let go of my hoodie, strong-ass.”

“Roll the window up.”

“I was tryna,” she mutters, hitting the button. “Here you go actin’ like a linebacker in public again.”

Attempt 2

You spin the block. Hoodie on this time. Lip gloss poppin’. Whole different vibe. You sneak back up and tap again.

She glances, confused, and rolls the window down slow.

You hit her with a smooth, “You’re so pretty… do you have a girlfriend?”

This time she squints like she wants to flirt but knows better. “Yes. Matter fact—watch this.”

She grabs her phone, dials you, and holds it up with a smug smirk.

Your phone starts ringing in your pocket. You try not to laugh. On speaker:

“Yeahhhh that’s my baby right there. Gimme a kiss.”

She lean in smiling.“No, th-this ain’t y/n.”

“What?” I says, still on the phone, still looking at her. “You lying.”

“This a random girl. You kissing strangers, Ju? Gimme a kiss girl.”

She sucks her teeth and leans out the window, pulls you down by the collar and kisses you, all soft and slow.

You pull back with a fake gasp. “Wow. Y’all see this? She just kissed me and I’m not even her girl.”

From inside the car: “Hang up my damn phone and get in before I embarrass you for real.”

You open the door, climb in, like you didn’t just do a whole improv scene on the sidewalk.

She deadpans to the camera. “Next time you try this trend, I’m rollin’ the window up on your fine ass.”

@xxsnowxx213 @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @let-zizi-yap @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey @julieluvspb @non3ofurbusiness @kcannon-1436-blog @kaliblazin @liloandstitchstan @footy-lover264

[wbbwhorez]

Too clingy

You weren’t supposed to hear it.

You were supposed to still be at media. Doing post-practice interviews. Smiling through the exhaustion and pretending that being Juju’s teammate didn’t twist something sharp in your stomach every time she brushed past you like you were nothing.

But the interview got cut short. And you came back early.

And now you were standing just outside the locker room door, listening to her voice.

Hers—and someone else's.

"She’s clingy," Juju was saying, casual, amused. "I told her I’m not looking for anything serious, but she still thinks we’re... I don’t know. A thing."

Kayla laughed. That same mocking, sharp little laugh you hated.

"Didn’t she spend the night last week?"

Juju snorted. "Yeah. That was just—whatever. You know how it is."

You stopped breathing.

You stood there, frozen, heart crawling up your throat and pounding against the back of your teeth. It was like your entire ribcage collapsed. Like someone reached into your chest and just started ripping.

She was talking about you.

You were the one who made her tea that night when she was sore. You were the one who brought her your favorite hoodie because she said hers smelled like sweat. You were the one who kissed her hair when she fell asleep on your chest.

And now she was laughing about it.

Like it meant nothing.

Like you meant nothing.

You didn’t wait to hear the rest. You turned around, vision blurry, steps fast and heavy, your bag slamming against your side as you stormed out of the building without saying a word.

Juju didn’t follow.

She didn’t text.

Didn’t call.

Didn’t care.

---

Four Days Later

You didn’t show up to the team dinner

You skipped film review. Told Coach you had a migraine.

You didn’t look at Juju once in practice. Not when she stole the ball. Not when she scored. Not when she tried to stand next to you during drills.

You were done.

She noticed. You could feel it in the way her voice faltered when she called your name during warmups.

The way she started chewing her nails again on the bench, the same way she did when she was nervous.

The way she didn’t know how to be loud anymore unless it was for show.

You sat three seats away from her in the locker room.

When she reached for your wrist before you left, you didn’t even look at her.

“Wait—Y/N—can we—”

You pulled your arm away like it burned “No.”

“But I—”

“No,” you said again, this time sharp, final. “Don’t talk to me.”

Her face crumpled. Just slightly. Like she wasn’t used to you having boundaries. Like she thought she could lie to you and you’d still stay.

You didn’t give her a chance to say another word. You turned, walked out, and let the door slam shut behind you.The first apology came through text.

> can we talk pls? i didn’t mean it like that.

You stared at your screen in bed, the blue light catching the tear tracks still drying on your cheeks.

Didn’t mean it like that?

There’s only so many ways “she’s clingy, it’s not serious” can be interpreted

You turned off your phone.

---

At practice, the tension was suffocating.

Coach was confused. So were your teammates. But no one said anything out loud.

Except Nia.

“hey,” she murmured under her breath during stretches, “what happened?”

You didn’t answer.

Across the gym, Juju was watching you like you were about to disappear. She was quieter than usual. Less cocky. Like someone took the soul out of her and left the shell.

Good.

Let her feel it.

---

The second apology came in person.

You were walking back from class when she caught up with you outside the dorms, breathless, hoodie pulled over her head like she could hide from what she’d done.

"Y/N—wait—"

You didn’t.

“Please,” she tried again, stepping in front of you. Her eyes were wide, frantic. “I didn’t mean to say that. I was just—I was trying to push Kayla off, it was dumb, it wasn’t even—”

“Shut up.”

Her mouth snapped closed.

You could see the hope die in her eyes, right there on the pavement.

“You lied to me,” you said, voice razor-thin, “and then you humiliated me. Behind my back.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did.”

She took a shaky breath. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“No,” you whispered, blinking hard, “you just didn’t care if you did.”

That hit.

Her face crumpled again—like she didn’t know how to handle you not forgiving her instantly. Like you weren’t allowed to be angry, truly angry. Like your pain was something she thought she could fix with a soft voice and sad eyes.

You stepped around her and kept walking.

She didn’t follow

---

That Night

She sent another message.

> i fucked up.

You didn’t reply.

She sent another.

> i miss you.

You muted her number.

-

A Week Later, Word had gotten around.

You didn’t tell anyone the full story. But teammates started to notice—how Juju played differently when you weren’t around. How she kept checking her phone during film. How she stopped showing off during scrimmages. How her spark was dim.

The team needed her to lead. But she couldn’t, because the person she used to lead with was gone.

You were the engine. She was the fire.

Now the engine had frozen.

And the fire was burning itself out.It happened fast.

You were scrimmaging, same court, same ache in your chest every time you felt her stare from across it. You’d spent the last ten days pretending Juju Watkins didn’t exist. And she was feeling it.

You hadn’t responded to her texts. You hadn’t cracked once. Not even when she limped behind you after meetings, muttering soft, broken “Y/N, please” under her breath.

You didn’t care.

Or at least… you acted like you didn’t.

Until your foot hit the paint wrong—slick with someone’s sweat—and your ankle turned the opposite way.

Pain tore through your leg like fire.

You collapsed with a scream before you even hit the floor.

Gasps. Sneakers screeched. A whistle blew. Coach shouted.

And Juju—Juju moved before anyone else.

“Y/N—!”

She was the first to you. Dropping to her knees so fast she slipped. Hands trembling, reaching toward you and then stopping mid-air like she didn’t know if she was allowed.

You were curled in on yourself, breathing fast, eyes glassy.

“Don’t touch me,” you gritted out, voice shaking.

“I—fuck, are you okay? Are you okay?” Her voice cracked. “Someone call the trainer!”

“Juju,” Coach said sharply, “back up, let them through—”

“I’m not leaving her—!”

But she had to.

The trainers took her spot. Nia helped you sit up. Kayla handed you a towel. You avoided Juju’s eyes like they were the sun.

Juju sat on the edge of the court, frozen, fists clenched in her lap, staring at you like you were a ghost.

She hadn’t cried when you ignored her.

She hadn’t cried when you told her you never wanted to hear from her again.

But now?

Now she looked like she was about to.

---

You were in your dorm, foot elevated, ankle throbbing. Iced and wrapped.

Alone.

Until there was a knock.

Not just a knock—an urgent, rapid-fire tapping like the person on the other side couldn’t stand the silence.

You didn’t answer.

The door opened anyway.

And there she was.

Juju Watkins. Hoodie on. Hair a mess. Red eyes. Guilt all over her face.

You stared at her like she was nothing.

She stared at you like you were everything.

“I’m sorry,” she said immediately, breath hitching. “I’m so, so sorry—”

“You don’t get to do this,” you snapped.

Her shoulders tensed. “I had to see you. You were on the ground, and I—fuck, I thought—”

“You thought what?” Your voice rose. “That I’d finally let you back in because I got hurt?”

“No, I just—God, I messed up, I know I did, I said those things to Kayla because I was scared and stupid and I didn’t want her to know how much I loved you—”

“Loved me?”

Silence.

Juju blinked, like she hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

And you—still throbbing, still aching inside and out—just stared.

“You don’t get to say that,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Not after the way you humiliated me.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“But you did it anyway.”

She stepped forward, slowly. Desperately.

“I never stopped loving you,” she said, voice cracked and low. “I just didn’t know how to let people see it. And now I’m scared I ruined the only thing that actually mattered.”

You turned your face away, jaw tight, eyes glassy.

She took another step.

“Please,” she begged, hands trembling, “don’t shut me out forever.”

You didn’t answer.

But you didn’t tell her to leave, either.

And that was the first time in ten days that her heart had even the smallest reason to hope.

You let her stay the night, but the space between you felt colder than the icy pack on your ankle. She curled up on the floor, tucked beneath your spare blanket, careful not to breathe too loud, as if she knew she didn’t deserve anything more.

Morning came and went without a word. You ignored her attempts at conversation, refusing to soften. Your silence was your armor, and you weren’t ready to lower your guard. She respected that, though it only made her ache harder.

Days passed, and Juju didn’t send texts. She didn’t try to corner you or demand forgiveness. Instead, she showed up. Quietly. At practice. In the locker room. On the sidelines. She was always there — not pressuring you, but present.

She carried your water bottle without a word. She passed you the ball first in drills, and she never assumed your forgiveness was earned.

You saw it all, but you stayed stubborn. “Actions,” you said coldly one afternoon, “they mean nothing if they don’t come from something real. I don’t want promises or excuses.”

Juju met your gaze, steady and solemn. “Then tell me what means something.”

You hesitated, knowing this was the moment she could either break or build what was left.

“Show me where you keep me when no one’s looking,” you said quietly.

Her eyes widened, but she nodded.

---

Later that night, Juju led you away from the noise of campus and into her dorm room.

It was unassuming — small, messy in that way only a basketball player’s room can be — but you noticed the subtle traces of you everywhere: a worn-out hoodie you’d forgotten there, a stack of photos with you tucked behind a basketball magazine.

Then she brought out a small box from her desk drawer.

She opened it slowly, reverently, like it was the most precious thing she’d ever held.

Inside, carefully preserved: a ticket stub from your first game together, a scrunched-up napkin with a silly note you’d written to her at 2 AM, a faded photo strip from the night you first kissed, a tiny heart-shaped charm you’d once found and given her.

She looked at you, voice raw. “I was scared. Scared to admit I loved you because loving you made me vulnerable, and I didn’t want to lose you.”

You swallowed hard.

“But I kept these,” she said, “because even when I said those cruel things, you were still my home. And this? It’s where I keep you — where I hold the truth I couldn’t say.”

The silence stretched, fragile and heavy.

You reached out, fingertips brushing the edge of the box.

“Why didn’t you say it before?”

“Because saying it makes it real,” she whispered. “And I didn’t think I was worthy of that reality until now.”

You swallowed, heart tight.

“I don’t forgive you yet,” you said softly, “but I still love you.”

She reached for your hand, holding it like it was everything she’d lost.

And when you leaned in, your foreheads touching, the world outside disappeared — the pain, the betrayal, the anger — replaced by something quieter, more honest, and healing.

The next morning, Juju woke with the weight of everything pressing down on her chest. Last night had been… something she never expected — a first step toward healing with you. But there was still so much left unsaid. Not just between the two of you, but with the whole team.

She knew she’d hurt more than just you. The whispers, the sideways glances — teammates sensed the tension, the fracture in what was supposed to be an unbreakable bond.

So before practice, she found herself standing outside the locker room, heart pounding, palms sweaty. She took a deep breath and stepped inside.

All eyes turned toward her.

Her voice shook at first, but grew steady as she spoke.

“I want to say something,” she started, glancing around at the team. “I messed up. Not just with you, but with all of them. I let my fear and pride get in the way of being honest — with you, with them, and with myself.”

She met your eyes across the room. You didn’t smile. You didn’t look away. Just watched.

“I want to apologize for the lies, for the silence, and for the way it affected our team,” Juju said. “You didn’t deserve that. None of them did. I’ve been selfish, and I’m sorry.”

Her teammates listened — some nodding, others with thoughtful looks — and then Nia spoke up.

“We all make mistakes, Juju. It takes courage to admit it.”

Juju’s shoulders relaxed for the first time in days.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “I’m going to do better. For you, for all of us. Because we’re a team — on and off the court.”

After practice, she found you again.

“Thanks for letting me say that,” she said, breathless.

You shrugged, eyes still guarded but softer.

“Keep doing the work,” you told her.

She smiled — small, real, hopeful.

Because this was just the beginning.

°•○●●○•°

This is lowkey cringe ebht bear w me yall

[prettiestofpisces]

juju watkins x reader

synopsis: where flaujaes podcast episode w ju turns into a debut of you

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

————————————

while cooking diner you searched for something to watch on youtube. stumbling across flaujaes newest episode featuring your girlfriend, juju. without second thought you clicked on it.

being a longer episode it was perfect for background noise as you cook, especially since juju wasn’t even in LA.

flaujae starts the video introducing juju, calling her a “young legend” and “certified bucket”. you smile to yourself, knowing said bucket is the love of your life. she looks perfect although in her usual white tee, she’s glowing. not to mention the bling around her neck which you gifted her.

you’re entertained, giggling while watching the two stars talk amongst themselves until flaujae mentions jujus instagram handle, jujubballin.

“oh my god” she groans, rolling her eyes with the biggest smile on her face.

flaujae throws her head back in laughter as juju gathers her thoughts.

“you know when i first met my girlfriend, she asked for my instagram and i was like uh- just type juju” she says grinning, so incredibly flustered.

you blush as well, not only loving how she casually mentioned you but remembering the embarrassment you felt asking, stumbling over your words, shaking as you pulled out your phone.

however that wasn’t the end.

flaujae being the host she is of course, is wanting to know more.

“girlfriend? go on…” she teased.

“bro!” she said shaking her head, juju sounding playfully irritated once again.

“she- she’s my everything. usc legend, cheryl miller told me to find a place where i can be juju, not basketball star or fastest scoring leader, just juju…and i think she’s my place.”

while tears are threatening to fall from your eyes, jujus subtly nodding. she looks over to flaujae who’s mouth is agape, in awe of the love you share.

“i can’t wait for me and my future man’s to be like!” she exclaimed

you laugh at this however you couldn’t wait to just be able to embrace your girlfriend

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

———

hi love bugs

i wanted to write something oh so tooth rotting, idk if succeeded but i know i’d be kicking my feet if this happened

another fic or two coming so soon..

muah

[sativariddle]

CHECK YOUR WINDOW ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

⌗ ┆ word count: 10k+

⌗ ┆content: perv!theo, boyfriend!mattheo, cheating & betrayal, strong language, heavy sexual content. if you don’t enjoy my content, there’s no need for you to stick around, i’m not responsible for what you choose to engage with. for @pilupotter ᰔ

⌗ ┆ summary: check your window, he’s at your window: caught in the mess between jealousy and obsession, theo begins to have a crush on the one person he knows he can never touch: his best friend’s girlfriend. but everything changes the night he sees you with mattheo through the window, a view he was never meant to witness.

♫ — ❝ check your window, he’s at your window. ❞

╰› navigation.⌇m.list.⌇my au’s .⌇other song lol.

THEO HAD NEVER KNOWN the ugly emotion of jealousy. it was an unfamiliar feeling to someone like him, one that belonged to other boys, boys who had to fight for attention, compete for power. jealousy, after all, only creeps in when you see something you want but believe you’ll never have. that had never been theo’s reality.

from the moment he could speak, if he pointed at a toy in a shop window, his father’s gold handled it before he even asked. if he admired a rare piece of jewelry in passing, it was in his room by nightfall. no explanations. possession had never been a question, it was an expectation. even people, in their own strange way, came to him. at school, if he decided he wanted someone’s company, it was only a matter of time. he never pleaded, never played the fool to earn friendship. he watched, waited, and the chosen eventually fell into his circle. whether from fear, or fascination, it didn’t matter. they came.

his father had shaped him this way. the elder nott would speak in a tone that meant more to theo than a shout. “there’s a difference between being loved and being feared,” he told theo once, as they stood in the drawing room. “when people hear the nott name, they do not smile. they do not speak it softly. they whisper it. that is power. power isn’t loved. it is obeyed.”

theo was like a cloth wiping down a table: soaking up everything his father said, holding onto it all until the next time he needed it.

so no, jealousy had no place in his chest. not when he’d been raised not to envy, but to expect. not when the world had always shown him that if he desired something, it would eventually belong to him.

mattheo was the only one who didn’t fear theodore, his closest friend, most would say. even back when they were in school, people used to joke they were glued at the hip. they told each other everything. from the girls they slept with, in detail, to family stuff. nothing was off limits.

when mattheo got kicked out of his father’s manor and showed up at the nott’ manor asking for a place to crash, no one was surprised when theo’s father said yes. the place had plenty of guest rooms, and mattheo had always been like a second son to the old man. leaving him homeless on the street would’ve been unthinkable.

"helloooo, girl next door,” mattheo whistled under his breath, leaning forward slightly as he peered out of the window. theo was scrambling through the mess on his desk, trying to find a quill beneath piles of parchment and books. at the sound of mattheo’s voice, he paused, head snapping up. with a furrowed brow, theo walked over and came to stand beside his friend. his gaze followed mattheo’s, settling on the window that overlooked the neighboring manor. it sat a little further out, though one window in particular caught their attention.

directly across from theodore’s was your room. your light was on, the sky outside had already started to darken into deep blues and purples. from where they stood, they could see just enough: the curve of your shoulder as you walked past, the way your curtains shifted with the breeze. "oh yeah," theo muttered, looking away. "the new neighbor my father was talking about." watching someone through their bedroom window, even unintentionally, felt intrusive to theo.

“didn’t think to tell me?” mattheo asked, he watched you move around your bedroom, opening boxes, pulling out books and folded clothes. your hair slipped over your shoulder as you bent forward, revealing the line of your bare neck. “sorry,” theo sarcastically replied from beside him, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “didn’t think you’d care about us getting a new neighbor.”

“i didn’t.” mattheo tilted his head, shifting a little closer to the glass. “now i do.”

you had no idea you were being watched, placing a few things on the windowsill before turning toward the bed, where a white towel was laid out. mattheo’s gaze followed your hands as they reached for the hem of your shirt, lifting it slowly, inch by inch. you were probably getting ready for a shower.

a cold water bottle came flying through the air, smacking mattheo square in the cheek. “stop watchin’ the girl, will you?” theodore snapped. “you look like a fuckin’ creep.” mattheo flinched only slightly, caught off guard, then turned his head slowly, the corner of his mouth curling into that annoying smirk. he rubbed the side of his face where the bottle had hit but didn’t look the least bit remorseful.

“jealous?” he drawled, cocking a brow. theo didn’t answer right away. he turned back to his desk, sifting through the mess like he hadn’t heard the question. a few crumpled pieces of parchment were swept into his hand and tossed into the nearby bin. “you’re still the love of my life, theo,” mattheo added, leaning back against the window frame. “there’s no need to be jealous.”

theodore let out a dry snort, not even turning around as he casually flipped him the middle finger. “and if she catches you staring at her while she’s taking off her shirt?” theodore said, looking over his shoulder. “might as well tattoo ‘pervert’ on your fuckin’ forehead and let the whole neighborhood know.” mattheo just shrugged, biting the inside of his cheek as he glanced once more toward the window.

“don’t know,” he said. “some girls love that shit.” theodore exhaled sharply through his nose. he was done. done trying to reason with a walking hormone in human form. “get to bed,” he muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “you’re speaking with your dick again.”

mattheo chuckled, stepping closer to theo and giving him a playful shove to the chest. it wasn’t hard, more of a nudge, but it earned a shove right back.

that shove earned mattheo’s full attention: a harsh push to theodore’s shoulder that made him stumble back a step. without hesitation, theo shoved him again, harder this time. mattheo huffed. he’d always been a sucker for a good play fight, the kind that started as a joke but never stayed that way for too long. and the second theodore turned his back to brush him off, mattheo lunged.

he tackled him around the middle, dragging him down to the floor. the impact sent theodore crashing onto the floor with a thud, his back hitting the wooden floor beneath it as a grunt escaped his chest. “you fucker-” theodore cracked, trying to twist out from under him. but mattheo was already trying to pin him, arms locked around theodore’s shoulders.

in the fight, theo shoved at mattheo’s head with one palm, trying to push him off. his fingers caught the side of mattheo’s head, forcing him sideways — too far. the motion sent mattheo’s skull colliding with the edge of the desk beside them.

“asshole,” mattheo muttered under his breath, he rubbed the spot where his head had hit the desk, slowly pushing himself up before giving theodore a light kick in the ribs with the toe of his shoe before disappearing out the door with a dramatic slam that rattled the frame.

theo rolled his blue eyes and stood up. mattheo had been living at the nott manor for nearly six months now, but he still spent more time in theodore’s room than his own. no matter how many guest rooms the home had, he always ended up across theo’s bed, in his desk chair, or raiding his bookshelf.

theo thinks it’s because his room has always felt more like home than anywhere else. when they were kids, they rarely hung out in the guest rooms. those spaces were too too quiet, meant for people who didn’t stay. theo’s had history. it had laughter ghosting into the walls, secrets in the closet. back then, when life felt fresh, before things got complicated, before people started drifting: they all used to cram into his room without a second thought.

pansy would sprawl across his bed, flipping through magazines and rolling her eyes at draco’s ‘girly’ commentary. blaise would sit on the floor, leaning against the dresser, legs stretched out. enzo always found the window seat, sketchbook in hand, not listening to the talk around him.

mattheo was everywhere. on the bed, on the floor, by the door. moving constantly: he was trying to soak in every second of it. theo’s room held their shared growth. the jokes, the fights, the long talks that happened when the lights were out and no one wanted to be the first to fall asleep. even now, theo can still hear the echoes of it when he steps inside. maybe that’s why he feels more at peace there than anywhere else: a place with the memory of his happiest days, when they were all together.

theodore walked over to the window, and reached for the curtains, he hated sleeping with them open. the way outside lights bled into his room always messed with his sleep, casting odd shapes on the walls and waking him up at stupid hours.

just as he grabbed the fabric, something caught his eye. you had just stepped out of the shower, the steam still curling around you. a towel was slung loosely around your body, clinging to your damp skin, the fabric darkened in places where water still kissed your flesh. your hair was wet, heavy with moisture, dark strands sticking to your shoulders and framing your face.

theodore paused the moment he saw you. he watched, completely helpless as a bead of water traced a slow path down the slope of your collarbone, disappearing beneath the edge of your towel.

he swallowed, feeling the back of his throat burn, blinking twice as if to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. every instinct in him choosing between looking away out of respect and drinking in the sight of you: wrapped in nothing but a bit of fabric.

the towel slipped from your body, falling to the floor soundlessly. theo’s breath hitched the second the fabric fell, revealing every inch of your bare skin. his lips parted without him realizing, gaze caught immediately on your breasts: perfectly perky—and pierced. the silver flash of the jewelry against your skin made his head spin.

he should’ve looked away. fuck, he knew that. he should’ve snapped the curtains shut the moment he saw you walk in, dripping wet from your shower, towel barely clinging to you. he should’ve thrown himself into bed, buried his head under the covers, forced himself to pretend he hadn’t seen anything.

you didn’t bother getting dressed. still naked, you crossed the room without a hint of shame, water on your skin as if you were dipped in moonlight. with a small hop, you climbed onto your bed, body completely exposed from where theodore stood frozen by his window. he watched you move, comfortable in your own skin. the way you shifted around on the mattress, adjusting your pillows, tossing them this way and that way without a care in the world. you were putting on a show without even realizing it, every twist of your hips, every stretch of your arms offering him a new angle to memorize, to burn into the back of his eyelids forever.

once you finally settled, your back sank into the sheets, muscles relaxing into the mattress. the soft cloth cradled you, hugging every dip and curve. theo’s chest rose and fell unevenly, unable to look away as your pierced nipples stood tight and hard, pointing up toward the ceiling. the silver jewelry small and beautiful on you.

you trailed your right hand down, fingertips dancing lazily over your breast, nails scratching slightly across the sensitive skin. lower and lower you went, dragging those fingers over the smooth, freshly shaved skin of your lower stomach, your body arching just slightly into your own touch.

he could see everything: the way your breathing deepened, the way your thighs shifted apart the ever so slightest, welcoming yourself home. with a roll of your wrist, you dipped your hand even lower, your index finger brushing gently over the swollen mound of your clit.

theo couldn’t move, couldn’t even think as he watched you spread yourself out across the bed, knees bent and falling open, giving him a full view of everything. your skin practically glowed, a leftover dampness still clinging to your body. your fingers, those delicate fingers moved lazy strokes over your clit. his stomach tightened painfully, a low heat coiling in his gut. he watched as you dragged the tip of your finger in circles, the movement so soft it was almost teasing yourself, building your own tension.

you tilted your head back slightly, letting your teeth sink into your bottom lip. he didn’t know if you were trying to muffle your sounds or if it was some subconscious need to savor the pressure, but either way, it didn’t matter. all thoughts that made sense abandoned in favor of the desperate need flooding his body.

everything he was feeling, every throb of want, every spike of lust, every dizzying pull toward you seemed to rush straight down to his dick, swelling painfully against his sweats. you moved, hips rolling up into your own touch, adding more pressure. with the kind of slowwww that made theodore’s vision blur at the edges, you pushed a finger deep inside yourself. “mmph…”

the sound you made punched the air right out of theodore’s lungs. it wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be. whether you had meant it to be heard or not, it banged through him, making his entire body clench and his cock harden so fast it hurt. he squeezed his eyes shut for half a second, trying and failing to gather himself. but the second he opened them again, you rewarded him with an even filthier sight.

another finger joined the first, stretching you wider, making your hips rock slightly against your hand. you moved them in and out, out and in, fingers disappearing into the heat of your pussy, coated in the evidence of your own wetness. theo’s ears were ringing, too consumed by the sight of your hand moving, of your body writhing slightly against the sheets, of your thighs trembling as you fucked yourself open.

your eyebrows pulled together, forehead creasing in that beautiful, desperate way as your pleasure built. gasping sounds slipping free without a hint of restraint. the movements of your fingers grew faster, your hips subtly chasing every stroke, your thighs trembling with the effort to stay open. theodore’s eyes devoured you. every detail. every breath.

he noticed everything: the way your right breast, slightly pressed to the side by the movement of your arm, causing the piercing threaded through your nipple to poke out at a perfect angle. theo felt a an aching need crash through him, a hunger to have it between his teeth, to feel the cold shock of metal against his hot tongue, to suck and tug and soothe until you were gasping even harder beneath him.

his hand gripped the windowsill so tightly his knuckles turned white. he stared hard, breath fogging up the small corner of glass before him, matching the uneven, shuddering breathing of yours. every squeaky whimper, every hitch of your hips, every sound of your fingers plunging deep into your own body buried itself into his mind.

you came with a cry, legs quaking around your hand. your face softened in the aftermath, a look of pure bliss taking over your beautiful features: lips parted, lashes fluttering against flushed cheeks.

with a violent jerk, theo closed the blinds, the snap of the cord sounding too loud in the silence of his room. he stumbled back a step, chest heaving, staring down in disbelief at the painful boner against his sweats. he dragged a shaking hand through his hair, cursing under his breath. he felt like a damn teenager again, seeing boobs for the first time on a crumpled magazine page he wasn’t supposed to have.

“you think she’d like this?” mattheo asked, holding the dress up between his fingers. he rubbed the fabric between his thumb and forefinger, raising an eyebrow. “she’s always fuckin’ talking about wanting dresses with this kind of fabric. all soft and shit.”

it had become a routine, one theo never spoke about, even to himself. every day, he found his feet carrying him to the same spot: the window in the far corner of his room, the one that offered a perfect view into yours. from there, he could see you through the soft cover of curtains that you always forget, or maybe just didn’t care, to close.

most days, you were alone. reading, usually. sometimes curled on your side with a blanket pulled up to your waist, the bedside lamp illuminating your face. other times, you were cross legged in the center of your bed, a book propped open against your knees, mouthing the words silently as your fingers absentmindedly traced the dog eared page corners. sometimes, you’d bring a friend over, usually a girl with a laugh too loud. you’d lounge across your bed together, heads bent over the edge of your bed, your body loose with comfort.

theodore would watch. you’d become his obsession without even trying. he told himself it was nothing. that it would pass. that if he just kept watching from afar, the pull in his chest would ease. but it never did.

what made it so much fucking worse, what twisted the blade in deeper, was the guilt. not just the guilt of watching you when he shouldn’t have, but the guilt that grew the day he saw you kiss someone else. the day he realized it wasn’t just someone.

it was mattheo. theo hadn’t known. not even a hint. mattheo told him everything, or so he thought. they’d been friends for years, bonded by too many fights and drunken nights and secrets they weren’t proud of. every hookup. every fling. every girl who’d passed through mattheo’s bed had been a joke, something to laugh about the next morning.

not this time. theodore had been standing at the window like he always did, eyes drifting toward your room. you were sitting cross legged on your bed, a paperback open in your lap, your hair loose and slightly messy like you’d just woken from a nap. you were turning a page when the door to your room opened, and theodore’s heart gave a confused lurch: mattheo stepped in. like it was normal. like it was his place to be.

theo had watched, body frozen except for the slow tightening in his jaw. mattheo didn’t say anything. as if he didn’t need to. he just crossed the room with that confidence he always carried, tossed his hoodie on the chair by your desk, and leaned down. as if this was a routine, pressing his mouth to yours in a kiss that was far too comfortable. your hands slid up into his hair and kissed him back, like you’d done it a hundred times before.

theo just stood there, staring with furrowed brows. the silence of his room made everything worse, the way your lips moved, the curve of your smile against mattheo’s mouth. he watched as his best friend slid his hands beneath the hem of your shirt, slowly pushing the fabric upward, revealing the bare of your waist, the lump of your breasts, the metal piercings theodore had spent countless nights dreaming about tasting with his own tongue.

and when mattheo came back from your house that night, theodore couldn’t stop himself from prying. working around the edges of the conversation like trying to defuse a bomb without knowing which wire to cut, asking the kind of casual questions that wouldn’t make him seem desperate to know.

eventually, however, mattheo cracked. laughing under his breath, running a hand through his curls: told theo that the two of you had been sneaking around together for about five weeks now, slipping in and out of each other’s beds, pretending the fire between you wasn’t setting blaze to everything it touched. and just like fuckin’ that, theodore felt stupid.

he sat there, nodding along like an idiot, pretending to find it funny, pretending he wasn’t shattering apart piece by piece inside. because all those nights he’d been standing at his window, staring at you like some fool, you’d already been his. mattheo’s hands had already mapped the curves theo could only dream about touching; his mouth had already tasted the skin theo ached to claim.

of course. of course that was why your curtains were drawn most nights now, blocking theo out.

regardless, even after theo found out you were dating mattheo, the acknowledgment hadn’t been enough to pry him away from that damn window. it should’ve been. god, it should’ve been. but how could he stop? you were still there, every day, existing just on the other side of the glass. gorgeous. the thought that you belonged to someone else now, that you were mattheo’s, should’ve made it feel wrong. and it did. it absolutely did. but that shame came with something addictive. the twisted thrill of watching something he could never have, of seeing you laugh or stretch or curl beneath your sheets in the early morning, knowing you were his best friend’s girl.

“no clue. you’re the boyfriend,” theo muttered, eyes scanning the hang of a sundress mattheo had plucked from a display rack in some dress shop. a pale blue thing, the kind of dress that would fall just below your thighs and hug your waist. theodore didn’t want to picture you in it, but of course, he did. he could already see it: you standing barefoot in your bedroom, spinning just slightly in front of the mirror, fingertips brushing down the fabric. or worse—he imagined it sliding down your shoulders, puddling around your ankles as mattheo stepped toward you with that smirk he wore when he knew he was about to get lucky.

“have to get it for her,” riddle said, holding the dress up. “she’d look fuckin’ amazing.”

theo stayed quiet. watched as mattheo strutted up to the front desk, tossing the dress gently onto the counter. the woman behind the register gave a soft smile, eyes flicking up to riddle. theo could make out the exchange from a few steps back, hearing the cashier ask, “for your girl?” with a teasing smile. mattheo’s curls bounced as he nodded and said something that made her giggle. some stupid line, no doubt.

theodore had never been the jealous type. anything he wanted, he got, usually without even having to ask. but people always want what they can’t have. and theodore wanted you. wanted you soooo badly in a way that ate at the open places inside him he hadn’t even realized were empty.

mattheo strolled back, confidence in every step, a small black bag dangling effortlessly off his ring finger like it weighed nothing, catching on the silver rings he always wore. his grin was all teeth. “let’s go,” he said, tilting his head toward the street. theo didn’t trust himself to speak, not when his head was a hurricane of thoughts that had no business being there. he kept his hands shoved in his pockets, eyes on the ground, his jaw tight as he tried to walk off the jealousy clawing at his ribs. it was stupid, he knew.

by the time they reached home, the sky was a shade of indigo. theo didn’t wait around — the front door had barely clicked shut behind them when he was already climbing the stairs two at a time, footsteps heavy on the wood. he didn’t even glance back.

mattheo didn’t follow. turning on his heel and heading right back out the door, toward your place. theo caught it from the top of the stairs: the quick jingle of keys, the door creaking open again, the soft click as it closed behind him. theo stood there, hand still on the banister, lips parted like he might call out — tell him to wait, to stay, to go fuck himself. but nothing came out. what was he going to say anyway? don’t go see her? mattheo would’ve just laughed. that cocky laugh that always made theo feel two inches shorter. he’d say something like, “jealous?” with that tilt of his head, and then walk out anyway. so theo let him go. let him take that damn bag of whatever he bought you, let him walk right into your space, right into your home, into the warmth that wasn’t his to want.

who the hell was theo to protest? he went straight to his room, peeled off his jacket, and crawled under the covers fully clothed. the sheets were cool against his skin, but it didn’t soothe anything. the drinks he’d had earlier sat heavy in his stomach — not enough to make him dizzy, but enough to make everything feel just a little off. he hoped they’d knock him out. that sleep would come quick.

it didn’t. he lay flat on his back, one arm flung over his eyes to block out the thoughts, but they came anyway. he counted the cracks in the ceiling. focused on the soft tick of the old clock on his dresser. on the way the wind brushed against the window, rattling the glass every so often.

"mm... ugh."

theodore jolted upright, ears straining like an animal catching the faintest scent of a target. had he heard that right? he thought he was imagining it, but then he heard it again, clearer this time. “yes… augh, yes…” desperate.

he would have known those sounds anywhere. those pretty little squeal of a moan that slipped from your mouth. he’d spent many nights pressed against the windowsill, watching you with your curtains drawn open just wide enough, seeing the way your body moved beneath your own touch. each quiet gasp, each whimper had been burned into him. engraved so deep inside his mind that even now, with nothing but the sound of your voice to guide him, he could see it all: the way your lashes fluttered, the way your fingers moved, the way your back arched off the mattress as you chased your own pleasure.

theo tossed aside his blanket and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. pushing himself up with his arms, he began walking toward the window. it was already open, though the curtains were drawn. grabbing them at the center where outside light peeked through, he yanked them open.

your bare back faced the glass. mattheo lay stretched out beneath you, his dark curls a mess against your pink silk pillows, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. your nails: painted a perfect, glossy white, the edge of your french tips scratched lightly over the broad of mattheo’s chest, leaving red trails. every movement you made was sluggish, lifting your hips, rolling them with a rhythm that made mattheo’s fingers dig deeper into your skin, leaving bruises theo could already see forming along your hips.

his best friends hands clutched you, urging you to move faster, so much harder, needing more.

you leaned down, your spine arching in a curve, and pressed a line of tongue mouthed kisses along the side of mattheo’s neck: hungry kisses that spoke of intimacy theo had never been allowed to taste. he watched you part your lips against mattheo’s throat, tasting the salt on his tan skin, heard the low groan mattheo let out as you continued to ground your hips down.

theo bit down so hard on his own cheek he tasted blood. his cock was hurting against his sweats, but he didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe, terrified he’d miss a second.

mattheo’s hands slid from your hips to the plush of your ass. his fingers digging into the meat, squeezing with a grasp that made your body jolt slightly against him. with rough strength, mattheo lifted you just enough to adjust the angle between you, guiding you down again. until you took every inch of him, your bodies fitting together like two broken pieces of the same shattered thing.

theo saw the way your head tipped forward, a moan falling from your lips: the sound sooo soft, vibrating against mattheo’s throat where you kissed him, your lips dragging across his pulse point. fingers curled against mattheo’s chest for balance, the rock of your hips as you rode him faster.

mattheo’s cock drove into you, the swollen head bumping against your g-spot with each thrust.

theodore could see it, could feel it, just by the way your body reacted. every time you lifted your hips, your thighs quivered, your back arching in those beautiful little spasms you couldn’t control.

but frustration simmered just beneath the heat because you were facing away from him, the smooth curve of your back blocking the view he craved most: he’d always loved watching the way your pierced nipples caught his full attention, how the metal glinted as your chest rose with every breath. and now it was hidden from him, kept secret while mattheo got to touch it, taste it.

each grind of mattheo’s hips had your body jolting forward, theodore knew, knew that the thick veins along his best friend’s cock were dragging against your squishy walls, stroking you just right. the way your body melted against his, the way your mouth parted in gasps said everything. your wetness coating him, making every thrust sticky, the lewd squelching sound loud enough that theo could almost hear it through the damn glass.

theo’s dick was throbbing painfully against his jeans, hard as fuck. he hated himself for it. hated that he couldn’t look away. hated that you were right there, split open for someone else, and he couldn’t touch you.

a sound clawed its way from theo’s throat as he shoved his hand into his pants. the first cold brush of his fingertips against his cock tore a choked gasp from him, body jerking against the window. he wrapped his hand around himself in a punishing hold, stroking, as if he could tear the want out of his body by force alone.

“fuckin’ look at yourself,” theodore heard mattheo. you whimpered, head falling back, the ends of your hair grazing over his best friends thighs.

theo fisted himself harder, his eyes on the curve of your back to your golden hoops — in his mind, he saw it clearly: the tattoo beneath your right breast, the one he wanted to mouth, to bite, to worship until you sobbed his name. he imagined it was his cock buried deep inside you, his hands tangled in your hair, your voice breaking as you screamed for him.

that alone made the coil inside theo snap: a release that yanked a whine from his throat. his fingers pinched instinctively, milking every last pulse of hot, desperate seed into his palm. his body jerking against the windowpane, trembling as wave after wave of pleasure ripped through him. the glass against his forehead blurred and fogged with his stuttering breath, but he barely noticed, lost to the absolute high of it.

however, he was instantly flooded with embarrassment at how quickly he had come, all from just the simple sight of his best friend and you.

“oh, come on, nott. it’s my girl’s fuckin’ birthday,” mattheo said, annoyed. pleading as he leaned heavily against the edge of theo’s bedroom window, arms crossed tight over his chest. his chocolate eyes moved between his friend and the view just beyond the glass, where you sat at your vanity, running your fingers through your hair. “pansy and her girlfriend are already there,” he continued, yanking his head toward the sound of laughter and music starting to rise.

“draco, enzo, blaise—everyone’s waiting. it’s going to be weird as fuck if you don’t show up.”

theo didn’t look up. he remained at his desk, wiping it down with a soft cloth like he did nearly every evening. no matter how often he cleaned, it somehow managed to look messier by the next morning. what mattheo didn’t say, but knew, was that theodore’s desk sat in the perfect spot, positioned just below the large window that framed a direct view into your room. from where he stood, theo could see everything. the setup wasn’t intentional, it had been that way since before either of them could remember. his desk had always been there, longggg before he realized what that window actually offered.

“don’t feel like it,” theodore replied, barely looking up from where he was running his cloth in circles across the surface of his desk. “barely even know the woman,” he added with a shrug.

he didn’t know you, not in the way people usually mean when they talk about getting to know someone. he didn’t know your favorite color, or what kind of movies you liked, or whether you bit your nails when you were nervous. but he knew what your body looked like beneath soft silk and tight cotton. he knew the way your lips parted and your head tilted back when you were chasing pleasure, whether it was under someone else’s touch or your own. he’d never heard your voice in conversation, but he’d heard it in squeaky moans carried through open windows.

mattheo exhaled loudly, dragging a hand down his face before turning back toward the window. “exactly,” he said, gesturing toward the sight of you. “you don’t know her. so m’trying to fix that. my two favorite people don’t even know each other, theo. that’s messed up.” that made theodore pause. he turned his head, giving a sideways glance at mattheo. his best friend wasn’t even looking at him, his gaze had returned to the window, locked on you.

curious despite himself, theo followed his best friend’s line of sight. you were sitting at the edge of your vanity chair, legs crossed, applying a final coat of lip gloss. your hair was half up, curls falling down your back like warm honey. the dress you wore, silky where it hugged your hips: the one mattheo had bought for you last week.

you looked gorgeous. too stunning. and somehow theo’s eyes weren’t drawn to the usual things. his attention caught on the tiniest details: the shimmer of body oil on your collarbone. the way your earring swung each time your head tilted. and, because he couldn’t help it, the outline of the piercings on your breasts, barely visible through the thin material of the dress, but justtttt enough to be noticed if someone was looking closely.

“not in the mood to party anyway.” the words were simple, tossed out casually as theo leaned back in his chair, fingertips tapping lightly against the edge of his desk. but the second they left his mouth, mattheo’s head snapped around like he’d been slapped. “not in the mood to party?” he repeated, disbelief in his voice.

mattheo had known theo since they were kids, since scraped knees to the stolen bottles of alcohol behind the castle. if there was one thing he could count on, it was that theodore nott never missed a party. not for exams, not for breakups, not even for detention. the boy lived for chaos, for loud music and dancing girls and a drink in each hand. so this didn’t make sense. “who are you, and what the fuck did you do to my best friend?” he asked. “seriously, tell him i want him back.”

nott rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop the small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. he shook his head and stood up slowly, stretching before he leaned his weight against the desk. “i’m serious,” he said. “go have fun with your girl. it’s her fuckin’ birthday, just tell her i said happy birthday, yeah?” but even as he spoke, even as he tried to sound uninterested, theo’s eyes wandered back to the window. back to you. still seated at your vanity, fastening the tiny clasp of a necklace around your neck, brushing the curve of your collarbone as you adjusted it.

theo couldn’t go to that party. he wouldn’t. if he saw you and mattheo together, up close, arms around each other, eyes locked in that way that only couples do. he wouldn’t be able to handle it. he’d pretend, obviously. theo was good at pretending. he’d lean against the wall with a drink in hand and wear that handsome grin. but the whole time, he’d be watching you. watching him with you. watching you with him. it would tear him apart.

you were already irresistible when seen through a window. but up close? with that perfume he’d caught traces of in the hallway? with your laugh in his ears instead of muffled through glass? he’d lose his mind.

mattheo bit the inside of his cheek. he hated this. hated the feeling of walking away from something that was supposed to be fun, that was supposed to include everyone he cared about. he and theo had done everything together since they were eleven: first smokes, first fights, first girls, first heartbreaks. there wasn’t a memory worth keeping that didn’t have nott’s name scribbled somewhere in the corner of it. and now, on a night that mattered. his girlfriend’s night, your night, mattheo couldn’t help but feel wrong leaving him behind.

however, mattheo knew better than to argue. if theo said he didn’t feel like partying, then dragging him out would be a lost cause. the fucker was more stubborn than anyone he’d ever met. once he was set in a direction, you’d break your legs trying to turn him around.

letting out an exhale through his nose. “alright,” mattheo said finally, turning toward the door, disappointment dragging at his voice. “if you change your mind, the party’s next door. you know where to find us.” theo gave a nod, already turning his back on his best friend. behind him, he heard the sigh mattheo always gave when he was pretending not to care, followed by the slow creak of the bedroom door opening, closing, then fading footsteps down the hallway.

the moment he knew he was alone, theo turned around. he didn’t even try to hide it anymore. his gaze went straight to your window.

you were standing now, having just risen from your vanity chair. the hem of your dress settled around your thighs as you reached for your perfume, spritzing a small cloud into the air before stepping through it, letting it kiss your skin.

your hands smoothed down the fabric of your dress once more as you took a final look in the mirror, brushing a curl of hair behind your ear. theo watched as you grabbed your little clutch bag. paused at the frame for just a second, looking back, maybe to check your reflection one last time, maybe just thinking—and then disappeared from view.

of all the people theo could’ve become obsessed with, why did it have to be you? why did it have to be his best friend’s girlfriend? the one girl he couldn’t have, the one person who should’ve been completely off limits. obsession didn’t even feel like the right word anymore. it was deeper than that.

when this all started, when theo first saw you touching yourself, you weren’t even with mattheo. he remembered that night vividly: down to the way you were lying back, lips parted, chest rising and falling with every desperate sound you let out. your hand was slow between your thighs, and the look on your face was tattooed into his mind permanently.

what if he’d moved first? what if he hadn’t stayed silent, hadn’t given mattheo time to get close to you? would you have looked at him the way you look at his best friend now? would you have let him touch you until you were trembling, maybe even crying from how good he’d make you feel? would you have let him ruin you in all the ways he dreamed of?

oh, could’ve, should’ve, fuckin’ would’ve. but the most twisted, most fucked part of it all: theo had only grown more obsessed after finding out you and mattheo were together. he couldn’t explain it. something about seeing the two of you wrapped up in each other, giving and taking pleasure so lovingly, cracked him open in ways he didn’t even want to name.

just like mattheo had said, his two favorite people. you and mattheo: two people theo is utterly obsessed with — had found each other. the two people theo loved to watch, to crave for, had somehow ended up in a relationship.

god, he loved it. he loved when his best friend came back smelling like you: the sweetness of your skin, raw scent of sex still sticking to him. he loved knowing you had made mattheo feel so good that he’d finally settled, finally stayed in a relationship.

theo loved it. loved that if it couldn’t be him wrecking you, worshiping you, making you come on his cock so deliciously, at least it was his best friend. if he wasn’t the one making mattheo’s eyes flutter shut in pleasure, you were. he tried to deny it — every part of him convinced that he was just jealous because mattheo had you. but the truth was more twisted: he was jealous because you had mattheo too.

theo blinked hard, over and over, as if it would somehow erase the thoughts that had taken inside his mind. thoughts so bizarre, so fucked, they didn’t even feel like they belonged to him. his chest felt tight, his skin too hot. he pushed himself up from his desk chair, the legs scraping roughly against the wood floor, and stalked toward the bathroom. he slid open the shower door with a clatter, the sound echoing in the tiled space, and twisted the faucet on full blast toward freezing cold. the pipes making a shuddering sound as he tore at his clothes: stripping his shirt off over his head, kicking his pants down in one tug, leaving a trail of garments behind him like he couldn’t get them off fast enough.

the moment he stepped beneath the icy spray, the shock of it hit him instantly. theo hissed through his teeth, bowing his head as the water tickled down his overheated skin, soaking his hair, dragging goosebumps across his frame. he leaned a palm against the cold tile, his other hand curling briefly into a fist at his side as he forced himself to stand there, to let the freezing water do its brutal work.

the arousal he’d gotten, just from the vivid thought of his two favorite people tangled up in pleasure, so good for him — fucked him up.

he stayed there longer than necessary, shampooing his hair, scrubbing his body hard enough to turn his skin red. as if he could wash the images out of his mind along with the sweat from his skin. when he finally shut off the faucet, the silence was instant. water dripped from his hair, trailing down his spine as he reached for a towel. he wrapped it low around his hips, the cotton scratching at his skin, and wiped a hand across the fogged mirror without bothering to really look at himself.

he grabbed a handful of cotton swabs, poking one into his ear, not yet swishing it around. with the other hand, he reached for his toothbrush, squeezing a quick line of mint toothpaste across the bristles before jamming it into his mouth.

theo stepped back into his room, still brushing his teeth, however: he stopped dead in his tracks. the sight before him instinctively made him stumble back a step, his heel catching on the edge of the rug. the toothbrush slipped from the corner of his mouth, hanging awkwardly. “what ttthe—” he mumbled, his voice barely hearable through the toothpaste foam.

he spun around and rushed back into the bathroom. the faucet screeching as he turned it back on with clumsy fingers, quickly bringing his mouth down to gather water. he swished, then spat it out, gripping the sides of the sink to steady himself for a second before straightening up. his eyes searched his reflection in the mirror, as if to confirm he wasn’t losing his grip on reality. then he stepped back out into his room.

you were standing near the foot of his bed, wearing that dress, it looked even more stunning up close. one thin strap had slipped down your shoulder, exposing more skin that seemed intentional… or maybe it was intentional. you tilted your head slightly. “rude of me not to announce myself, i know,” it was the first time he'd heard your voice in a complete sentence, and he was already captivated by it. “but you were in the shower, and i didn’t want to interrupt.”

theo just stared at you, his brain struggling to catch up. he blinked once. then again. and again, expecting you to disappear like some strange dream.

his voice came out lower than usual, cracking embarrassingly. “where’s matt…heo?” his gaze darted briefly around the room, expecting his friend to appear from behind the curtain or the closet door. if you were here, then surely mattheo couldn’t be far behind.

“he actually sent me,” you said, lifting the keys you still had clutched awkwardly in your hand, as if they somehow validated your presence. “said you… uh… had condoms.” theo almost chuckled at how shy you got just saying the word condoms. sweet thing. if only you knew how much he had already seen, how much he had already imagined. his blue eyes dragged over you, barely suppressing the smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“yeah?” he exhaled, turning away, crossing the room. his towel sat low on his hips, the damp fabric wrapped around the cut of his waist. every step he took made it shift dangerously. you stayed frozen by his bed, trying very hard not to look: failing miserably.

theo crouched down in front of his dresser, yanking open the bottom drawer. it creaked, revealing a mess of old things: wrinkled shirts, an empty box of mints, and underneath it all, a few leftover condoms from an ex-girlfriend.

he grabbed three without thinking, large hands checking the slim foil wrappers, and walked back toward you. the condoms dangled casually from his fingers as he extended his hand out: just close enough for you to reach. your hand was halfway there when theo snatched them back.

“you know how to put them on, right?” you lifted your gaze up at him through your lashes, lips parting slightly like you wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words. and theo, all bare in front of you, save for the thin strip of towel slung dangerously low around his hips. the shape of him barely covered the way your thighs instinctively pressed together.

you shook your head. theo could’ve groaned at the sight. he already knew, obviously. knew you and mattheo didn’t use condoms, his best friend had always been stubborn about it, even back at school, bragging about how he hated the “killjoy” of it. the number of plan b boxes theo had seen mattheo toss into his bag over the years only confirmed it: it was even worse now that he had you.

regardless, knowing it was your birthday, theo was certain mattheo wasn’t going to stop at just one round. not a fuckin’ chance. shit, knowing his friend, he’d probably go as many rounds as the number you were turning, determined to fuck you until you couldn’t even remember how old you were.

these were mandatory.

“want me to show you?” theo asked, the words slipping out before he could think better of them. he knew. fuck, he knew — this could either go insanely wrong or exactly how he’d fantasized a hundred times in the guilty corners of his mind. the moment the question was said, your pretty lips parted, eyes blinking up at him with disbelief. theodore couldn’t blame you, your boyfriend’s best friend had just asked if you wanted him to show you how to put on a condom.

silence pulled between you. theo’s stomach twisted, a thread of doubt shredding through the daze of heat blurring his mind. he thought about taking it back, covering it up with a laugh, pretending it was a joke, anything to save face.

“yes,” you breathed. so sickly sure. the single word dip into him like a match to gasoline.

theo’s pulse pounded loud in his ears as he moved to sit on the edge of his bed. he ran a hand through his damp hair, pretending to be okay, but every nerve in his body was tickling. he gestured for you to sit beside him, hand loose in the air, but his entire body felt tense. you obeyed without hesitation, shy as you perched on the mattress next to him. so fucking obedient. so fucking tempting.

he let the towel fall from his hips with a flick of his fingers, letting it pool on the bed. your breath caught. fully bared in front of you, was theo’s dick: an angry red at the tip, straining up at full attention. all from the simple sight of you sitting there, looking so shy and sweet in that little dress mattheo had bought you.

you swallowed, throat bobbing with the effort. your body shifting almost unconsciously on the bed: thighs pressing together, hands clenching into the fabric of the comforter beneath you. you couldn’t stop looking at him, at all. that gorgeous, heavy heat standing between his hips. theo’s mouth tilted into a smile at your reaction, but his voice stayed rough around the edges, when he said, “don’t open it with your teeth. could accidentally rip it. then it won’t work.”

you nodded, completely focused on him. on what he was doing. on how he was doing it.

he tore the wrapper open with his hands, the foil crinkling. he plucked the condom from the packet, letting it spread slightly between his fingertips. “it’s a little wet,” theo murmured, his accent peaking through due to nerves. “you have make sure it doesn’t slip through your pretty little fingers.” the way he said it, your pretty little fingers, made your entire body hot. you couldn’t tear your eyes away as he lined the condom carefully with the head of his cock, making sure it was angled just right before slowly rolling it down.

the latex slapped onto his skin, catching every vein, every impossible inch that had you pressing your thighs even tighter together. “just like that.” you bit down hard on the inside of your cheek to keep from making some humiliating sound right there on the bed. your hands squeezed tighter in your lap, thighs trembling from the effort of staying still.

“can i… can i try?”

theo was about to nod, maybe crack a joke about grabbing a banana or something less dangerous, but you shook your head quickly, moving forward on the bed before lifting a manicured hand to stop him. “i mean… on you,” you said. “can i try… on you?”

theo genuinely thought he was on the verge of passing out. your words ricocheted around his mind, hitting every nerve. his heart was pounding so loud it was all he could hear, he wondered if you could hear it too. nott gobbled down his saliva, fingers a little shaky now as he grabbed one of the extra condoms from where he’d tossed them on the bed. his hand brushed yours when he passed it over, your manicured nails scratched slightly against the rough pads of his fingers as you took the foil packet from him.

he forced himself to move, peeling off the condom he’d already put on, tossed it into the small trashcan by his desk.

you tore open the foil carefully, trying not to rush, your bottom lip caught between your teeth in concentration. when you slid the condom out, you held it up between your fingers. “you weren’t wrong,” you said, giving him a shy glance from under your lashes. “it’s… really wet.”

his cock twitched, visibly, at the sound of your voice, at the sight of you sitting there so pretty. you turned slightly to face him, holding the condom between your fingers. theo had to clench his fists into the mattress to stop himself from reaching for you. you were so close now that the scent of your shampoo mixed with the smell of latex was starting to become theo’s new favorite scent.

he observed, almost in slow motion, as you lined the condom up with the tip of his dick, so carefully he found it cute. and started to roll it down over him.

the first brush of your nails against his cock had theo’s thighs tensing, an involuntary jerk of his hips that he quickly bit back. you were trying so hard to be gentle, to be careful, your eyes flickering up to his face every few seconds for approval. “like that?” you whisper, voice barely hearable over the ringing in his ears. you were so close that when you tilted your chin to look at him, the slightest movement brought your face right near his: breath sweet, brushing across the tip of his nose. theo thought he might actually lose his mind. his dick throbbed against your palm, and it took every control he had not to thrust into your hand and wreck every bit of innocence still in the room.

“just like that,” theo rasped. he cleared his throat roughly, trying to ground himself, to wrestle back the thin shred of control slipping through his fingers. he was about to hook a finger under the rolled latex and slide it off, end this insanity before it went any further. when your hand shot out and stopped him, fingers brushing his wrist.

“wait,” eyes wide and questioning, locked onto his. “what about… if it’s filled?” you asked, cheeks flushing at the bluntness of your own words. “how do i remove it without any of the… juices spilling inside me?”

thrown off by how sweetly filthy that question sounded coming from your mouth. theo licked his lips slowly, mind racing, what to do. because the images flashing behind his eyes were downright dirty. he should have just explained it easily — but instead a far darker thought came to mind a sick, sick thought. one he didn’t have the power to resist.

theo reached out, his fingers brushing along your bare shoulder where the strap of your dress had slipped down. he caught the strap between two fingers and lifted it gently, sliding it back into place, his knuckles skimming your heated skin in the process. the soft prickle raising across your skin in visible waves. his fingers stayed a second too long, memorizing the warmth radiating off your body, before he forced himself to pull away.

“i’d show you… but it’s more of a visual lesson.” a smile tugged at your mouth, and you leaned in, just enough that theo could see the lust in your eyes. “good thing i’m a visual learner.” the condom still slapped over his cock stretched as he grew even harder. something he hadn’t thought physically possible until now.

“oh, i believe you,” theo muttered, he nodded toward the two empty condom wrappers on the mattress, to show how very serious you both were taking this ‘lesson.’ he adjusted himself on the bed, settling more toward the middle to give you both more room. “let me just-” he started, reaching for himself, intending to stroke his cock and mimic how the condom would fill. however, before his fingers could even brush his hardened dick, you stopped him.

“i have a better idea,” you said, syrupy sweet. “to get the full experience.” theo blinked at you, confused, until you rose up from where you were sitting beside him. you swung a leg over him, straddling his hips, and his heart just about stopped.

the thin material of your underwear brushed over the sensitive head of his dick, and theo had to bite back a sound. a pathetic noise that scratched up his throat. he could already feel it, could already feel himself on the verge, and you hadn’t even taken him inside yet.

“always have to be sure…” theo’s voice weakened. you gave him a look, that sexy look and slipped your fingers down between your legs, hooking into the side of your panties. you dragged the fabric aside, exposing yourself to him, and theo’s mouth actually watered.

you reached between your bodies, your hand wrapping around the base of him. theodore nearly jolted at just that, your fingers, so warm wrapping around him. “for learning purposes,” you said softly, locking eyes with him. for learning purposes. you lifted yourself up a bit, lining him up with your entrance, and theo could barely believe this was real. he was finally going to touch you, finally going to make you feel so unbelievably good, just like he’d imagined far too many times. then slowly, soooo slowly, you started to sink down.

the head of his red, angry dick disappeared into the squishy walls inside you. theo whimpered instantly, an embarrassingly wrecked sound that slipped out through his nose and clenched teeth. this was the same position you’d been in when he watched you and mattheo through the window, your back to him, making his best friend fall apart under your touch. only now, you were on top of theo, and he could still smell your boyfriend on your skin. he could still smell mattheo on you.

he wasn’t sure which he loved more: the scent of you on mattheo… or the smell of mattheo left on you.

your palms laid flat against theo’s chest for balance, hips rolling in waves that had both of you gasping, lost in the feeling. his hands roamed your body, thumbs sweeping over the curve of your waist, the full bulge of your breasts. his hands traced lightly over the ink just beneath your right breast, the red cursive spelling angel against your skin.

what an angel, riding him like your boyfriend, his best friend, wasn’t just next door. throwing a party in your honor. “feel fuckin’ amazing…” theo breathed against your skin. “my best friend had all this to himself?” his words dissolve into kisses and biting sucks against your pierced nipples, leaving trails of swollen, purpled marks. you moaned, arching into him, shoving your breast deeper into his mouth. he groaned as he sucked around the metal, loving the taste he had only ever dreamed about. it was even better than he had imagined, shocking against his tongue.

even up close he could still taste the traces of your boyfriend’s cologne clinging to your skin. the thought should have disgusted him. however, it made him impossibly harder.

theo sits up, caging you against him in a bruising hold, his arms locking around your body so tightly you can barely breathe. he holds you there, crushing you to his chest as he thrusts up into you, giving you everything. your hands fly to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair, dragging him even closer to your chest as he continued to drive into you.

“keep hitting right th—ugh…” your words broke off in a choked moan, the sentence dying on your tongue. theo didn’t need to hear the rest; he already knew. he obeyed immediately, adjusting the angle of his thrusts, jabbing into the spot inside you that made your body jolt. you tried to keep moving, hips grinding down against him in desperate circles, but every time the thick head of his cock nudged that sensitive spot: you faltered, legs trembling around his waist. theo caught you when you slumped forward, letting your head drop onto his shoulder as you whimpered. his arms curled around you, holding you steady while he kept thrusting up into you, meeting your weak movements halfway, guiding you through the waves of pleasure crashing over your body.

every breath you took fanned across his neck as you clung to him. you hadn’t even bothered warning him that you were about to come, you couldn’t find the words, and he didn’t need them anyway. he could feel it.

the way your walls sucked him in, squeezing him tighter. even through the condom, he could feel the rush of your release, dripping down all over his cock. theo cursed under his breath, losing his rhythm as his own orgasm hit, his body pushing against yours. hips lifting up into you one last time, deeper than before, as he spilled into the condom with a groan muffled against your shoulder.

for a while, neither of you moved, the only sounds in the room were your heavy breathing. theo pulled out of you, the latex still slapped against him gleaming with your juices. but instead of letting go, he wrapped his fingers tightly around the base of the condom. “first,” he said, voice still recovering from the aftershocks, “don’t just yank it out like you usually do.” he demonstrated, pinching the tip of the condom carefully between two fingers to trap the contents inside. “always pinch the tip,” he instructed, “or you’ll make a fuckin’ mess.”

“then,” theo murmured, eyes locked on yours, making sure you were paying attention. his fingers gripping the base of the condom, not letting a drop escape. “slowly roll it down,” he instructed. “keep your grip tight at the tip.”

you watched, still catching your breath, as he demonstrated for you: rolling the condom down his still softish cock inch by inch. you could see the way his knuckles tensed slightly with the control he forced himself to maintain, ensuring not a single drop spilled.

when the condom was finally off, theo pinched the tip again for extra caution, lifting it between two fingers. you caught a glimpse of it, full of everything he was going to pour into you. theo twisted the open end into a tight knot, sealing it shut before tossing it casually into the nearby trash can with a flick of his wrist.

only then did he turn back to you. your back sprawled out across his bed, hair wild against his dark sheets, skin covered in sweat. fat purple hickeys scattered down your neck, your chest, your thighs. theo stood for a moment, just drinking it in, the gorgeous sight of you, the mess of you. the way you looked destroyed and beautiful under his touch. part of him, a greedy part, wanted to take a picture, to keep you like this forever, ruined by him with the scent of his best friend on you.

instead however, he let himself hover over you, one hand brushing your cheek. “happy birthday, by the way,” voice almost too soft for what they’d just done.

he lowers himself, mouth trailing a path down your throat, across your collarbone, tongue lapping up the thin sweat he left behind. you exhale through your nose, blinking down at him through post-orgasmic daze. “you’re obsessed,” you whisper, voice wrecked.

“of fuckin’ course i am,” he mutters, almost resentful, like somehow it’s your fault he’s like this. when his mouth reaches the curve of your breast. he stops, catching on the silver piercing on the tender peak. “fuck…” he breathes. his mouth falls open, tongue flicking over the metal before he seals his lips around it, sucking it into the heat of his mouth. his free hand cups your other breast, thumb rolling over the second pierced nipple, the barbell clicking under the pressure.

he devours your chest, leaving trails of saliva and bruises like signatures across your skin. dark red and purple marks blush over the soft bump of your breasts, around the delicate piercings, down to the fragile skin just above your ribs.

you sink your nails into his hair, yanking sharply when the overstimulation becomes too much. he looks up at you then, lips all swollen. “now go show my best friend everything i just taught you.”

[goldfades]

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐍𝐄𝐓 ꩜ juju watkins ¹² (part 2/3)

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

MASTERLIST | PART ONE | PART THREE

ᝰ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 11k

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

ᝰ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | unedited, lots of word vomit, SLOOOOW burn, sapphic yearning, enemies to lovers themes, juju being obsessed w reader and implications of mommy issues.

ᝰ 𝒆𝒗'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | part two!! yaya!! i actually love this series sm. also would u guys fw a paige/uconn spin off of this? lmk!

The gym clears out slower than usual.

No one’s rushing to the locker room today. Not after what they just witnessed. Some of the freshmen linger by the Gatorade cooler, whispering to each other. A few upperclassmen give you and Juju side-eyes as they gather their bags, as if trying to process what just happened.

You’re not sure what just happened either. All you know is your chest is still heaving and your limbs are electric, like your blood’s been rewired.

And Juju… Juju didn’t look at you once after that final whistle. Not when Coach gave her praise, not even when you brushed past her on the way to the tunnel.

She’s avoiding it. You can feel it.

You’re not sure whether that pisses you off or makes you want to chase her down and force her to talk about it.

Instead, you do what you always do after an intense practice. You head straight to the training room. Your muscles are screaming, sweat still dripping down your back as you strip your hoodie and toss it in the bin.

The tub’s already half full when you get there — the water cloudy with ice, cold fog rolling over the edge like mist.

You grab a towel to wrap around your sports bra, slide off your shorts, and sink into the water with a hiss.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath, legs disappearing into the freezing depths. Your jaw clenches on instinct.

The cold doesn’t scare you. You grew up in the Midwest. You’ve played through worse.

But still — the first few seconds are like needles.

You’re halfway through mentally counting down from ninety when the door creaks open.

You glance up.

And of course.

It’s her.

Juju Watkins. In a fitted black sports bra, her high ponytail loosened and clinging to her neck from sweat. She’s holding a water bottle, chewing on the edge of the cap like she doesn’t care who’s watching.

You do.

You wish you didn’t — but suddenly, you really, really do.

She pauses in the doorway when she sees you. Her eyebrows lift slightly. Her lips twitch — not quite a smile, but something like recognition.

You look away, dunking your shoulders a little deeper into the tub, letting the ice bite your collarbones.

“I didn’t know someone already claimed the tub,” Juju says, voice neutral, but her eyes stay locked on you.

“You can share,” you say flatly, not looking at her. “Unless you’re scared.”

That gets her. You hear the small scoff under her breath.

Juju tosses her water bottle on the bench and steps out of her slides. “Scared of you?”

You don’t respond. You keep your eyes straight ahead as she strips off her compression shorts, revealing strong, sculpted legs and black spandex underneath. She's tall, toned, and still somehow graceful even as she lowers herself into the tub beside you.

The water shifts violently. Ice sloshes against your thighs.

“Damn,” she mutters, teeth gritting. “Every time I forget how cold it is.”

You glance sideways. Just for a second.

Her legs are fully submerged, knees bumping yours under the water. You shift slightly, but there’s nowhere to go. The tub’s only meant for one.

Your shoulders brush.

Neither of you speak.

You stare ahead, trying to focus on your breathing.

But the tension — that buzzing, electric thread between you — is back, thick enough to taste.

Juju lets out a slow breath. “Practice was different today.”

You nod. “Yeah.”

A pause.

You study her face. There’s a quietness there, something you haven’t seen before. Less pride, more calculation. Like she’s trying to make sense of you — this new version of you who knows exactly where she’s going to be on the court, who doesn’t flinch when she barks a command mid-possession.

“You always this intense?” she asks suddenly, her eyes scanning your profile.

You raise a brow. “Look who’s talking.”

“No, I mean…” She hesitates, biting her bottom lip for a second. “You play like it’s personal.”

You meet her gaze. “It is personal.”

That hangs in the air for a moment too long.

You watch her blink. Her expression shifts, softens, just barely.

“I used to hate that,” she admits, voice quiet. “When people brought emotion into the game. I thought it made them sloppy.”

“And now?”

Juju looks at you. Really looks.

And something passes between you — a current too sharp to ignore. Her mouth parts slightly, and for once, she doesn’t have a quick comeback.

The air between you turns thick. Hot, despite the freezing water. You can feel the heat radiating off her skin where your arms are brushing, a line of contact that neither of you dares to break.

You glance down for a second — a mistake.

Her thighs under the water, muscles flexed from tension. The way her stomach rises and falls, breath controlled but shallow. The way a single drop of water clings to the curve of her jaw before trailing down her neck.

You look away fast, heart hammering.

But she saw it. You know she did.

And for the first time, you feel the shift in her — in her posture, her energy. The smallest ripple of awareness.

You don’t have to say anything. Juju leans back against the tub wall, her shoulders tensing.

And then she mutters, low and almost annoyed, “This is stupid.”

You frown. “What is?”

“This,” she says, gesturing between you without meeting your eyes. “You. Me. Whatever this is.”

You laugh under your breath. “Then get out.”

She doesn’t move.

Instead, Juju’s jaw ticks. “It’s just… you’re annoying as hell, and arrogant, and you talk too much.”

You tilt your head. “But?”

“But you make me better,” she snaps. “And I don’t know how to deal with that.”

It’s the closest thing to a confession you’ve ever heard from her.

Your mouth curls at the corner. “You’re welcome.”

Her eyes narrow — but there's no venom behind it.

Just frustration. And something else.

She stares at you for a long moment, like she’s seeing you clearly for the first time. And maybe she is. Maybe the adrenaline from practice hasn’t worn off. Maybe it’s the shared silence, the vulnerability of cold water and aching muscles and the way your knees are still touching under the surface.

But Juju Watkins is looking at you like you’re dangerous.

Not because of your game.

But because you’re starting to feel good.

Comfortable. Familiar.

Like something she could get used to.

And that, more than anything, terrifies her.

She leans back again, closing her eyes, trying to will the feeling away.

But it’s already there.

Planted. Blooming. Buried under frustration and rivalry and pride, but unmistakably real.

Juju Watkins doesn’t like you. Not really.

But she’s attracted to you.

And now that she’s seen it — seen the sweat on your skin, the heat in your eyes, the control in your voice when you told her it is personal — she knows she’s not going to be able to unsee it.

Not now.

Not ever.

--

After that, everything became different. At least, in Juju's head.

You're on the sideline, sweat still clinging to your skin, jersey riding up on your waist as you strip off your shooting shirt and tug your hair down from its braids. You're still catching your breath, chest heaving slightly, neck glistening in the early morning light filtering through the windows. You know how you look—have to know. Custom socks rolled to just the right length, diamond-studded studs peeking through your second holes, lashes curled, nails short but perfect.

You weren’t trying to serve. You just… exist like this.

Across the gym, Juju notices. She’s mid-laugh with one of the guards, towel slung over her shoulders, and you swear—swear—her eyes catch on your bare stomach for a half-second longer than necessary. Her laughter falters, just slightly. You pretend not to notice.

She looks away fast, muttering something under her breath and tossing her towel in the bin. But her jaw’s tight. Like she's annoyed at something.

Like she's annoyed at you.

“You good?” Kiki asks, eyebrow raised as she follows Juju toward the locker room.

Juju shrugs, but there’s a strange stiffness to her. Her usual loose, relaxed walk has a little more tension today. And even though her face is neutral, Kiki doesn't let it go.

“I saw the way you were lookin’.”

Juju stops mid-step. “Huh?”

“You stared, girl. Hard.”

Juju scoffs. “Please.”

“Please what? She’s literally fine as hell and you know it.”

Kiki’s teasing, but it hits a little too close to home. Juju spins around like she’s trying to shake something off, like just saying it out loud is enough to ruin her day.

“She’s too polished,” Juju says quickly, like that explains it. “Too clean. Probably dated half the damn football team before she got here.”

Kiki laughs. “You jealous?”

Juju’s head snaps toward her. “Hell no.”

You don’t hear this, of course. You're still on the court, talking to one of the assistant coaches about film study, sipping your water, stretching your hamstring. But you feel something shift.

Because that whole practice? Juju hadn’t been barking at you like usual. Hadn’t shoved you with quite as much bite. She’d still been Juju—hard screens, tight defense, trash talk under her breath—but it was different. Focused. Calculated. Like she was studying you, not just guarding you.

Like she was curious.

And for the first time, her mouth ran quieter than her eyes.

Because there was heat in her stare. You caught it during the second scrimmage, right after you hit a step-back three over the zone. You saw her watching you jog back, chewing the inside of her cheek, like she hated that she respected it. Like she didn’t know where the line was between irritation and something else.

And you?

You knew.

You’d been around enough to recognize when admiration turned sour in someone’s throat. You could feel her sizing you up—your game, your presence, your effect. You weren’t cocky about it, but you didn’t shrink either.

You weren’t gonna play down the boys who’d tried to claim you, or the cameras that followed your high school career, or the fact that you came to USC with a personal trainer and a highlight reel longer than the team’s media day video.

You weren’t gonna get smaller just to make someone else comfortable. Not even her.

So when you walk into the locker room ten minutes later, shoulders squared, skin still flushed from the workout, you know something's shifted. The team is already half-dressed, music playing low through someone’s speaker, but Juju doesn’t look up when you pass her locker.

That’s how you really know.

Because Juju always had something to say. A glare. A grunt. A rolled-eye comment under her breath. But now, she’s completely still—laces undone, head down, pretending to focus on her socks like they’re the most interesting thing in the world.

And you feel it.

You feel the burn of her eyes when you sit down across from her. Feel the tension zip across the room when your knees almost brush. You can practically hear her trying not to look.

Kiki raises her brows from the side, clocking all of it, lips curling like she’s just waiting for this to explode.

“You good?” you ask her casually, twisting open your protein drink. Not to be petty—just to say it. Just to remind her she doesn’t intimidate you.

Juju finally glances up, her expression blank.

“Peachy,” she says.

But her ears are red.

You smirk, turning away.

She hates it.

Hates that she looked. Hates that she liked what she saw.

Hates that the idea of you—so perfectly curated, so crisp and camera-ready—makes her jaw clench and her thoughts stutter. That there’s something in you that reminds her of everything she’s tried to push away: attention, spotlight, control.

And still, she can’t help but wonder what your lip gloss tastes like.

But she swallows it down, lets it simmer into something else—annoyance, distance, denial.

She goes back to hating you before her next thought can form.

Because if she doesn't, if she lets it sit too long in her chest, she might admit the truth to herself.

That you're fire. Blinding. Sharp. And she's already a little burned.

It starts later that afternoon.

Not with another game. Not in a moment of glory, when the adrenaline’s pumping and your instincts have the wheel. No—it hits Juju when she’s already stripped of the day. No hoodie, no lashes, no performance. Just her. Just her aching body, a protein bar in hand, dragging herself toward the locker room ice baths like it’s the gates of hell.

She’s sore in a good way. The kind of sore that means something got unlocked. The kind of sore you only get when you really go there. And she did today—because of you.

You. God, you.

The way you moved beside her today like it was nothing. The way you didn’t flinch when she pushed the tempo, when she cut hard, when she barked a command under her breath—you just followed. Or led. Or matched, somehow.

It was addicting.

But that’s not what’s really pissing her off.

It’s not the way you played. It’s what came after.

That smirk.

That effortless, smug little curve of your lips when she drained that last jumper off your no-look dime.

Like you knew. Like you always know.

And maybe you do. Maybe you see things before they happen. Maybe that’s why Coach won’t shut up about you, why the team is slowly starting to look at you the way they used to look at her.

Or maybe it's just that you’re hot.

She thinks that thought quickly, disgustedly, like it’s a roach she just crushed with her shoe. She tells herself it doesn’t count if it’s involuntary. If it bubbles up from somewhere dark and inconvenient. If she swats it down fast enough.

She steps into the locker room and peels off her shirt with a wince. Her body’s worked to the limit, muscles tight, breath a little uneven. She tosses the shirt into her locker and sighs. It's quiet, save for the hum of the overhead lights and the thrum in her chest she’s trying not to name.

The ice bath sits there like a challenge.

She mutters under her breath and steps into the cold, hissing as it eats up her calves, thighs, hips. Her abs seize at the shock, but she exhales, settling.

And then the door opens.

She doesn’t have to look. She knows it’s you.

The footsteps are cocky. Not loud. But present. Like you’re announcing yourself without saying a word.

You walk in like it’s your locker room and everyone else is lucky to be renting space.

You have a towel slung over your shoulder, sports bra on, little black spandex shorts hugging you like they were tailored. You're not doing anything special—just existing—and Juju wants to punch a wall.

Because now she gets it.

Why people flock to you. Why the freshmen whisper when you walk past. Why Coach watches you with the kind of expression she used to reserve for her.

It's not just the game. It’s the way you carry yourself.

Like the world is already yours, and you’re just waiting for the rest of them to catch up.

You say nothing as you grab the other tub. You don’t even look at her. Just strip your hoodie, kick off your slides, and sink into the ice like it’s a pool at the Ritz.

Juju hates the way her stomach flips when your abs contract. When your hair drip into the water. When you lean back, resting your arms on the edge, eyes closed, jaw flexing as the cold settles in.

You're annoying. You’re arrogant. You’ve been a thorn in her side since the second you walked into training camp and refused to shrink in her shadow.

And now Juju can’t stop looking at your mouth.

She bites the inside of her cheek, turning her gaze away, but not fast enough. You catch her.

Of course you do.

Your eyes flick open and you glance over, and for a second—a dangerous second—your gaze drops to her shoulders, then back to her face. Your mouth twitches.

Juju rolls her eyes so hard it nearly hurts.

“Stare harder,” you murmur, voice lazy and low. “Might see something you like.”

She scoffs, heat flashing in her chest. “Please.”

You close your eyes again. “Didn’t say it was me looking.”

And that—that—makes her want to scream.

Because she was staring. Because you know it. Because you're not even smug about it, not really—you're just calm. Settled in your skin in a way she used to be.

Now you’re the one who walks around like you’ve got nothing to prove.

And it pisses her off because you’re right. You’re good. You’re better than she expected. You make her play harder. Think faster. Reach deeper.

You make her feel—

Nope.

No.

Absolutely not.

She closes her eyes, leans her head back, and tells herself it’s just hormones. Or proximity. Or the adrenaline from practice that hasn’t worn off yet.

It’s not you. It can’t be you.

You're too much. Too loud, too smooth, too sexy in that careless way that people like Juju have to work twice as hard to fake.

You don’t fake anything.

You just are.

And worst of all—you made her enjoy today. Made her want to pass the ball, to share the spotlight, to laugh internally when you bumped shoulders on a fast break and didn’t even apologize, just grinned like you knew she wouldn’t mind.

She shouldn’t be thinking about that moment. The shoulder graze. The split-second warmth. The way you felt solid. Like someone who could take a hit. Like someone who could give it back.

She breathes in deep through her nose and exhales, hoping the cold will kill whatever this is growing in her.

It doesn’t.

It lingers. Quietly. In the silence between the two of you. In the way her body buzzes even in the ice. In the fact that you haven’t spoken again, haven’t pushed, haven’t smirked—because you don’t have to.

And that’s the real problem.

Because Juju doesn’t know how to play this game.

The one where wanting someone makes you worse. Or better. Or both.

The one where she has to be near you every day, and pretend like her pulse isn’t skipping when you tie your shorts tighter. When you towel off sweat with a twist of your torso. When you bite the straw of your protein shake and say something filthy without trying.

She hates you.

She hates you.

But now it's not because you're annoying.

Now it's because she understands the pull—and she resents the hell out of it.

She opens her eyes again. You're still reclined, a single drop of water trailing down your collarbone.

Juju looks away immediately, muscles locking, lips pressed into a tight, unreadable line.

And she tells herself this is just a phase.

Just tension.

Just adrenaline.

Not desire.

Definitely not that.

Because if it is, she doesn’t know what the hell she’s going to do about it.

And that’s the scariest part of all.

--

You felt it the second you stepped out of the tunnel.

The buzz. The flash of cameras. The sold-out crowd packed into the Galen Center like it was March already—like this wasn’t just a preseason game, but the championship itself. Phones up, kids in replica jerseys with your name and Juju’s scribbled in Sharpie across the backs, media crammed into the corners trying to get the best shot of the warmups.

You hadn’t even touched the ball yet and it already felt like a legacy night.

“Jesus,” Kiki muttered beside you, craning her neck to take in the stands. “It’s not even conference season.”

And it wasn’t. It was Stanford—ranked first, favored by every analyst, projected to steamroll every Pac-12 team on their way to the Final Four. But this wasn’t about rankings anymore. This was about you. You and Juju.

The monsters Coach had built.

Your name alone sold tickets. But together? You were mythology in the making.

The noise was deafening, even during layup lines. Your stomach flipped as you stepped onto the court, a little more aware of every movement, every camera flash that followed your stepback into a midrange pull-up.

You caught sight of Stanford on the other side—stoic, composed, polished like always. But there was a flicker in their eyes. Not nerves exactly. Uncertainty. Like they weren’t sure what to expect. Like they’d seen the clips, read the headlines, felt the weight of the whispers.

That USC had the two most dangerous players in the country.

And no one knew what would happen when they finally shared a real court.

The week leading up to the game had been hell, in the best way.

Coach had doubled practice time—film in the mornings, drills until sunset. Sprints. Trap reads. Zone breaks. You barely had time to breathe, let alone think about how this was your first college game. Your legs were heavy, muscles burning, but you felt sharper than ever. More dialed in. Like every rep was feeding something ancient in you. Something you hadn’t accessed since high school playoffs.

Juju hadn’t been any easier.

She was locked in. Mouth quieter, eyes meaner. If she wasn’t shooting, she was watching film. If she wasn’t lifting, she was in the gym, perfecting footwork until her socks tore. She didn’t talk to you much—barely acknowledged you except when you passed each other on the court—but when she did?

It was all heat.

Not rage anymore. Not hatred. Just friction. Electric. Wordless.

One afternoon, she hip-checked you going for a loose ball during a scrimmage, and you shoved her right back, both of you grinning before you realized it.

No one else could match you. No one else made you feel like that.

And maybe you hated that you loved it.

Game day came fast.

You were up early. Too early.

Hair was fresh—tight and clean, the way you liked it when it was a big night. Lashes curled, lips glossed, Jordan warmups on. Everything intentional. Everything curated for the cameras you knew would be watching. But underneath it all, your heart was beating fast. That old familiar rhythm of prove it, prove it, prove it.

You didn’t eat much at breakfast. Couldn’t.

Juju sat a few chairs down at the team meal, headphones in, hoodie up, stirring her oatmeal like she was somewhere else entirely. But you could tell she wasn’t.

She was right here with you. Vibing on the same adrenaline.

By the time you got to the gym, the team bus couldn’t even pull in the normal way. Fans were already crowding the back lot. Students. Kids. Parents. News crews. Signs waving, camera flashes going off, chants echoing before you even stepped out the door.

“What the fuck,” Avery whispered from the back of the bus.

You felt your pulse spike again.

They weren’t here for just any game. They were here for you and Juju.

Coach wasn’t even surprised.

She smiled the way a lion does before it eats.

“I told you,” she said, arms crossed as she stood by the locker room door. “You wanted smoke, we gave it to you.”

She waited until everyone was seated before she spoke again.

Her voice was low. Calm.

“You two.” She looked at you. Then Juju. “You’re the show. They came to see monsters. Give them hell.”

Warmups felt like a movie.

The DJ was blasting Rihanna, the student section was unhinged, and you couldn’t even pretend not to feel the energy vibrating through your sneakers. Every stretch, every form shot, every pass to Juju felt like choreography.

You didn’t speak to her. Not really.

But your eyes met more than once.

A nod. A look. An understanding.

We go. We take them apart. Together.

Coach called final huddle fifteen minutes before tip.

The whole team was sweating already, breathing hard, amped beyond belief. Some of the girls had never played in front of a crowd this big. Not even in high school state finals. It felt like a championship atmosphere—but Coach reminded you, steady as ever, that it was just the start.

“Don’t get caught up in the lights,” she warned, pacing slowly, voice even. “We’ve got a season to win. Not a moment. So stay sharp, stay fast, and for the love of God—pass the ball.”

That last part was directed at you and Juju.

Kiki snorted.

Coach rolled her eyes. “You two play nice or I’ll sit you both.”

You and Juju shared a glance. Just the ghost of a smirk.

You weren’t gonna play nice. You were gonna play lethal.

And tonight?

The world was gonna watch.

--

You could tell they were playing scared. Stanford wasn’t folding—not yet.

But they were rattled.

You saw it in the way their passes started to hesitate, in the way their eyes kept tracking Juju like she was a lit match and they were soaked in gasoline. You saw it in the way their star guard flinched every time you drove, like she didn’t want to get dunked on in a highlight that would run on Sportscenter before breakfast.

They hadn’t expected this. They thought you’d be green. Untested. All hype, no chemistry. They didn’t think you and Juju would actually work.

But you did. God, you did.

You didn’t even talk. You didn’t need to. The first half, it was all muscle memory and instinct, the invisible thread between you two pulling tighter and tighter until you moved like limbs on the same beast. One minute, she was taking the double team and dishing to you on the wing—the next, you were threading the bounce pass between two defenders like you knew exactly where she’d be cutting.

She finished it with a reverse lay-up that had the crowd losing its damn mind.

And still—still—it wasn’t enough.

Your team was flat. You and Juju were carrying. Carrying so hard your legs felt like bricks, chest already burning, jersey sticking to your back. And it was preseason. The first half wasn’t even over. They were all winded. Unsure. Eyes bouncing between you two like they didn’t know whether to follow or stay back.

You hit a buzzer-beating three to give USC the lead by three going into halftime, and when you jogged off the court, the crowd was standing.

You should’ve felt electric. But all you felt was pissed off.

The locker room was way too quiet. Coach was talking—whiteboard in hand, breaking down zone defense and rotations and shot selection—but you weren’t listening. You were pacing, chewing at the inside of your cheek, sweat dripping down your temple, jersey already tugged out of your shorts. You kept looking around, waiting for someone to be as fired up as you were.

Juju was slouched against the wall, sipping Gatorade, breathing hard but calm, her long legs stretched out in front of her. When your eyes met, she gave you the tiniest headshake.

Don’t lose it, it said.

You broke anyway.

“Okay, nah,” you snapped, stepping into the middle of the circle. “We’re not doing this.”

Some girls looked up. Coach raised an eyebrow but didn’t stop you. You didn’t care.

“This is our house,” you said, voice shaking but loud. “And we’re playing like we don’t belong here.”

No one said anything. You kept going.

“I don’t care if it’s preseason. I don’t care that it’s Stanford. I didn’t come here to almost win games. I came here to dominate.”

The silence stretched. Your hands were clenched.

“And if you don’t think we can do that, if you don’t think we can finish this game the way we started it, then sit the hell down and let the rest of us cook.”

Juju barked out a laugh. A real one. Low and surprised. You turned your head—and she was already nodding, eyes locked on yours.

“Say it louder,” she said, voice hoarse.

“This is our house,” you repeated, jaw tight. “And we don’t lose our first game on our own court.”

The second half?

Was legendary.

You opened with a steal and fast break, euro-stepping past their center for a clean finish off the glass. The crowd went feral. And from there, it was chaos. Electric, perfect chaos.

Juju caught fire—hit three straight jumpers from the top of the key like she was possessed. Every time you passed her the ball, she made it count. Her handles were disgusting, footwork elite, and the two of you ran that court like you’d been teammates since birth.

She’d look at you, and without saying a word, you knew what she wanted. Screen left. Backdoor cut. High-low action. It didn’t matter.

You gave it to her. And she gave it right back.

You fed off each other. Rebounded for each other. Trusted each other.

And somewhere around the 4th quarter, when you stripped the ball at half court and flung it ahead without even looking—Juju was already there. Caught it mid-air. Laid it in with a clean finger roll.

And the entire stadium exploded. Cameras were shaking. The student section was roaring. And the Stanford coach? She was pacing like she didn’t know what universe she’d landed in.

Because her girls were trying. And they were still down.

The final buzzer sounded. And for a second, you just stood there. Hands on your knees, chest heaving, jersey soaked, throat raw from calling switches. Your legs were jelly. Your arms heavy.

But you’d done it. You’d won. First game. Against Stanford. By six.

A narrow win on paper. But it meant everything.

You looked up through the chaos—confetti flying, fans jumping over rails, your teammates screaming and hugging and whooping—and caught sight of Juju across the court.

She was already looking at you. Just a nod. Just a smirk.

Like, we did that shit.

And for once—you didn’t hate her. You felt like you were staring at the other half of something unstoppable.

--

You were still trying to catch your breath when the door to the tunnel cracked open.

Your shoes squeaked as you slowed, wiping at your face with the hem of your jersey, skin flushed, hairline damp. The noise from the arena was still pulsing, echoing through the walls like a heartbeat—fans yelling, music thumping, lights strobing. You thought you’d imagined it at first. The creak. The shuffle.

Then you heard the voice.

“Well,” Penny said, her smile bright as ever. “That was one hell of a debut.”

You stopped short. Blinked. Swore your heart dropped into your shoes.

Standing just outside the tunnel, framed in the dim light like they’d stepped out of some fever dream, were Diana Taurasi and Penny Taylor—your moms. Not just legends, not just former pros, not just the ghosts of greatness past. But your ghosts. Your family.

And they were here.

You froze. “Wait—what—what the hell are you doing here?”

Penny beamed and stepped forward first, arms already outstretched. “You think we were gonna miss your first game? Please.”

You let her wrap you up, even though you were sticky and exhausted and probably smelled like a gym sock. You buried your face into her shoulder for just a second, trying not to crumple.

Because you hadn’t expected them. You’d told them not to come. Said it was just preseason, no big deal, you didn’t want the pressure, you didn’t want the noise. Diana had grunted something noncommittal on the phone earlier that week, and Penny had sounded like she was holding back tears.

You figured they were respecting your space.

You should’ve known better.

When Penny pulled back, she smoothed your jersey like she used to when you were twelve and playing AAU ball in oversized shorts. “You looked amazing, sweetheart. I mean it.”

Diana, of course, didn’t move. Just leaned against the wall, arms crossed over her chest, one brow cocked. Classic.

“Don’t get a big head,” she said. “Stanford played like crap.”

You scoffed. “Nice to see you too.”

She gave a slow shrug. “You had, what—twenty points?”

“Twenty-three,” you corrected.

“And how many turnovers?”

You opened your mouth and shut it again.

Penny gave Diana a light slap to the arm. “Di.”

“What? You want me to lie? She wants to play at this level, she better be ready for the feedback.”

You rolled your eyes, but the heat in your chest wasn’t anger. It was something messier. Softer. The kind of love that sounded like criticism and felt like pride when you learned how to read between the lines.

Diana pushed off the wall and finally walked over, stopping just in front of you. She was quiet for a moment. Really looked at you. Like she was trying to decide what to say.

Then: “You ran that floor like you were born on it.”

Your throat went tight.

“…Thanks.”

She didn’t say anything else. Just reached up, smacked the back of your head lightly, and muttered, “Don’t let it go to your head, superstar.”

Then Penny leaned in, grinning like she couldn’t help it. “And that chemistry with Juju? Chef’s kiss.”

You groaned immediately, dropping your head into your hands. “Oh my god. Don’t start.”

Diana’s smirk was practically evil. “No, no, I want to hear about this. Because last week, you were crying on the phone about how that girl hated you.”

“She did hate me!”

“Did she?” Penny teased. “Because it didn’t look that way tonight. Looked more like mind reading. Or something intimate.”

“Gross,” you muttered, cheeks burning.

Diana made a fake gagging sound. “God, you’re soft.”

Penny bumped her gently. “Let her be soft. It’s a big night.”

You tried not to smile, but your face was betraying you. Your chest was still heaving. Your legs still ached. But they were here. Your moms were here. And no matter how many points you scored or games you won, that? That was the part you’d remember.

Even if they wouldn’t let you hear the end of it.

Diana slung an arm over your shoulder, guiding you toward the locker room.

“You did good, kid,” she said quietly. “Real good.”

Penny followed behind, practically glowing.

“And Juju’s cute, by the way.”

You groaned again.

--

Juju couldn’t sleep that night.

It wasn’t the win. It wasn’t the noise. It wasn’t even the ESPN alerts lighting up her phone like a Christmas tree, headlines calling them the “duo to watch.”

It was you.

And the way you moved with her—like it was natural. Like it wasn’t supposed to work and yet it did, over and over again. She could still see the exact way your fingers flicked the ball ahead of you, the blind pass that somehow landed perfectly in her path. She could still feel the phantom echo of your palm slapping hers in celebration, still hear your voice cutting through the huddle like a blade.

You were the one who lit the match. She just followed the smoke.

And now?

Now she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

God, no. No no no. She rolled onto her stomach, muffled a groan into her pillow.

She hated this. Hated that she noticed your mouth when you talked, hated that she was aware of how your jersey clung to you when you were drenched in sweat, hated that she’d laughed in the locker room when you went off like that—because she liked it.

She liked your fire. Your chaos. Your shameless hunger to win.

She liked you, and that was a problem.

Because Juju Watkins didn’t like people like you. She didn’t trust them. You were everything she usually steered clear of—loud, confident, annoyingly talented, pretty in a way that made people go stupid. The kind of person people watched when they walked in a room.

She’d spent the last month trying to pin it on ego. Told herself she hated your vibe, your attitude, the way you always had something to say. That you were too much, too fast, too everything.

But now?

Now she got it. She understood why people liked you so much. You were magnetic.

Juju clenched her jaw, turned over again, and pulled her hoodie over her head like it could suffocate the thought away.

She didn’t want to want you. She wanted to outplay you. Wanted to win despite you. Wanted to keep pretending that you were an obstacle, not an obsession in the making.

But you kept making it harder. You kept showing up, matching her step for step. Glaring at her in practice, not flinching when she got in your face, feeding her passes so clean they made her jaw go slack.

You weren’t her enemy anymore. And maybe that was worse.

Because now she wasn’t mad because you were annoying. She was mad because she didn’t know what to do with this. With you. With the way you made her feel like maybe—just maybe—you were the one person who could match her.

Or worse… undo her.

And that? That scared the hell out of her.

--

You’ve always moved like that with her, ever since the moment you stepped on the same court as her.

It wasn’t something you talked about or even really noticed at first—not until people started bringing it up. But even in preseason, even in the mess of two-a-days and team meetings and learning a whole new system, you and Juju were in step.

You’d drift left on the break, and she’d already be launching the outlet pass. She’d cut hard baseline, and you’d know to hit the pocket before she even turned her head. You weren’t trying to prove anything to her then. It wasn’t about chemistry or connection. It was just instinct. Ease. Like your games knew each other before either of you had the chance to catch up.

But it didn’t look like much at the time—not to anyone outside those closed practices. Reporters wrote about you like a time bomb. “Two alphas, one ball.” “Fire meets fire.” “Can the Trojans survive the clash?”

You heard it all. Sometimes laughed about it under your breath in the locker room. Sometimes let it get under your skin. Not because they doubted you—but because they didn’t see it. What was already there. What had always been there.

But you didn’t care enough to make them see it. Not until Stanford.

That game changed everything.

Suddenly, the spacing was perfect. The tempo? Yours. Every screen she set gave you daylight. Every double team they threw at her, you punished. The two of you ran transition like a dance. You hit her in stride off a spin—no-look, no hesitation. She tossed you a half-court bounce pass with two defenders chasing her blindside, and it landed in your hands like magic.

The ESPN clip went viral within hours. Someone edited it to Beyoncé. “These two aren’t teammates, they’re telepathic,” the caption read.

And maybe they were right. Because from that night on, things were different.

The country stopped seeing you as separate.

You were a unit now.

They gave you names—The Ice Twins, Fire and Ice, The Coldest Backcourt. SportsCenter ran daily highlight reels with just you two. Not even the whole team—just you two. Breaking press, trapping defenders, throwing no-looks, clapping back on defense with chase-down blocks and swipes so clean they slowed the footage down just to catch it.

And the thing was… you liked it.

Not the spotlight, exactly—but what it meant.

It meant people were starting to understand what you’d already known. That it wasn’t just about talent or athleticism or who scored more. It was the way you played. How everything felt cleaner when she was on the floor with you. How your instincts sharpened. How your patience deepened. How you never had to wonder where she’d be.

By mid-November, you were undefeated.

And not just winning—dominating. Games were decided by halftime. Opposing coaches started building entire scouting reports around how to stop you and Juju. “Double the point.” “Force her left.” “Switch every screen.”

It didn’t matter.

You two adjusted mid-game like it was nothing. You’d fake the flare just to pull defenders away from her cut. She’d slip the screen early if you hesitated on your drive.

Even Coach started building the lineup around you. Centered sets on your spacing. Let you and Juju freelance out of horns. There were new drills in practice just for the two of you—two-man game, downhill reads, ghost screens. You ran them without thinking. By December, you were calling plays without needing hand signals. Just eye contact. Just feel.

It stopped being something you worked on. It just was.

And weirdly… that was the most intimate part of it all.

Because you didn’t talk about it. Not really. You didn’t sit down and say, hey, this feels good, doesn’t it? You just showed up to the gym every day, knowing she’d be there too. You let her throw you reps at 6am, rebounded for her until your arms were sore. You started noticing the way she paced during timeouts, how she clenched her jaw when she was annoyed. You started talking more, then less. Your communication narrowed into something sharper than words.

You never labeled it. The media tried. “Do you guys hang out off the court?” “What’s the secret to your connection?” “Have you ever fought over who gets the last shot?”

You’d both shrug. Maybe smile.

But the truth was, it did feel weird to play without her. Like missing a limb. If she sat for too long, you got restless. If you got in foul trouble, she tightened up. There was a kind of silence when only one of you was on the floor. Like holding your breath. Like waiting for the beat to drop.

You were both great on your own. That much had always been true.

But together? Together, you were terrifying.

Not just because of the stats or the highlight reels or the growing pile of wins—but because of how effortless it was. How second nature. Like the game made more sense when it filtered through both of you. Like you were born to balance each other.

You were calm where she were fire. You were still sharp where she was steady. But instead of canceling each other out, you just… amplified. Completed. Created something between you that couldn’t be touched.

And you knew, deep down, if you kept showing up. Kept pushing. Kept trusting—there wouldn’t be a defense in the country that could stop you.

And no one really noticed when it turned into something more than just teammates with insane chemistry. First came the little things.

Like when Coach started randomly switching up the rooming assignments during road games and you and Juju stopped complaining about getting paired together. The silence that used to feel sharp and cold turned soft. Sometimes you both just laid in your hotel beds in total quiet, headphones in, legs aching from practice, phones forgotten on the nightstand. Not talking, not fighting.

Just breathing in the same space.

Eventually, someone on the team caught you two eating lunch alone at the athlete dining hall—headphones still in, still not talking, but choosing to sit across from each other anyway. That’s when the jokes started.

“You guys married now or what?” someone teased.

Juju rolled her eyes and muttered something rude, and you laughed, cheeks warm.

But you didn’t move.

It was the late-night rides home after away games that did it.

Those long, sleepy drives back to campus with your teammates passed out across bus seats, wrapped in sweatshirts and oversized headphones. That’s when Juju would slide into the seat across from you, sometimes even next to you if the front rows were empty. She’d stretch her legs out, lean her head back, and stare out the window. Never said much.

But it didn’t feel like silence anymore.

It felt like a rhythm.

You started swapping snacks halfway through one of those rides. You handed her a pack of Sour Patch Kids without asking if she wanted some. She looked at you like you’d just handed her your entire bank account, but she took one. Just one. You didn’t speak, but you didn’t need to.

Another time, you passed her your charger when her phone was at 3%. She mumbled something that might’ve been “thanks.” You just nodded.

Sometimes, you caught her watching you. Not in a creepy way. Just... observing. Like she was trying to understand you. Like she was surprised you weren’t as soft as she’d assumed.

Because you weren’t. Not really.

Juju started noticing it before you did—the you let people push you around.

Not your teammates. Not Coach. But on the court? You’d get shoved, elbowed, yanked off screens, and you wouldn’t say a word. You’d take it, tighten your jaw, shake it off. You played clean, precise, and relentless, but you didn’t bark back.

And that did something to Juju.

She hated it.

One game, in Arizona, you took a hard shoulder to the chest that had you stumbling back. It was borderline dirty. You didn’t even complain. Just caught your breath, flexed your hands, and went to inbound the ball like nothing happened.

The next play, Juju didn’t even try to hide her retaliation.

She boxed the girl out so hard she hit the floor, and Juju stood over her just long enough to get a warning from the ref. When you gave her a look, she shrugged like, What?

After that, it became a pattern.

Every time someone got too rough with you, Juju inserted herself. Not with words—but with presence. Her body. Her physicality. Like she was drawing a line no one else could cross.

“She got a guard dog now?” you heard someone mutter from the opposing bench once.

You didn’t correct them. You kind of liked it.

And like any athlete, media days were where things changed for you.

Because while Juju became your defender on the court, you became hers off it.

It was subtle at first. A question from some outlet with too many consonants in its name about Juju’s “attitude.” You could see it in her jaw—how she tensed. Bit the inside of her cheek. How the smile slipped.

You leaned forward before she could even answer.

“Or maybe,” you said, voice even but firm, “you’re just not used to confident women who aren’t here to coddle you.”

The room went still.

Juju blinked. And then—slowly—smirked.

You weren’t the same person in those interviews anymore. You dropped the polished, picture-perfect responses and started speaking with edge. Especially when it came to her. You called out the microaggressions. Shut down the loaded questions. You didn’t let them frame her as the villain just because she didn’t smile on cue.

“She’s not rude,” you said once. “She’s focused. You should try it sometime.”

It caught on fast. Twitter clips. TikToks. Headlines that read like:

“Y/N and Juju: USC’s Unlikely Dynamic Duo” “Y/N Taurasi Defends Teammate in Viral Interview—‘Try Respecting Black Women’” “USC’s Power Pair: The Fire and Ice of College Basketball”

And every time one of those interviews dropped, Juju didn’t say thank you. She didn’t have to.

You’d catch the way she looked at you.

Not surprised anymore. Just... seeing you.

You didn’t know when “teammates” stopped being the right word.

It wasn’t one moment. It was a million small ones stitched together across bus rides, hotel rooms, and sideline glances. It was the way she always stood behind you in warmups, like a silent shield. The way her elbow brushed yours during timeouts and lingered. The way she passed you the ball like she was daring you to score, because she knew you would.

It was the way she didn’t like anyone else talking to you too long after games.

The way you caught yourself watching her mouth when she was chewing gum.

The way you said “we” when you talked about plays now, without even thinking.

It was slow, and steady, and impossible to ignore. You didn’t talk about it.

--

The gym smells like lemon cleaner and something deeper—old sweat sealed into the wood grain, worn-down sneakers that still left their ghosts behind. It's late. Later than it should be. The kind of hour where nothing feels real and everything feels possible.

You’re barely a month into the season. November has blurred into December, the first wave of jitters and expectations settling into something steadier, something lived-in. You’ve found your rhythm—kind of. Enough to stop overthinking your minutes, enough to know when to push and when to float. You’ve made peace with the way the locker room works, with the inside jokes you weren’t around for and the ones you’re slowly being let in on. Enough to not flinch when Coach starts yelling, and enough to know Juju Watkins won’t ever stop pretending she doesn’t care.

Which brings you here. After practice, after film, after everyone else has gone home to ice baths and late-night DoorDash orders. The gym empty but not quiet, the hum of the lights and your shared breath filling the space. You’re both stretched out across the court, practicing... something. It started with a “hey, let’s run through that action from the second half again,” and now it’s evolved—or maybe devolved—into made-up tricks and weird passes, just to see if they land.

It's not structured. It's not even smart. But it’s chemistry.

Juju’s dribbling in slow motion, clearly mocking you, her tongue peeking out in concentration like she’s trying to master some impossible move. You’re sprawled on the three-point line watching her, arms crossed, smirking like you’ve got the cheat code to her whole existence. You don’t—but it’s fun to pretend.

“Real smooth,” you say as she fumbles the ball off her foot and blames the floor. “You trying out for the Harlem Globetrotters or what?”

“Nah,” she shrugs, “I already got a team.”

“Barely,” you say, walking toward her and kicking the ball back her way. “You be acting like a teammate and a tourist at the same time.”

That gets a reaction. Not much of one, but enough. She scrunches her nose like she’s offended and amused in equal measure.

“You talk too much,” she says.

“And you don’t talk enough,” you fire back. “Maybe we balance each other out.”

She looks at you, really looks at you, for a second too long. You know that look. She’s trying to decide if she can trust you, or maybe just trying to figure out what you want. You don’t make it easy.

“Or maybe you just like hearing yourself,” she mutters.

“You’d be surprised how many people like hearing me,” you grin, toeing the ball toward her again. “It’s kind of a gift.”

Juju catches it this time, spinning it lazily on her finger like she’s not impressed.

“I’m not one of them.”

“No,” you say. “You’re the one who texts me at eleven asking to ‘run sets.’”

She rolls her eyes and turns away, heading toward the baseline again. You follow, obviously. You always do.

“You didn’t have to show up,” she says over her shoulder.

“You knew I would.”

She shrugs, but her pace slows. She’s waiting for you to catch up.

It’s not the first time you’ve stayed late. It’s not even the first time it’s been just the two of you. But this feels different somehow. Not heavier—just more alive. There’s no clipboard, no assistant coach counting reps, no music blaring from the speakers. Just you and her and the soft thud of the ball when it hits the hardwood.

She stops near the free throw line and pivots to face you, nodding like she’s got an idea. “Alright,” she says, “you set the screen, I’ll curl around, no dribbles, just a catch-and-shoot. You ready?”

You blink. “You trust me to set the screen?”

“Moment of weakness.”

You snort, but you do it. She fakes one way, cuts the other, curls tight around you like muscle memory, and you flip the ball to her—clean, just where she wants it. She nails the shot.

It’s quiet after the swish. That kind of perfect sound that only happens when the ball kisses the net just right.

You clap, mock-serious. “Wow. A shooter. Who knew.”

“Don’t gas me now,” she says, smirking.

“Too late,” you grin, backing up to the wing. “I’m your biggest fan.”

She arches a brow, amusement flickering across her face like light through stained glass. “You a fan of everybody or just me?”

“Oh,” you say, pretending to consider it. “Just you. Everybody else is kind of mid.”

Juju laughs—actual, real laughter that she tries to swallow down too quickly, like it slipped out by accident. You don’t say anything, but you store it away, the way her laugh sounds at midnight in an empty gym, echoing just enough to feel important.

You run the play again. And again. It keeps getting smoother. Tighter. There’s a moment where she catches the ball and passes it back before even looking, already knowing you’re there.

That’s what this was about, right? Chemistry.

But it’s not just that. Not really. You both know it. It's about trust. About rhythm. About building something you can’t fake or force or script.

You grab a water bottle from the edge of the court and toss her one without looking. She catches it midair and gives you a nod like that means something now.

You flop down onto the court, sprawled out like your bones are too tired to keep pretending this is just about hoops. Juju hesitates, then sits down next to you—knees bent, arms draped across them.

There’s a beat of silence. Comfortable, not weird.

“You ever stop playing?” she asks, glancing sideways at you.

“Not unless I’m sleeping,” you say. “Even then I dream in crossovers.”

She laughs again. Softer this time.

You turn your head toward her. “Why’d you really ask me to come out here?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Just rolls her water bottle between her palms and shrugs like it doesn’t matter.

But it does.

“You move different,” she finally says, like that explains everything. “Thought I should figure out how to keep up.”

You smile, more to yourself than anything. She’ll never say it plain. That’s not her style. But this? This is her version of reaching out.

And you’ll take it. Every time.

The drills slow down. The passes get looser. Your fingers are starting to sting, your calves burn every time you reset your feet, and your shoulders ache from overuse. You know the signs—your body’s quitting, even if your mind’s still wired.

You wipe sweat off your forehead with the back of your hand and glance at Juju, who’s pacing toward the far sideline like she’s done too but won’t admit it first. You’d almost respect her more if she called it. But you know her by now.

“I swear, if we run that same play one more time—” you start, flopping backward onto the floor dramatically.

She doesn’t even flinch. “You’re the one who said you wanted to get our reads tighter.”

“That was before I realized you play like you’re trying to beat me at a one-on-one I didn’t agree to.”

“That’s crazy,” Juju says, grabbing the basketball and sitting beside you. “Because I am.”

You breathe out a laugh, arms spread wide across the hardwood like a crime scene. “You’re a menace.”

“And you’re dramatic.”

There’s a beat of silence. The good kind again. Your chest rises and falls slowly, sweat drying cold against your skin. You stare up at the rafters, letting the weight of the day press down, just enough to keep you grounded.

“Hey,” Juju says eventually, voice quieter now. “Can I ask you something?”

You don’t look at her. Just blink at the ceiling and nod.

“What’s it like… being Taurasi’s kid?”

You blink again. This time slower.

You’ve been asked that before. Plenty of times. By reporters, by teammates, by random fans with camera phones and too much time on their hands. It’s usually an icebreaker, a compliment, a setup for someone else’s expectations. You’ve got the answers rehearsed in your bones.

“It’s great,” you say automatically. “She’s my biggest role model. Taught me everything I know.”

Juju doesn’t buy it. Doesn’t even pretend to.

“Nah,” she says. “I mean really.”

You finally turn your head to look at her. She’s watching you—one knee up, arm looped around it, sweat-damp curls escaping from her bun. Calm. Still. But curious in that way she gets when she wants the truth.

You exhale slowly, jaw clenched just enough to keep the words in.

“I said what I said,” you mumble.

“And I said,” Juju echoes, “nah.”

It’s quiet again, but heavier now. Not awkward. Just… held.

You sit up, pulling your knees to your chest, arms draped loosely over them. You stare down at the floor for a long second, then glance sideways at her.

“You really wanna know?”

She nods.

You chew the inside of your cheek, then shake your head like you’re already regretting opening your mouth.

“It’s… complicated,” you start. “She’s not just my mom. She’s Diana Taurasi. Like capital letters. GOAT. One-name recognition. And I know what that means. I’ve known since I was old enough to dribble. People don’t just look at me and see a player. They see her shadow.”

Juju stays quiet. Just listens.

“And don’t get me wrong,” you say, voice a little tighter now, “she loves me. I know she does. But love and pressure aren’t the same thing. She didn’t raise me to be soft. She raised me to win. Every game. Every drill. Every damn rep. Crying wasn’t really a thing in our house. Excuses weren’t either. You either got better, or you didn’t get on the court.”

You’re talking faster now, like the truth is trying to outrun the guardrails you built around it.

“She’d have me up before school to shoot. Had me watching film with her before I even knew what the plays meant. We didn’t have bedtime stories. We had game tape. She’d pause the screen and ask me, ‘what’d she do wrong here?’ and if I didn’t know, she’d rewind it again and again until I did.”

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

“She told me once, ‘being great isn’t a job, it’s an identity.’ And I think—” you pause, voice catching a little, “I think she wants a legacy more than a daughter sometimes.”

Juju shifts beside you. Not closer, not farther. Just… present.

“And I love her for it,” you continue, softer now. “I do. Because I know it came from a real place. She wanted me to be unstoppable. And I learned how to be. But… sometimes I wonder what it would’ve felt like to just be a kid. To mess up and not feel like I was disappointing the whole dynasty. To lose and not feel like it was her loss.”

You finally look at Juju again, and something in her gaze softens.

“People see the name on my jersey and think I’ve got it made,” you whisper. “But sometimes it feels like the weight of it’s the one thing keeping me from breathing.”

The silence between you now is fragile. Bare. Like if either of you moved too fast, it might crack.

And then Juju—who has made a career out of being unreadable—says quietly, “That’s real.”

You blink at her, surprised by the simplicity of it.

She shrugs, eyes on the floor. “I get it. Different version. But I get it.”

You don’t press. She doesn’t offer more. But something shifts in the air between you—like a drawbridge quietly lowering in the middle of the night.

She leans back on her palms, exhales like she’s been holding her own breath this whole time.

“You know,” she says after a while, “I think people forget you’re a person. Like, a real one.”

You snort softly. “Tell that to the twenty dudes in my DMs who keep calling me ‘Baby White Mamba.’”

“Please delete your Instagram,” Juju deadpans. “Immediately.”

You laugh for real this time, wiping your face with the edge of your shirt. “You started this. Asking all deep questions like we’re on some HBO docuseries.”

“I’m curious,” she says with a shrug. “You’re kind of an enigma.”

You arch a brow. “Is that your way of saying you like me?”

She rolls her eyes so hard you almost hear it. “Don’t make me regret this moment.”

But the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth says she doesn’t.

You both sit in the quiet again, this time a little closer. A little more understood.

And maybe it doesn’t fix everything—not the pressure, not the legacy, not the million expectations—but for tonight, it feels a little lighter.

For tonight, someone sees you. Not the name. Not the future GOAT. Just you.

And that’s enough.

Later that night, the gym echoes in your head long after you've left it.

Your legs are sore. Your voice is hoarse from calling out switches and cuts. You and Juju had gone until the lights dimmed, until the janitor peeked in and gave you that “wrap it up” stare that said he was too polite to kick you out but too tired to wait much longer.

You showered. Changed. Ate something half-decent out of a vending machine because the dining hall was already closed. And now, you’re curled up in your dorm bed, legs tucked under the blanket, phone pressed to your ear.

It’s not your mom on the other end of the line tonight. It’s Penny.

You love Penny. She’s the softness that balances the fire in your household. But even Penny has her scripts sometimes. You know the rhythm by heart.

“How’s the knee holding up?” “Coach say anything about your minutes?” “You stretching before bed?” “How’s chemistry with Juju?”

You answer everything like a seasoned pro—tight, even, unfazed. You’ve been media trained since you were twelve. You know how to sound fine, even when you’re not. Especially when you’re not.

But Penny’s not just anyone. She knows the quiet tells.

“You sound off, kid,” she says gently.

You don’t say anything for a moment. Then: “Just tired.”

She hums. Doesn’t press. Just lingers in that way she does when she knows you’re lying but doesn’t want to force it out of you.

You talk a little longer—light stuff. Someone on campus brought a dog to the quad. One of the assistant coaches tripped on a loose ball during practice and tried to play it off like he meant to fall. Juju made fun of his landing form for a full ten minutes.

Penny laughs at that. “She’s got a good sense of humor. Good for you.”

You smile faintly. “Yeah. She’s… surprising.”

When you hang up, the room feels colder.

You toss your phone on the nightstand and sink deeper under the covers, staring up at the ceiling like it’ll offer answers it’s never had before.

And then, like a film reel slipping out of its case, the memory unspools—one you’ve tried to keep boxed up for years. One you almost forgot was still breathing inside you.

Nike Nationals. July of your sophomore year.

The gym in Chicago was packed—loud, hot, buzzing with cameras and scouts. Your AAU team had clawed its way through the bracket all weekend. Double-OT in the quarters. A last-second block in the semis. You were running on adrenaline and gummy bears, legs stiff from barely sleeping in hotel beds that smelled like bleach and bad decisions.

You were there. The final. The last two teams standing.

And you were good. So good. You’d dropped 20 in the first half alone—spin moves, step-backs, dimes off the pick-and-roll. Your mom had been in the stands, arms crossed, sunglasses on even indoors, watching you with that look.

The look that meant she was proud. But not satisfied.

That look that made you want to be better. Perfect.

The game went down to the wire. Tied at 58 with eleven seconds left. Your coach called a play for you—clear out, iso, drive the lane. And you got fouled on the take. Two shots. Win-the-game free throws.

You remember the silence. How everything else faded—the crowd, the cameras, the pulse in your ears. Just the ball, the line, your breath.

You missed the first.

Back rim, long bounce.

You knew before it hit.

The second rattled out, too.

They got the rebound. Called time. Hit a buzzer-beater three.

You lost.

You don’t remember the locker room. Just the bathroom stall you locked yourself in. The sharp, tight sobs that ripped out of you. The sound of your jersey hitting the floor when you yanked it off. The way your hands shook so badly you couldn’t even retie your sneakers.

You didn’t talk to anyone on the ride back to the hotel.

And Diana didn’t either.

She was waiting in the lobby when you walked in, arms crossed again, that same unreadable stare locked on you like a laser sight. You were hoping—maybe—she’d pull you in, tell you it was okay, that she was proud anyway, that everyone has moments like that.

She didn’t.

She didn’t say anything until the next morning. Woke you up at six sharp. Said, “Let’s go.”

You thought she meant breakfast.

She meant film.

You’re sixteen. Still emotionally raw. Sitting at the edge of a stiff hotel bed in your hoodie and compression shorts, and your mom has her laptop open, already queuing the footage from the game. Her voice is flat, clinical.

“You had her beat on that first cross. Should’ve gone left.”

Pause. Rewind.

“Your arc’s too flat. That’s why the free throws didn’t drop.”

Pause. Rewind.

“You pulled up early on this drive. You could’ve drawn contact and one’d it.”

Pause. Rewind.

It goes on like that. An hour. Then two. She doesn’t yell. Doesn’t curse. But it almost feels worse. Because she’s treating it like surgery—cutting into you with precision, peeling back every failure and dissecting it in silence.

You nod through it all. Quiet. Barely blinking.

When she finishes, she shuts the laptop and says, “We work now, or we work later. Your call.”

You don’t answer. You just stare down at your feet.

All you can think about is how close you were. How small the margin. How those free throws will haunt you for the rest of your life.

That was the first time you ever wanted to quit.

You didn’t. Of course you didn’t. Because that’s not who you’re allowed to be.

Back in your dorm room now, you pull the blanket tighter around yourself, but it doesn’t help. The chill is inside.

You close your eyes and picture that moment again. The line. The ball. Your mom’s face afterward.

Sometimes you wonder if she remembers it like you do. If it meant as much to her as it did to you.

You’re not mad at her. Not exactly. You know she did what she thought was right. That’s how she was raised, too. The same fire. The same unforgiving standard.

But you were sixteen.

And all you wanted in that moment wasn’t a lecture, or a film session, or a fix.

You just wanted your mom.

You wanted her to sit beside you on that hotel bed, and wrap an arm around your shoulder, and say, “You’re allowed to miss.”

“You’re still mine.”

You roll onto your side, burying your face into the pillow.

You don’t cry. Not anymore.

But the ache is old and familiar.

And it doesn’t fade.

Not really.

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

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

[formerelswhore]

— WHININ AND GRINDIN

first time scissoring with you whiny girlfriend juju

nsfw. scissoring

Juju’s beneath you, her dark hair fanned out on the pillow, her brown eyes wide and shimmering with need, her skin is flushed, a sheen of sweat glistening on her collarbone as she props herself up on her elbows, watching you position yourself.

You straddle one of her thighs, your core brushing against her skin, and the contact alone sends a shiver through you , slowly, you guide her leg up, hooking it over your shoulder, aligning your bodies until your slick folds press against hers. “Fuck” you breathe, the warmth and wetness of her against you sparking heat up your spine.

You roll your hips experimentally, and the sensation is electric, a soft gasp escaping you both, juju’s hands grip the sheets, her lips parting as she feels you move. “Oh my god,” she murmurs, her voice already trembling. “That… that feels so good.” You find a rhythm, slow at first, grinding your hips in a steady, deliberate motion.

The friction is intense, your clits brushing just right, sending jolts of pleasure through you, juju’s breaths come faster her chest heaving as she tries to match your movements, her hips rocking up to meet yours.

The wet sounds of your bodies sliding together fill the room, mingling with your shared moans. “Juju” you whisper, leaning forward slightly, your hands bracing on either side of her. “You’re so fucking perfect like this.” Her eyes flutter, a soft whine slipping from her throat as the pressure builds. “It’s… it’s so much” she gasps, her voice high and needy. “I didn’t know it’d feel like this.” Her hips stutter, and she grips your thigh, nails digging in as she starts to unravel.

“You’re doing so good” you murmur, picking up the pace, your own pleasure spiraling as you watch her, her whines grow louder, more desperate, each one sending a fresh wave of heat through you, she’s trembling now, her body arching as she grinds against you, chasing the high.

“Fuck, please” Juju whimpers, her voice breaking. “It’s too good, I’m—oh god.” Her eyes squeeze shut, her mouth falling open as another high pitched whine spills out, the sound drives you wild, your hips moving faster, the slick heat between you overwhelming, you can feel your own climax building, the tight coil in your core ready to snap. “Look at me” you say, voice low and urgent.

Her eyes open, hazy with lust, and the sight of her flushed, whiny, completely undone pushes you closer to the edge “Come with me, baby. Let go.” She nods frantically, her whines turning into broken moans as her body tenses “I’m gonna—fuck, I’m coming” she cries, her hips bucking wildly against you.

Her orgasm hits hard, her body shaking as she clings to you, her nails leaving crescent marks on your skin, the sight and sound of her unraveling sends you over the edge, you come with a shuddering moan, your hips grinding down as waves of pleasure crash through you, your body pulsing against hers.

The room spins, your breaths mingling as you both ride out the aftershocks, bodies slick and trembling, finally, you slow, collapsing beside her, both of you panting, juju’s still whining softly, little aftershocks making her twitch as she curls into you “Holy shit” she mumbles, her voice hoarse. “That was… intense.” You laugh softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You were so fucking cute, whining like that.” She buries her face in your neck, a shy giggle escaping her. “Shut up” she mutters, but her arms tighten around you, and you know she’s smiling.

🔖 — @addl0vee @mrsarnold @melpthatsme @bellaprintz25 @janaelalfysblunt @ellehoops @belsoulss @apbueckers @uwupaige @janaelalfysloml @azzisbueckers @paigeluvvr @giavonnii @jupitermoonbaby @shootingstarrrrr @dalilahissilly @luldejamleer @d7dream @gabbyygoo @bravemode @latenighttalkinqwp @avvwritesstufff @prettygirl-gabi @yailtsv @bebitts @heartsforari @usuallyshadowybasement @authentic-girl03 @private-but-not-a-secret @evanpeterstoe @destinybueckers44 @youmeandjennessey @starfulani @cherryswisherz @bueckersworld @paiges-1vur

[pinkyqily]

TWO HOOLIGANS INLOVE | JuJu watkins x teammate!reader

Summary: Just you and juju acting foolishly in front of the press

Warning: fluff, use of yn a few times

A/n: This isn't accurate to the actually games so don't bite me, fic is apart of my new series called hooligans inlove this isn't the first part so watch out for that, if you have any juju requests send em my way if you have any feedbacks feel free to leave them happy reading readers 🌹

Usc had just won the game against uconn. You, juju, and Ray had been called for media. After a phenomenal performance from the three of you.

coach knew it was going to be crazy having you and juju up there, but with Ray too, she could only hope y'all would be on your best behavior.

"Now, before you guys head up there, I need you to be on your best behaviors. She told all three of you, "Come on, coach me and yn are good, juju just the problem here." Ray told coach while sending diggers towards juju way

"There's no way I'm getting blamed right now." JuJu yelled, losing her so-called nonchalant chil.

"Can we get going already? No one has time for you two idoits arguing." You told the two girls as you make your way to the conference room." Bro, hold on." You didn't have to turn your head around hearing your annoying girlfriend and teammate calling you, bro.

"Who are you calling bro Judea?". You said out as you stopped in your tracks, staring at juju with your arms crossed around your chest. Ray voice Intervene swinging her arms around you and juju.

"Come on guys, let's not argue."

"If she calls me bro one more time, it gonna end up with more than an argument." You told them both. JuJu, who knew what was best for her, stopped calling you bro but couldn't wipe away the stupid smirk on her face as you guys sat down.

The press was going well Juju and Ray made a few jokes here and there when answering questions until it was your turn to answer some Juju had decided now was the perfect time to be distracting you.

Anytime you got a question she would turn her whole head and body towards you as she looked deep in your eyes not taking off contact.

"So what do you think about this win against uconn and how we're you guys able to come back from previous games?" A reporter asked directing the question to you.

"Um the win was definitely a hard fought and we definitely brought in our all I think we're able to learn from our previous game against,

them on what to do and not to do-.you stopped mid sentence to say, "ju can you stop staring at me like your life depends on it." You told the girl as you guys secretly held hands under the table.

"I'm doing no such thing." She said after looking away.

"Whatever." You told her, but this time yanking your hand away from hers under the table only for her to grab it back

"Can y'all stop wasting the people's time?" Ray spoke up with a slight teasing tone, she was stuck sitting in the middle of two drunk inlove players while it was entertaining she didn't want to be no 3rd wheel

"Um, sorry for that interruption." cough cough as you did that while side eying juju.

"One last question for juju, what did you think of yn performance today and how she contributed to the team performance wise".

"I think that her performance today was topnotch, probably one of her best, she contributed a lot by getting really involved with defense and offensive if I can say so myself she brings a lot to the team when she can".

You found yourself starring back into juju eyes as she spoke there was always something about her that made you feel all warm inside you couldn't tell if it was because you haven't let her hand go or something else.

It felt like only you two were in the room, and that's until Ray voice brought you back to earth. "I think you both got staring problems at this point." She told you as the room erupt with laughter.

Anyone in there could sense the growing tension between you and juju. From the way you both spoke about each other to the not so subtle touches, anyone could tell you're both madly in love.

You guys got up heading back to the rest of them, team.

"Ugh, I can already see the edits coming about you two so nasty." Ray told y'all as she made a gaging sound.

"Oh please, they aren't that bad". You told her

"Not bad, juju was basically undressing you with her eyes, and you sat there eating it up."

"Not my fault that my girl a baddie." JuJu said as her hand brushed against yours. It was little things like this that got you worked up, and she knew it.

"At least I've been promoted from bro to my girl." You told both girls making them laugh.

Before you knew it, clips from the press were already going viral.

Some people called juju whipped sum saying, "You we're complaining even though you were down bad for juju too, people fighting about you guys being gf while others disagree and say you're a couple."

[yannasuniverse]

UPDATE JUJU WATKINSSSSS

𝐊𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐢𝐭 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Juju Watkins x Talkative!Teammate! Reader

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You just join the team and is very talkative and juju takes a liking towards you she just loves your voice and couldn’t get enough of you.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: None!

𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚: I wrote this bc I like to talk a lottttt

Every since you joined the team a week ago juju couldn’t get enough of you. The way you talk with your hands when you telling a story or when you just come up to her and just ramble her ear off then apologized for talking so much even after she tells you it’s ok keep going.

Don’t get her started on your voice, she could listen to it all day if she wanted to.

Relief was what they whole team felt as they made their way to the bench some not even making it there.

Juju sat on bench wiping the sweat off of her face with her shirt. “Ju i forgot to tell what happened early today!” You yelled from the other side of the court running over to her clearly not tired.

You were over there in no time, excitement writen all over your face your smile bright.

You stood in front of juju almost in between her legs which she immediately noticed, she stared up at you as you began to talk.

She couldn’t help but to stare at the way you lips moved so smoothly and the way your voice was just soft.

Your smile was her second favorite thing about you, when you smiled the room just lit up like someone shine a bright flashlight in their eye.

She continued to admire you while you talk but it soon stop.

“Sorry im was doing it again” You said frowning your face warm with embarrassment thinking that she wasn’t paying attention.

Immediately shaking her head guilt ran though her “No kept talking I heard every single word you said” Juju reassured you already missing your smile.

“Are you sure? I’ll just leave-” “No stay, I like hearing you talk” She cutting you off now standing up towering you.

“Don’t stop talking now I’m going to miss my daily news” Juju said hoping that pretty smile would come back on your face and it did.

You laugh a bit “Fine I wont just for you” You said smiling at her “But if I get annoying just tell me to shut up” you did a little zipping your lips movement throwing the key away.

“You could never be annoying to me, now finish what you were saying” Juju wrap a arm around your shoulder beginning to walk away ignoring the looks from her teammates.

That’s all it took for you to start talking her ear off just how she like it she definitely couldn’t get enough of you.

©𝐲𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓

[hoopingwjuju]

Juju x volleyball player

i write how i speak sorry. mostly fluff with a side of smut.

☽｡⋆ word count: 1.5k

ღ- she wasn't very social when you first met her but she warms up to you be she likes the way you can make her laugh and pull her out of her comfort zone.

ღ- she made the first move by taking the friendly flirting seriously be she's not gonna shy away from something she wants.

ღ- she's very competitive so yk she has to win all her mini-games with you. it boosts up her ego every time.

ღ- after you taught her some pointers on how to serve she's been teaching you how to ball.

ღ- she likes to practice doing a bun with your hair before your plays or practices be she's gotta learn how to perfect her own bun somehow.

ღ- she likes to help you tape your fingers before practice be it gives her a little bit more time with you.

ღ- she lovesss to bother you so you gotta know how to stand your ground when she comes at you be she likes to argue and start stuff. plus she's hella sassy and she's always going to out sassing you.

ღ- you'll know when she's mad or something is up be she's gonna get hella nonchalant and strict.

ღ- you have to be really hard on her when she gets hurt or injured bc she doesn't know how to take care of herself. yet she can take care of you so well when your injured or hurt.

ღ- she loves it when you tag along with her and her family during the breaks.

ღ- her voice gets soft when she talks about you or when anyone brings you up.

ღ- when the two of you are around family and friends she can be all lovey dovey she wants, but your relationship with her is not known to the public so she has to be hella nonchalant about the dating topic when it comes up.

ღ- the reason why your relationship is not public is because you two don't want it to take away from your passions. i mean if people do a little deep research then they'll know to put two and two together and figure out your dating. she masks this fact by saying you two are best friends.

ღ- if you wear glasses she always carries a backup eye lenses for you in her bag in case something happens to the current pair when you're playing or practicing.

ღ- just sitting in her car in a parking lot listening to music. since you both have a curfew you can't be out late for late night car drives; soaking up each other's energy. she barely lets you touch the aux tho.

ღ- she will always open the door for you even after an argument or whatever. you're definitely her passenger princess; you have you're side decorated and all.

ღ- you're an outside hitter so you're pretty tall 5'10" with long legs so you're not that much shorter than her. so you love sharing clothes with her. matching sweats and lowkey matching outfits. also matching bracelets or other jewelry. she loves going shopping with you when she can.

ღ- whenever the basketball court is being changed for volleyball practice, she tries to stay and talk to you but gets kicked out most of the time.

ღ- she doesn't bother asking you were her hoodies are be she'll find them in your closet or somewhere in your dorm later.

ღ- your communication with her is really good. since both of you are student athletes you can't really see her every day when it gets super busy for you both, so you'll try to send her a few texts here and there throughout the day and she really appreciate this. same when you two are in away games, you'll try to ft to say goodnight if y'all can.

ღ- she loves laying on your chest when she takes a nap or the other way around. you love to write letters on her back with your finger when she's asleep.

ღ- when she gets excited or when she's laughing she likes to grab onto you and jump up and down or hits you.

ღ- she slept through the professors lecture and you guys had an open note quiz after, so she asked for your notes and after that you guys kicked it off. that is how you two met.

ღ- she loves to randomly stare at you and she's so oblivious sometimes when it happens. even her teammates say it's one of her biggest habits and tell her to stop it.

ღ- she don't play about you. she be ready to tussle when she's at your games and the other team's fans are talking shit about you. she can be obsessive and overprotective.

ღ- while celebrating you ending the game with a back row attack, one of your teammates is accidentally too touchy with you and she gets hella jealous. her jaw clenched glaring at whoever touched you. her glares are so lethal your teammate asks you "does juju hate me?"

ღ- you love it when she gets jealous bc there's nothing she needs to be jealous about; your all hers.

ღ- definitely calls the stuffed animals or plushies she gets you "our children."

ღ- she's a tomboy but whenever you want to dress up she lets you go all out with hair, makeup, and all.

ღ- she uses her face to get what she wants from you all the time since she knows you love her pretty face.

ღ- my pretty girl ju is your nickname for her and she won't admit that she likes it but she always responds to it.

ღ- loves it when you kiss her mole under her lips and when you play with her ears.

⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧

ღ- very blunt and straightforward, but will say some very explicit things with a straight face and act like nothing happened afterward, which can be quite surprising to you every time it happens.

ღ- soft dom definitely.

ღ- likes to record you moaning and loves it when you send her videos with the sound on; she loves to listen to it like it's music to her ears. so don't ask her "what are you listening to?" bc it's different every time. it’s either music or you moaning.

ღ- has a sex playlist. (the song girl you loud by chris brown ft tyga is definitely on it top song fr).

ღ- she has a big thing on eye fucking you. (god her eyes are so pretty).

ღ- she loves to hold eye contact with you while eating you out.

ღ- even tho things are private she loves to sloppy kiss you anywhere be she gets a thrill out of almost being caught. she gets all cocky with that damn smirk on her face.

ღ- very touchy. hands on your lower back, smoothly moving you around grabbing your waist, having her arm around your shoulders and groping you through your clothing.

ღ- loves teasing 100% (you can't convince me she doesn't). "you like that baby? I know you do, you like anything I do to you."

ღ- since you're used to wearing shorts most of the time she loves it when you wear them around her. she gets hella touchy; grabbing your ass and roaming your body with her hands.

ღ- sends you dirty text messages about your volleyball uniform whenever you're practicing talking about how your ass jiggles every time you jump etc.

ღ- one hand on the stirring wheel other hand touching your thigh, running it up and down your thigh which always leads to car sex.

ღ- nothing gets her more turned on then when you grab her chin and make her look at you. like when your talking to her and she's not paying attention, just grab her face.

ღ- she cries while fucking you, be you're so good for her. (not elaborating).

ღ- when she's fucking you with her strap she loves it when you ride her; your titties all over her face and she can kiss your pretty face. also loves tribb-

ღ- she loves to be praised so she'll ask you "do you like that baby?" or "did i do good baby?" plus she has an obedience thing so when you tell her to do things and it can be something simple like "sit" she'll say "yes ma'am" every time.

ღ- she has a thing for hickeys but she can't really act on it be you two can't keep using makeup to cover it up if you both are going to sweat it off later.

ღ- you definitely leave hickeys all over her inner thighs (her thighs are so thick yall...) the first time you guys were intimate you left scratch marks on her back and she didn't even realize she had them until india pulled her to the side and told her.

fuck all that nonchalant shit she's really a lover girl, but let me shut up before i start yapping even more bc i didn't even mean to write all this... and i don't even know anything about volleyball shhhhhh.

[ghettogirly]

𝑱𝑼𝑱𝑼 𝑾𝑨𝑻𝑲𝑰𝑵𝑺 𝑮𝑹𝑼𝑴𝑷𝒀 𝑿 𝑺𝑼𝑵𝑺𝑯𝑰𝑵𝑬 𝑯𝑬𝑨𝑫𝑪𝑨𝑵𝑵𝑶𝑵!

-> summary: how juju would deal with a gf who’s overly optimistic. A golden retriever x black cat aesthetic.

-> format: headcannon w/ drabble.

━━━━━━━━━━

- seeing you around USC campus, you carried an aura of tranquility and happiness. Gravitating towards people with your cheerful energy and enthusiasm.

- being in your class, she noticed your resilient persona when doing your work as whenever things got hard, you had a tendency to overcome it.

- she admired that about you as it was something you both had in common. however, for her it was different.

- the gruelling pain of challenges motivating her every step, especially on the court. She would never be satisfied with her performance, even if she had amazing finishes and handles.

- god forbid, you ever said something positive about a game she lost.

“Hey Juju,” you carefully spoke as you walked up to her near the changing rooms. “You should be proud of yourself today,” practically squeaking the words as a wide smile formed across your face. Yet, the response was disappointing. A scoff was heard from the taller woman as she just stood up and walked off into the corridor, leaving you alone and embarrassed.

━━━━━━━━━━

- after that encounter, she couldn’t help but toss and turn in her bed following the loss. Not only was she disappointed in her performance from the game, but she couldn’t wrap around the thought of you still being encouraging.

- what was there to be happy about after losing a game?

- a couple of weeks followed and Juju saw you more and more often. The swirl of your tennis skirt marching with your polka dot blouse as you walked alongside your friends to a table.

- That sweet giggle she heard from across the table tormenting her mind, unable to block out the constant loop of happiness.

- Looking up at you from across the room, she frowned at the sight of you laughing with your friends.

- That was meant to be her too.

━━━━━━━━━━

A sigh escaped from Juju’s lips as she closed her locker next to the library, finishing up for the day as she finally found the effort and the time to study. Sliding those black headphones in front of her bun, she flung her backpack on and headed down to the exit. Streams of a deep purple and blue colour fused together to form an enticing sunset, transitioning into the night. Headlights slowly turned on down the street, illuminating the paths below.

After briefly taking in the view, Juju turned the corner to find her car. Clicking it open, she threw her backpack in the passenger seat. However, a sniffle was heard.

Then another one.

And another.

Furrowing her eyebrows in confusion, she closed the door in attempts to find out what the situation was about. Walking around the back, it was not hard to recognise the once familiar girl who tried to cheer Juju up at the game.

Yet, you looked different. Mascara ran down your face as your lip quivered, no longer having the glitter lipgloss that everyone noticed. You slowly tilted your head upwards, quickly wiping your eyes as you notice the taller woman who stood there, her once confused face now showing concern. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine, what’s wrong?”

So there you guys spent, that question causing your emotions to fall apart again. You spoke about the stress of college and the assignments, as well as the stress of family not being supportive and having to juggle a job alongside all of this. The toll of being overly optimistic and the effects it can eventually have on you after a period of time. Weirdly enough, she was a good listener. Not interrupting you, slowly draping her arm across your shoulder to let you know that she’s there for you.

And honestly, both of you guys saw a side of each other , you never saw before.

[demie90s]

okay so juju and reader where juju is js down bad for this girl, if you look at her tiktok? reader. if she post on her story it has something to do with reader, she’s wiped asf for reader loving her in private and public. bonus if juju follows her around on the basketball court

Whipped Doesn’t Even Cover It

Juju x ꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

MASTERLIST | MORE

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ:Everyone knows JuJu Watkins is that girl on the court—but off the court? She’s completely down bad for you.

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ:Fluff, clingy obsession, public affection, basketball romance, social media vibes

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:Mild language, intense thirsting, TikTok-level public displays of affection

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~

I swear, that girl is everywhere.

Every time I turn around, she’s there. Waiting. Watching. Hovering like she’s part of my shadow. Like she’s trying to learn how to move like me, breathe like me, be me. And she makes it look good. Never awkward, never needy—just present. Like I’m gravity and she’s stuck in orbit.

It started slow. I’d catch her glancing during drills, handing me my water bottle when I didn’t ask, offering to rebound for me like it was her life’s mission. Cute, right? Until I scrolled on TikTok one night and found a video of me walking down the tunnel set to slow R&B. Her caption? “She don’t even know I’d ruin my whole life for her.”

Five thousand likes in under an hour.

Then it was the reposts. Every selfie I posted, she shared it. Commented “my girl” like she had a title. One time I posted a gym pic and she tagged it with “this the reason my knees hurt.” I didn’t even respond—I just showed up to practice the next day wearing her hoodie like I was claiming her back. She didn’t say anything about it, but the way she smiled told me I’d just made her whole month.

And don’t let us play against each other in scrimmages. JuJu? She don’t guard me. She trails me. Like a heat-seeking missile. Even when the coaches yell at her to switch, she shrugs it off, eyes locked on me like, “Nah. I got this.” One time I said, “You know I’m not gonna go easy on you.” And she grinned and said, “You never do. That’s why I like it.”

Tell me how I’m supposed to keep a straight face after that?

Today in open gym, she didn’t even try to hide it. Wouldn’t stop staring. Every time I touched the ball, she perked up. When I hit a three, she clapped harder than the whole gym. I jogged past her once and caught her mouthing “goddamn” under her breath. Subtlety? Gone. She follows me around like I’ve got the answers to her soul. And honestly… I kinda do.

She waited for me after, too. I took my time in the locker room just to see if she’d stay. She did. Sat right outside, scrolling through her phone like it didn’t matter that it was already dark and cold as hell. I walked out, hair wet, hoodie half-zipped, and she stood up like she’d just seen a miracle.

“You hungry?” she asked.

I shrugged. “Always.”

She opened the door for me, real quiet. Like we were in a movie. Like I was something delicate. But there’s nothing soft about the way she looks at me. Not sweet. Not innocent. Hungry. Like she’s waiting for permission to love me harder.

And the crazy part?

I haven’t told her no. Not once.

It got worse—or better, depending how you look at it—when we all went out.

Just a few teammates, chill spot, some plates, some laughs. I didn’t even invite her directly. Somebody else mentioned it in the group chat and JuJu just… showed up. Like always. No questions, no hesitation. She pulled up in sweats, slides, and a fitted hat like she’d been ready all day.

I sat down at the table and before I could even take off my jacket, she was already pulling the chair out next to mine. Ordered for herself, then asked if I wanted anything before the waitress left. I didn’t even answer fast enough—she ordered my go-to without blinking. Girl knew my entire menu history like she studied it.

Then came the food. She barely touched her own plate before sliding a piece toward me with her fork. “Taste this. You’ll like it.” I did. Ate it right off her fork, too. No hesitation. No shame. Everyone saw. No one said anything—until my dumbass friend across the table raised a brow and went, “Y’all dating or what?”

I just rolled my eyes and kept chewing. JuJu? She grinned like she won a bet. Wiped the corner of my mouth with her thumb and said, “We just locked in.” And nobody argued.

She paid for my meal. Held the door open on the way out. Took my leftovers in her hand like it was her job. She even offered me her hoodie when the wind picked up, despite the fact that she was wearing a damn tank top underneath. I didn’t ask. She just shrugged and said, “Don’t want you getting cold.”

I let her.

I let her do all of it. Every sweet, extra, clingy, girlfriend-coded thing. Because truth is? I like it. I like the way she moves around me. I like the way she sees me. Like I’m something worth orbiting. Like I’m the only reason she even showed up.

And maybe… I am.

@draculara-vonvamp @non3ofurbusiness @kajspeaks

[holyblonded]

love (gonna get you killed) | alexia putellas

pairings: alexia putellas x sister!reader

summary: your internally conflicted about your feelings towards alexia. meanwhile alexia is realizing there might be no salvaging your relationship

universe: cloud 9/bear’s universe

warnings: angst, angst, and more angst!

notes: i was in fact listening to the damn album writing this 🌚 i think this is the shortest chapter of cloud 9 i’ve ever written cause it was honestly gut wrenching to write but also it fr a setting up chapter

You didn’t know what to expect after the Nike event. But you didn’t expect this.

Not this strange hollowness. Not this unfeeling pit in your chest where, just hours ago, you thought there would be fireworks. Or tears… or maybe even relief. But no, just indifference. Or maybe something more dangerous. The numbness. The one that follows when you’ve been waiting for an explosion that never comes.

You lay on your hotel bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. JuJu was in the shower. You could hear the faint sound of water, steam curling under the door. The bed was cold on your back, but you didn’t move. Not even when your fingers began to ache from being clenched too long.

You always chased Alexia. You chased her smile. Her attention. Her approval. Her scraps. And tonight, you were so close you could’ve reached out and touched her. You could’ve said something—anything.

But instead, you looked her in the eye and let it go. But now, you’re wondering if you did the right thing.

When JuJu comes out of the bathroom, her braids are piled on top of her head and her skin glows faintly from the heat. She’s wearing black shorts and a sports bra, towel slung around her neck. Her eyes find yours immediately.

“Hey,” she says softly, pausing in the doorway. “You’re quiet.”

“I’m fine.”

JuJu doesn’t move, just watches you. You can feel it, her gaze heavier than the room. You sigh and roll to your side, away from her. “I said I’m fine.”

She doesn’t believe you. She never does, and she’s usually right. A moment later, the mattress dips as she climbs in next to you. She doesn’t say anything. Just lies there, the silence thick but not suffocating. Her fingers brush yours once, so gently you almost miss it, but you don’t pull away.

You lie like that for a while. Jyst breathing together. Not touching, but not apart.

Eventually, your voice breaks the silence. “I thought I’d feel something, Ju.”

She doesn’t interrupt you, she just listens.

“I don’t know what I expected. Anger, maybe. Or heartbreak. Heartbreak for sure. But I didn’t feel any of it. I looked her in the face, and I felt… nothing.”

JuJu hums softly, encouraging you to keep going.

“And now I don’t know what’s worse—the years I spent hurting over her, or this…the nothingness. Like there’s a hole where something used to be.” You turn your head to face her, finally. Her eyes are already on you, warm and patient and steady. You wonder if she ever gets tired of holding space for you. “Do you think I did the wrong thing?” you whisper.

“I think you did what you needed to do to protect yourself,” she says. “That doesn’t mean it was easy. And it doesn’t mean it won’t hurt later. But you didn’t do anything wrong.”

You nod slowly. It’s hard to believe it, but it’s also hard not to believe her.

“I just feel so… off. Like I’ve been carrying this thing my whole life and suddenly put it down, but my arms still hurt from holding it.”

She smiles, a little sadly. “That’s grief, babe. Sometimes it shows up in silence.”

You look at her. This girl who’s never asked you to be anything but exactly who you are. Who never pushed or pried, just offered warmth when the world felt like stone.

“Thank you,” you say, voice quieter than before. “For always seeing me for me.”

JuJu leans forward, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. “Always.”

The next morning, JuJu has an early interview. You wake up to the sound of her tiptoeing around the room, trying not to wake you. She kisses your temple before she leaves, and you pretend to be asleep just to savor the feeling.

Once she’s gone, you shower, throw on a hoodie and sunglasses, and head out into the morning light. New York is buzzing, but you’ve been here enough times to know where to go to escape the chaos.

You make your way to a little cafe tucked between two bookstores in the East Village. The smell of espresso and buttered croissants floats through the air as you walk. But just as you turn the corner, you bump into someone.

“Oh. I’m so sorry,” you say reflexively.

But then you look up and meet the kind eyes of Olga. You blink as a smile grows on Olga’s face. “Hey, kid.”

You instantly hug her. She hugs you back just as tightly, kissing the side of your head.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, though you already know.

“The Nike thing. With Alexia,” she replies.

“Right. Dumb question.”

You gesture behind you. “I’m going to this really cute cafe. Great coffee and pastries. Wanna join?”

Olga considers it, then nods. “Sure. Lead the way.”

You order your usual, an iced oat milk latte with an extra shot of espresso and a breakfast sandwich. You also order JuJu’s favorites to-go, an iced vanilla matcha and a chocolate croissant.

Olga gets a cappuccino and some almond pastry you’ve never seen her eat before.

You sit at a small corner table, the window fogged slightly from the warmth inside. It’s peaceful. You almost forget what yesterday was.

Until Olga clears her throat. “She didn’t speak,” she says softly. “After seeing you.”

You look up. But you don’t say anything.

“She left early. Alexia never leaves events early. She takes everything seriously. You know that.”

You do. Of course you do.

Olga stirs her coffee. “I found her in the hotel gym at three in the morning. On the treadmill. Running like she was being chased. She didn’t stop until I made her. She looked like… she looked like she was falling apart.”

You don’t respond. Not because you don’t care. But because you don’t know what to say. You feel…nothing. Not anger. Not pity. Not satisfaction. You didn’t even cry last night. And that scares you more than anything.

Eventually, you and Olga part ways. She hugs you again. Says she’s proud of you. You nod with a smile on your face. But the smile never reaches your eyes and she sees that.

Back at the hotel, JuJu’s not back yet.

You sit on the edge of the bed, the city noise muted by thick windows.

You look at the coffee cup she left this morning. Still warm. You hold the matcha she loves in one hand and the croissant in the other. You set them on the table.

And then you sit...and you sit…and you sit. The silence isn’t peaceful this time. It’s loud. Louder than the treadmill at 3 a.m. Louder than the voice in your head asking if you made the right call.

You don’t know. And you’re terrified that you may never know.

JuJu stretched her long limbs as she rose from the velvet chair, thanking the interviewer with a polite nod and signature easygoing smile.

“Am I done yet?” she asked her agent, that distinct Californian drawl pulling through her words. “My girl got me a matcha from my favorite place.”

“You’ve got one last fitting,” her agent replied, scrolling through her phone. “A quick one. For the LA shoot next week. After that, I promise, you’re free to go back to your girl and your overpriced green milk.”

JuJu couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her lips. “My girl,” she repeated under her breath, letting it linger like a prayer.

“For now, take a break,” her agent added, glancing over her shoulder. “Snacks are on the second floor if you want something.”

JuJu shot off a quick text to you: last thing then I’m yours. matcha better be cold 💚

Then she headed to the second floor, running her hands over her fresh braids, hoping for peace. Instead, she walked straight into it. Alexia.

She was standing by the fruit platter, untouched bottle of water in hand, staring out the large conference window like it might give her answers she hadn’t already asked herself a thousand times.

JuJu’s steps faltered, but only for a second. She adjusted, always steady.

“JuJu Watkins,” she greeted, extending her hand with calm, poised strength.

Alexia turned slowly, lips tugging into the tightest imitation of a smile. “I know.”

She took JuJu’s hand, cold, tense, and reluctant to linger. Silence filled the space.

But then, with a crack in her voice she didn’t mean to let show, Alexia asked the question she’d been too scared to voice out loud. “How is she?”

JuJu blinked once. Her tone didn’t shift. Her voice didn’t raise. But somehow, it hit harder than if she’d screamed.

“She’s not okay,” JuJu said, arms now folded across her chest. “She’ll lie to everyone. Smile, crack jokes, say she’s fine—but she’s not. Because she’s grieving her sister.”

Alexia’s breath hitched, but JuJu didn’t stop.

“She’s grieving someone who’s still alive. And that’s the hardest thing to do.”

There was no venom in her words. Just the truth, measured, clear, and very JuJu.

Alexia stood frozen, the weight of it all slamming into her chest. JuJu watched her just long enough to make sure it landed, then turned and walked away.

And Alexia—strong, composed, media-trained Alexia—turned into the women’s restroom, locked herself into the farthest stall, sank to the tile floor, and cried.

Not quiet tears. Not graceful ones. Gut-wrenching sobs, the kind that curled her spine and left her chest heaving. Because for the first time, she realized she might have lost you for good.

The hotel room was too still, too silent, and too much. So you left. The streets of New York were buzzing with life and yet you couldn’t feel any of it. Your sunglasses covered your eyes, but they couldn’t hide the tension in your jaw, the way your mouth kept twitching like you were holding something in.

You wiped at your cheek quickly when a single tear escaped. You hadn’t even noticed it until the wind kissed the wetness on your skin.

You hated crying in public. Always had. But today, it wasn’t sadness that broke you. It was indifference.

You had looked your sister in the eye and walked away. And nothing cracked. Nothing shattered. It should’ve hurt more and that scared you, so much.

You wandered aimlessly until you passed a city park. A group of little girls in matching Nike kits giggled as they kicked a ball back and forth, shouting in Spanglish and laughter. One of them tripped and fell.

The others immediately rushed over, pulling her up, brushing grass from her knees, telling her she was brave.

That’s when it happened. The memory came like a sucker punch to the gut.

You were six again. A scraped knee, tear pooling, and blood starting to run.

“Lexi! My knee!” you had sobbed, tiny hands clutching your leg. “I’m scared!”

And she had run to you, your hero in cleats and still in her football kit, kneeling down without hesitation.

“It’s okay, Osita,” she said, already lifting you off the grass. “Be brave for me, mi nena.”

“You are so brave. So strong.”

She held you in her lap as she cleaned you up. She kissed your forehead like she always did. Like love was easy.

But it hadn’t stayed easy.

The flashback left you winded. Your knees almost buckled.

You turned away from the park, sunglasses slipping slightly, breath catching in your throat. You kept walking, fast. One foot in front of the other.

But the grief had already climbed under your skin again, like it never left. And this time, it wasn’t just grief for what you lost.

It was for the parts of you that used to believe you’d always have her.

Alexia had never known this kind of restlessness before.

Not even the high pressure matches at Camp Nou, not even the captain’s armband weighing heavy on her sleeve during the Champions League final. None of that came close to the ache she carried now. None of that had kept her up at night like this. Her head pounding, thoughts spiraling, guilt making her physically ill.

She had tried to keep her distance like everyone told her to. Tried to convince herself that maybe space would mend things. But JuJu’s words haunted her.

“She’s grieving someone that’s still alive, and that’s the hardest thing to do.”

It rang in her ears constantly.

She thought about you every day. The little girl who used to trail after her with mismatched socks and wide eyes. Who used to whisper “Lexi, look!” every time she learned a new trick. The teenager who slowly stopped asking for help. The young woman who looked at her now like a stranger. If she looked at her at all.

Alexia knew she couldn’t undo the past. But silence was no longer an option. Not after what she’d done. What she’d failed to do. So instead of another voice memo she’d delete before sending or a curated Instagram post, she picked up a pen.

The letter took her days. Nine pages in her neat, slanted Catalan handwriting.

She didn’t ask for forgiveness. Not once. She just… told the truth. Told you how she had panicked, how fear warped into distance, and how distance turned into something colder. How she had promised your father that she would protect you, love you, raise you the way he would have wanted. And how she failed.

She wrote about how you were brave, so much braver than she had ever been. How she used to watch you sleep when you were a baby, just to make sure you were still breathing. How she’d kept every silly drawing you gave her. Every birthday card. How she still carried your photo in her wallet. How she never stopped loving you.

She didn’t know where to send it. Not directly to your building, she didn’t have the address. Not through your club or your agent. So she showed up at Eli’s door, tears already threatening.

“Mami, please,” she whispered, holding the sealed envelope in trembling hands. “I know you said to give her space, but—she deserves to know. Even if she never speaks to me again. I need her to know the truth.”

Eli said nothing, just stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her daughter. Alexia cried like a child, forehead pressed to her mother’s shoulder, while Eli silently took the letter.

You were already raw that day. You hadn’t slept…again. Something about the trip, the city, this whole event had your emotions prickling at the surface. It had even clung to you in your sweet city, LA. You had gone through the motions, smiled when expected, nodded through meetings, even taken a few photos. But inside? You were cracking.

So when you opened your apartment door and found the letter inside, familiar handwriting, Alexia’s name in the corner of the envelope, you didn’t even make it to the couch.

You dropped right there on the floor. Your knees hit tile. Your hands shook. Deuce rushed over, nuzzling into your side as you held the envelope like it might explode.

And then the tears came down, heavy and inconsolable. You sobbed in gasps that made your ribs ache. The weight of everything—loss, abandonment, betrayal, love… it crushed you all at once. It was like grief had been waiting in your lungs, and the moment your fingers touched that paper, it finally let itself out.

You didn’t open it. You couldn’t. You just clutched it to your chest and wept, forehead resting on your knees, Deuce’s soft whimpers the only sound in the apartment besides your cries.

Eventually, you crawled into bed, letter still clutched in your hand. JuJu came home to find you like that.

At first she thought you were asleep, then she saw the tear tracks, the puffiness around your eyes, the way your fist still gripped the corner of the envelope like a lifeline. She gently slid it from your fingers and read the return address.

She didn’t open it. Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t even touch your arm. She just placed it back down on your pillow, beside your sleeping form, and let you be.

Later that night, you woke up in the dark. The air felt too still. The shadows too loud.

You turned your head slowly and stared at the envelope. It sat there, quietly waiting.

You stared at it for a long time. Long enough that the clock changed minutes. Long enough that the ache in your chest turned into something sharper. You could almost hear her voice. Osita. My baby girl. You hated how much you missed her. You hated that part of you still loved her. But more than anything, you hated the fear that reading that letter might undo you entirely. So you didn’t read it. Not yet.

Both JuJu and Deuce snored in your ear. JuJu’s soft, rhythmic breaths brushing your shoulder while Deuce’s little puffs of air tickled the crook of your neck. One of his paws rested gently on your chest, twitching occasionally as he dreamed. The bed should’ve felt safe like this. It should’ve felt warm. It’s should’ve felt anchored. It should’ve felt loved.

But you were wide awake. Your eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling, unblinking. The shadows cast by the streetlights outside crawled across your room in slow, shifting lines, and the hum of your own thoughts filled the silence left in their wake. It was like your brain refused to let you go. Every breath you took felt too shallow, like you were only pretending to be okay. Like your body was holding itself together with tape and wire.

You didn’t even hear the buzz of your phone, not right away. It was only when the screen lit up that you registered anything outside the mess inside your head.

alba 🤍

I’m not choosing sides. I just miss my sisters being okay.

You blinked and then inhaled shakily. Your thumb hovered over the screen. You read it once. Twice. Five times. You weren’t sure what hurt more, the honesty of it or the fact that she was right. You missed it too. You missed being okay. But you weren’t. You hadn’t been in a long time. And you didn’t know how to get back there.

There had been a time when a message like that from Alba would’ve been enough to break the dam inside you. When you would’ve called her sobbing. When you would’ve begged her to tell you what to do.

But now? Now you just stared at the message as if it were written in a language you no longer understood. Your throat was tight, your chest burning under the weight of a sadness so familiar it had become a second skin. You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Because choosing not to respond somehow still felt like control in a world where everything else had fallen apart.

Deuce shifted beside you, letting out a tiny sigh in his sleep. JuJu murmured something incoherent and instinctively curled a little closer, wrapping a protective arm around your waist. But even wrapped in their warmth, you felt cold.

You turned your phone over screen-down and closed your eyes. You didn’t cry this time. You just felt the silence press against your ribs like a weight. And just let it sit there.

[wbbwhorez]

JUJU WATKINS HC'S

Based off of this req

SFW

▪︎juju is a BIG cuddle bear, like she would walk into your dorm after practice and just jump you bones and not get up for a while

▪︎you sometimes wake juju up by pressing kisses to her face, and she swears it's the best way to wake up.

▪︎she made her mom teach you how to make her signature bun, but always says that her mom does it best

▪︎when she first introduced you to her family ,they immediately took you in as if you were one of their own, and it made juju SO happy

▪︎ After a long day, juju makes sure to pamper you by running you a bath and giving you a massage after

▪︎you do the same for her

▪︎everyone says that juju has a certain look in her eyes when she looks at you (you deny it, but you know it's true)

▪︎she isn't in her dorm most of the time as she practically lives with you at this point, everyone know she spends her nights crushing ypu to death

▪︎she knows whenever you need a moment and always comes up with ways to calm you down , such as hugging you from behind and kissing down your neck

▪︎she always shows up to any event that you have (if you play a sport)

▪︎ she cheers so hard for you that you don't notice anyone who doesn't

NSFW

▪︎sometimes, her laying kisses on you neck leads to her leading the kisses down your body

▪︎bites you lip as she pulls away from you ,leaving a string of saliva

▪︎ spits in your mouth while she's knuckles deep inside of you

"Swallow ."

And you do

▪︎ doesn't like pet names, BUT she knows you have a priase kink, so "my good girl" is very much used

▪︎ is speechless anytime your juices gush on her hands and licks it up every time

▪︎toys with your clothes until it's visibly sticking out (she likes it when you're over sensitive)

▪︎she talks you through it

" your doing so good baby"

"Yeah? You like that?"

"Fuck ,you're driving me insane right now"

▪︎ you don't like the fact that she takes over because you're a switch

▪︎ when you DO top her (you always find a way to flip her to the bottom), she and you love every second of it

▪︎ she hold your hair back while your eating her out because she likes to pull on it

▪︎ you give her the 3 finger combo

▪︎she dies

︵ ‿︵‿୨♥︎♡︎♥︎୧‿︵‿︵

Send in more recs!! (Both hc's and normal fics)

[brenw376]

we love to see it❤️‍🩹

[goldfades]

𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 ☆ WATKINS¹² (ev's 6k celly!)

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

CELLY MASTERLIST

ᝰ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 5.5k words

ᝰ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | you and juju have been solid since last spring — late-night drives, gym dates, matching hoodies kind of solid. but the season’s about to start and she’s got something to prove. suddenly she’s sharper, snappier, locking herself in the film room and brushing off your touch. it’s not about you. you know that. but when she finally sits next to you on the bleachers, hands shaking a little, you don’t say "i told you so."

ᝰ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | fluff, angst, happy ending! undefined relationships, kinda means juju (not really), very happy ending though!

ᝰ 𝒆𝒗'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | happy day 4!! one more day of the celly, are we excited?! anyway, i just love juju soooo much<3

You met Juju Watkins outside a 7-Eleven at 11:43 PM, both of you buzzing off different kinds of adrenaline. Hers from an off-season run at Venice Beach, yours from three Red Bulls and a fight with your best friend that ended in slammed doors and something about “you always disappear when she texts.” You didn’t even know who she was then, just a tall girl with braids and that kind of calm that makes you want to tell her secrets. She asked if the cherry slushie machine worked. You lied and said yes, just to keep her standing next to you a little longer.

Things bloomed quietly after that. Late-night drives turned into early morning drives. You were both night owls, both introverts who didn't mind each other’s silence, both into oversized hoodies and playlists that sounded like moonlight and heartbreak. She started picking you up after her workouts, still dripping sweat, dropping her duffel in the backseat with a huff and peeling off her ankle wraps while you handed her your half-finished smoothie. You didn’t really talk at first. Not about feelings. It was more like: you hungry?, wanna hit a late gym?, this hoodie’s mine now, right?

There was never a hard start, no DTR conversation, no labels. Just this slow shift; bodies leaning closer, fingers brushing, lips hovering too long over skin. You woke up one day and realized you hadn’t posted a single thirst trap in weeks. That you’d memorized her shooting percentage before her favorite color. That her background noise had become your favorite sound.

Spring turned into summer and the world got hazy and golden. She’d pick you up in her beat-up Jeep with a speaker in the back playing Clairo and SZA, her legs always stretched too long for the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel and the other on your thigh like it belonged there. You started showing up to open runs. You started liking basketball, not the game, really but her in it. All focus and fire and sweat-slick brilliance. You started to understand how she became Juju Watkins, not just the girl in your passenger seat but the one with a city on her shoulders.

Now it’s late October. Leaves are falling, your hoodie smells like her perfume, and the season is knocking like a storm.

And Juju?Juju’s got something to prove.

You can feel it before she says a word. The shift. Like someone cracked the volume down on her laugh and turned the dial up on her ambition. Her texts get shorter. Her nights stretch longer. She's snappier in the mornings and somewhere else entirely when you're lying next to her. You touch her arm and she twitches like it burned. She tells you she’s fine but locks herself in the film room for hours, chasing something that doesn’t have your name on it.

You know it’s not about you.

But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

It was supposed to be a small thing. Not a birthday, not an anniversary, not anything that needed a gift or balloons or candles. Just a chill night at your friend, Leila’s place. Some music, your friends, too many drinks and Juju finally meeting the people who’d been asking about her for months.

You even picked out her outfit. Laid the hoodie on your bed that morning, the one she “borrowed” but you secretly liked more on her. Black with that tiny embroidered heart on the sleeve, soft from too many washes. You had plans: show up a little late, fingers laced, maybe sit on her lap if there was no room on the couch, let your worlds blur for once.

The message came two hours before you were supposed to leave. It was short.

juju 🎧: can't make it. coach added a team dinner juju 🎧: sorry

No call. No punctuation. Not even your name. Just like that, like canceling on your friends and on you, was as casual as switching playlists.

You stared at your screen for a long time, blinking like it might change.

It didn’t.

You typed wtf juju are you serious? but didn’t send it. Closed the app. Opened it again. Closed it.

You still went, because you said you would. But every time someone asked where she was, it scraped against you. You lied once, said she was sick. Lied again, said she had to help a teammate move. Eventually, you just stopped talking.

It wasn’t a disaster. Your friends were nice. The drinks were good. But there was an empty space next to you all night and you couldn’t fill it, not with noise or laughter or the girl who kept brushing your arm on the way to the kitchen. It wasn’t her.

You went home early. Didn’t text her. Didn’t ask how the dinner went. Just curled into your own silence and waited for something. A knock. A phone call. An apology. Something.

When Juju finally showed up the next morning, barefaced and still in her USC warmups. You were too tired to act fine.

She dropped her keys in the bowl by the door, like everything was normal. You didn’t even say hi. Just looked up from the couch where you were half-buried in a blanket and asked, “Didn’t even think to call?”

She blinked. “What?”

“Last night,” you said, sitting up. “You bailed. No explanation. No warning. You couldn’t have taken two minutes to let me know earlier?”

“I did let you know.”

“An hour before?”

Her mouth tightened. “Coach made it mandatory. What was I supposed to do, skip and get benched?”

You stood now, heart ticking faster, blood warming. “I’m not asking you to get benched. I’m asking you to give a shit.”

“Don’t do that,” she said, crossing her arms. “Don’t twist this like I don’t care. You know what this season means to me.”

“Yeah,” you said quietly, “I do. But do you even remember what I said this week? About this thing? About how much it meant to me for you to come?”

She looked away.

“That’s what I thought.”

Her jaw clenched, the muscle jumping beneath her skin. “You’re making this bigger than it is.”

You blinked. “That’s rich coming from the person who stayed in a film room till 1 AM over a bad scrimmage.”

Silence.

And then, quieter: “I can’t be everything all the time.”

“I never asked you to be everything,” you whispered. “Just... someone who shows up when it counts.”

Juju didn’t say anything. Just stared at the wall like if she looked at you, she’d crumble.

And then she turned. Walked past the bowl, past the keys, past the ghost of the night you planned together and out the door.

She didn’t slam it.

That almost made it worse.

The thing about Juju is that when she disappears, she really disappears.

Not in the dramatic, block-you-on-everything, move-states kind of way. She’s not messy like that. She's quiet about it. Strategic. She stops replying with full sentences. Stops calling at night. You still see her name in the box scores, hear it murmured in sports group chats and scrolling on your feed. She doesn’t vanish, exactly, she just closes the door. Shuts the blinds. Leaves the light on but doesn’t answer when you knock.

It’s been ten days. Eleven, if you count the morning after she walked out and you stared at her name in your phone until your vision blurred. You haven’t spoken since the argument. You’ve seen her on TV, on TikTok, in photos taken courtside by people who don’t know what they’re looking at. She’s been playing out of her mind. Twenty-seven points in one game. Thirty-one in another. She’s locked in. Laser-focused, unstoppable.

And you? You’re just trying not to drown in the silence.

You go back to your old routines. The ones from before her. Before gym dates and matching hoodies and hands brushing in the middle of the night. You start walking places instead of waiting for her Jeep. You listen to podcasts instead of the playlists you made together. You pick at your food, scroll past her highlights. Try to forget the shape of her hand on your thigh.

The hoodie she left behind is still hanging on your chair. You wear it once when you’re missing her too much, and then shove it into the bottom of your closet like that might stop it from smelling like her.

Your friends notice, of course. Leila tries to play therapist one night while you're both sitting on her floor eating mango slices out of a plastic container.

“She’s probably scared,” she says gently. “Success does weird things to people.”

You don’t want to hear that. Don’t want to think of Juju as scared. She’s the bravest person you know. The boldest. She walked into your life with her shoulders squared like she owned every room, like nothing could touch her.

“She’s not scared,” you say, chewing too hard on a piece of mango. “She just stopped choosing me.”

Leila doesn’t argue. Just offers you another slice and changes the subject.

It’s only later, alone, that the thought really sinks in, that maybe those things are the same.

You find yourself back at the gym where you first watched her play.

It’s not on purpose. You were just walking. Wandering, really. Your headphones died somewhere between campus and the 7-Eleven and you didn’t feel like turning back. The court lights are still on even though practice ended hours ago, buzzing faintly in the night air. You sit at the top row of the bleachers, tucking your knees into your chest, trying not to think.

But of course, you do.

You think about the first time she made you laugh so hard you couldn’t breathe. About the time she pressed her forehead to yours after a workout and whispered, you make me feel real. About the morning she kissed your wrist instead of your mouth and you knew, in your bones, that she loved you even if she hadn’t said it yet.

You miss her like a phantom limb. Constant, aching, familiar.

You don’t expect anyone else to show up. It’s late. The gym is still. But the door creaks open anyway, and you flinch before you even look.

It’s not her.

Just a janitor, pushing a mop and whistling low.

You stay another fifteen minutes before leaving.

The next day is another home game. You don’t have tickets. Not because you couldn’t get one but because you didn’t want to sit in that crowd and pretend you were still someone in her orbit, someone who belonged.

But something makes you go anyway.

You don’t go inside the arena. Just sit on the outside steps, where you can hear the distant echo of the crowd reacting. The bass of the band. The announcer calling her name.

Watkins for three!

You bite the inside of your cheek until you taste blood.

There’s something cruel about how the world still spins when your chest feels cracked open.

You must sit there for almost an hour. Long enough for the game to end, for fans to trickle out in twos and threes. You keep your head down. Hood up. Pretending not to notice the laughter around you.

You're just about to stand, just about to chalk the whole day up to another failed almost, when you hear her voice.

Not loud. Not sharp. Just... there.

Softer than you remember.

“Hey.”

You freeze.

She’s standing a few feet away. No cameras. No teammates. Just Juju. Hair pulled into a messy bun, jersey half-tucked, eyes tired in a way that makes something twist in your stomach. She looks like she hasn’t slept in days.

You don’t say anything.

She shifts her weight, palms tucked into her sleeves. Then, slowly, she walks over and sits beside you. Not too close. Just close enough that you can feel the heat of her.

Her hands are in her lap, fingers fiddling with the edge of her sleeve. Shaking a little.

You don’t say where the hell have you been.

You don’t say I missed you.

You don’t say anything.

Because for once, she’s the one who came back. And you want to give her the space to figure out how to stay.

You sit there for a while, on the cold metal of the bleachers, with Juju close enough to touch but feeling a thousand miles away. The silence stretches, tight and pulsing. You feel like you're holding your breath underwater.

Eventually, she speaks.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

You don’t respond. You just watch her hands, how her thumb keeps sliding over the same spot on her palm like she’s trying to rub something out.

“I thought about calling,” she says, voice hoarse. “I just… didn’t want to say the wrong thing again.”

You nod once, still not looking at her.

She shifts closer, not enough to close the distance, just enough that you feel it. The way she wants to. The way she’s still scared to.

“You’re still mad,” she says softly.

And maybe you are. But not in the way she thinks. It’s not a rage kind of mad. It’s the kind that sinks into your bones. A kind of tired that doesn’t go away with rest.

You finally turn to her. “I’m not mad. I’m just...” you pause. “I don’t know what we are anymore.”

There it is.

The sentence you’ve been swallowing for weeks. The truth that’s been coiled tight behind your ribs.

Juju flinches like you hit her. “We’re still us,” she says quickly. “I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but-”

“Is that even a real thing?” you ask, quietly but sharply. “Us?”

That stops her.

You push on before you can convince yourself not to. “Because it’s always been so… vague. You never wanted labels. You never said you were my girlfriend. I went along with it because I thought it was enough just to have you, but now-”

“You knew what this was,” she snaps, cutting you off. “Don’t act brand new.”

Her voice has edge now. That tight, clipped tone she gets when she’s cornered.

“You said you were fine with how we were,” she continues, sitting up straighter, eyes hard. “You said we didn’t need to put a name on it. That you liked the way it felt.”

“I did,” you shoot back. “But then you started acting like I was some stranger who didn’t get to ask for anything. Like I didn’t have the right to be hurt.”

She exhales sharply, frustrated. “You think I don’t feel anything? You think this is easy for me?”

“I think you hide behind basketball so you don’t have to deal with people needing you,” you say before you can stop yourself.

The second it leaves your mouth, you regret it.

She stiffens. Her jaw tightens.

“That’s not fair,” she says, voice low.

“Neither is being left behind,” you whisper.

A beat. Just the wind and the hum of lights overhead.

She stands suddenly, brushing her hands on her thighs like she’s trying to shake something off.

“So what, you want to end it?” she asks, not looking at you.

You blink. “I don’t want to end anything. I want to know if we even have something to end.”

And that’s when she looks at you. Really looks at you.

Her eyes are rimmed red. Not from crying, Juju doesn’t cry, not in front of people but from exhaustion, from the weight of trying to hold it all together.

“You want a label?” she says bitterly. “Fine. You can call it a breakup.”

Then she walks away.

And this time, you don’t follow her.

The days after are slow. Glacial.

You sleep weird hours. Eat less. Scroll more. You don’t check her socials, but you check the accounts that tag her, the sports blogs that post highlights, the clips of her torching defenses and walking off the court with that cool, emotionless expression like she’s never fallen apart in her life.

You start catching yourself narrating things in your head like you’re trying to write her out of your system. You walk past the corner store and think, this is where we used to get Sour Patch Watermelon at midnight. You sit in her seat in your car and think, this is where she leaned her head on my shoulder while the rain came down like music.

Your friends try, in their clumsy ways. Leila drags you out for coffee and doesn't mention her name. Your roommate leaves a bar of chocolate on your desk with a sticky note that just says hey in lowercase letters.

You pretend it helps.

Mostly, you just hurt.

The hoodie finds its way back out of your closet. You don’t wear it. Just fold it, unfold it, hold it in your lap like it might say something if you sit still long enough.

You replay the argument more times than you’d admit. Not because you think you were wrong or that she was, but because it feels like there should’ve been a different outcome. A softer ending. Something that didn’t feel like a door slamming shut on your chest.

You tell yourself you’re letting go.

But every time you try, her name finds its way back to your mouth, unspoken.

Juju should be celebrating.

USC just beat UCLA in a packed arena, lights hot and crowd screaming like a living, breathing storm. She dropped 28. Four steals. A dagger three with the shot clock winding down that sent half the gym into cardiac arrest and the other half into something like worship. They hoisted her on shoulders. Cameras in her face. Gold confetti in her curls.

She smiled. She even laughed once, for a split second. But it didn’t feel real.

And now she’s here, in some house packed with too many bodies, music so loud it rattles the floorboards, and the trophy, her trophy sits on the kitchen counter next to someone’s half-drunk Solo cup.

People keep trying to talk to her. Dap her up. Take pictures. One girl tries to press into her side like she belongs there.

Juju excuses herself to the bathroom, but she doesn’t need to pee. She just stares at herself in the mirror for a long time.

She doesn’t look like a winner. She looks tired.

She leans over the sink, presses cold water to her face, lets it drip down her neck and soak the collar of her shirt. Tries to drown out the noise. Tries to feel anything other than the hollow ringing in her chest.

It hits her hardest when she thinks about how you would’ve screamed yourself hoarse in the stands. How you would’ve been the first person waiting outside the locker room, bouncing on your toes, grinning like her win was your own. How you would’ve grabbed her face with both hands and said something ridiculous like that stepback made me see God just to make her laugh.

You weren’t there tonight.

She told herself it was better that way, easier to lock in but she kept scanning the crowd anyway. Kept thinking she saw you, just for a second. A flash of your hair. The curve of your cheek. A hoodie that looked too much like the one she left at your place.

You were nowhere.

She hates that. Hates herself, a little.

She dries her face with a paper towel, crumples it in her fist. Leaves the party before anyone can stop her.

The night air is cold, a wet kind of chill that sinks into her hoodie and tightens her muscles. She jogs to her car just to warm up, yanks the door open too hard.

Her phone buzzes. Not you. It never is anymore.

Juju doesn’t even know where she’s going until she’s already driving.

She just knows she needs to do something. She ends up at a small grocery store off La Brea. One of those 24-hour spots with dusty windows and flickering neon.

It’s where you once spent twenty minutes debating whether to buy the weird Japanese soda with the marble in it or the spicy ramen chips. You got both. Ate the chips in the car and made her taste one even though she warned you she was a baby about heat.

She buys them now. Both.

Grabs your favorite gum. The sour watermelon kind you chew on when you're anxious. A bottle of that bougie lavender-something sparkling water you only buy on “treat yourself” days.

She wanders the aisles, unsure what she’s even looking for. It’s not about the stuff. Not really, but she wants to bring something. A peace offering. A beginning.

Her eyes catch on a soft, plush hoodie near the register. It’s hanging lopsided on a rack like it doesn’t belong, but it’s soft and slightly oversized and the color — you’ve mentioned that color before. Not purple, not blue. Something in between. Like dusk.

She grabs it.

Next, she drives across town.

There’s this little shop you once dragged her into. Vinyl records and mismatched mugs and handmade jewelry in tiny trays. You loved that place. Walked around like it was a museum.

She remembers — really remembers the way your face lit up at this necklace. Silver, delicate, with a tiny moon charm. You didn’t buy it. Said you’d come back for it.

You never did.

Juju does.

The shop is closed, of course. But she knocks on the glass anyway, desperate. The old man who owns it recognizes her — his grandson’s a fan, and lets her in with a shrug.

Ten minutes later, she walks out with the necklace in a tiny box, hands trembling just a little.

By the time she gets to your apartment, it’s late. Not midnight-late. Emotionally late. That heavy part of the night where the world quiets and everything you’ve been pushing down starts to rise up.

She stands at your door with a paper bag of mismatched snacks in one hand, the hoodie and the necklace box in the other, and suddenly her legs feel heavy.

What if you don’t answer? What if you do? What if you’re done?

She presses her forehead to the door for just a second. Closes her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers even though you’re not on the other side to hear it yet. “I fucked it up.”

Then, finally, she knocks.

You open the door half-expecting a ghost.

But it’s just Juju, standing under the hallway light like she doesn’t know whether she’s come to win you back or fall apart on your doorstep.

She looks nothing like the girl who lit up the court a few hours ago. Her curls are messy, hoodie sleeves tugged down past her knuckles. There’s a crumpled paper bag in one hand, something boxy and gift-wrapped clutched in the other. Her eyes are wide and unsure, like she might bolt if you say the wrong thing.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just sways slightly on her heels and looks at you like she’s checking that you’re real. That you’ll let her talk.

You don’t say anything either.

Not yet.

You just step aside. Let her in.

Juju moves slowly, like she’s scared the floor might crack under her feet. She stops in the middle of your apartment, glancing around like she expects things to have changed. As if your couch might have forgotten her shape. As if the quiet might have hardened in her absence.

She holds out the bag awkwardly. “I brought you stuff,” she says, voice low and scratchy. “Don’t ask me why it’s random. I... I didn’t have a plan, I just… thought about what I’d want to do if I could see you again. So...”

You take the bag from her, peeking inside. Your favorite chips. The gum you always keep in your backpack. That ridiculous lavender water.

Your throat tightens.

“And — uh,” she continues, fumbling now, “there’s a hoodie too. And something else. For you.”

You don’t open the wrapped box. Not yet.

You just look at her. Really look.

And maybe she senses what’s coming because she takes a breath and starts talking. Not carefully, not with her usual sharp precision.

She rambles.

“I’ve been thinking about that fight a lot,” she starts, sitting on the edge of your couch like she’s afraid to settle in. “And I know I acted like an asshole. Like... I shut you out and I told myself it was just temporary. Like, just until the season settled in. Just until I found my rhythm. But that’s not fair. That’s not what you do to someone you... someone who matters to you.”

You sit across from her, knees pulled up to your chest, just listening.

“I get so in my head with this basketball shit,” she continues, fingers pulling at a loose thread on her sleeve. “Like, tunnel vision. It’s been that way since I was a kid. I thought that was the only way to make it. Like if I let myself get distracted for even one second, it would all fall apart. And I didn’t realize...”

She stops, exhales hard through her nose.

“I didn’t realize I was doing that to you. Treating you like a distraction instead of a person. And that’s the worst part. Because I’ve never felt anything for anyone the way I feel about you. Ever. And I just… didn’t know how to hold both things at once. You and the game. So I tried to put one on a shelf.”

She looks up then. Looks at you.

“And it turns out, when I put you on a shelf, everything else just started to suck.”

You don’t say anything yet.

Her voice gets quieter. More uncertain.

“I told you once that you make me feel real,” she says. “And I meant that. When I’m with you, I’m not just Juju Watkins, the stats or the interviews or the jersey. I’m just me. And maybe I got scared of what that meant. Like if I let myself lean into that softness too much, I’d lose my edge.”

She lets out a short laugh: dry, self-deprecating.

“But I didn’t lose anything. I just lost you.”

You’re still quiet. You’re not trying to punish her. You’re just letting the words settle. Letting her sit in her own mess, because it matters that she sees it clearly now.

She shifts again, growing restless in the silence.

“I don’t even know how to talk like this,” she admits, running a hand down her face. “I keep saying the wrong thing or too much or, fuck, I never ramble. You know I don’t. But I can’t shut up tonight because if I do, I’m scared I won’t get another chance to say all this to you.”

You finally let a breath out. It sounds like the beginning of forgiveness.

And Juju catches it. Freezes.

Her voice goes soft again.

“I didn’t ask you to be my girlfriend before because I was scared it would make it too real. Like, the label would somehow make it harder to protect but I think not calling it anything made it easier for me to run when I got scared, and I don’t want to run anymore.”

She looks at you. This time, all the way. No walls. Just her, stripped down to her want.

“Can I ask you now?”

Your heart knocks once, hard, against your ribs.

She takes a breath, then lets it out. “Will you be my girlfriend?”

The room is very still. The only sound is the hum of the fridge and her fingers twitching nervously on her lap.

You realize then that she’s not just hoping. She’s scared.

Scared that she lost you for good. That the effort is too late. That all of this — this night, this confession, the cheap snacks and clumsy words, isn't enough.

And that fear? It’s what softens you.

Because she showed up. With everything she knew how to give. Even when she was bad at it, even when she was scared.

You smile.

Not wide. Not loud. Just enough.

Her eyes flicker, a tiny lift at the corners. Relief, almost too fragile to register.

You finally speak.

“Yeah,” you say, voice quiet, steady. “I’ll be your girlfriend.”

The silence that follows feels entirely different than all the ones before. It’s not distance. It’s not tension.

It’s relief.

Juju blinks once, like she’s trying to process that this is really happening. Then she lets out a breath and leans forward, elbows on her knees, hands clasped together.

She’s not smiling yet, but you can tell it’s coming.

“You mean it?” she asks, just to be sure.

You nod.

“I mean it.”

Juju nods slowly, like her body’s catching up to the fact that she didn’t lose everything.

That somehow, despite all her own sharp edges and missteps, you’re still here. Still choosing her.

She sits back, exhales again. Her eyes close briefly, like she's letting it sink into her skin.

And when she opens them again, it’s like she’s seeing the future in your face.

The hoodie smells like her.

That’s the first thing you notice when you slip it out of the bag: a soft, dusky lavender color that looks even better in person. It’s plush and oversized with sleeves that swallow your hands and a weight that feels like a hug you didn’t know you needed. You bury your nose in the collar for a second, inhaling something warm and faintly citrusy. It smells like the inside of Juju’s car. Like early mornings and after-practice drives. Like safety.

You glance up at her, where she’s half-sitting, half-slumped against the arm of your couch, watching you with that quiet kind of intensity that’s always made your chest tighten. There’s a question in her eyes she doesn’t say out loud: You like it?

You nod, then curl your knees beneath you on the couch, the hoodie already molding to your shape. “It’s perfect.”

And it is. In that small, dumb, perfect way that has you smiling into your sleeves and blinking a little too fast.

“Okay,” she says, a little breathless now. “Now the other thing.”

The wrapped box is sitting between you on the cushion. It’s a small square, tied with a ribbon that definitely didn’t come from Juju’s apartment, you’d bet money she bought it just for this. She shifts a little as you reach for it, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her shorts like she’s nervous all over again.

You untie the ribbon, peel the paper away, and crack open the little black box.

Inside is the necklace.

The one you showed her that day in the shop, months ago. The delicate silver chain. The tiny crescent moon charm. You remember saying, One day, when I feel deserving of nice things, I’ll come back and get this.

You never did, but she did.

Your fingers hover just above the necklace. You don’t touch it right away. Not because you don’t love it but because your heart is a little too full.

Juju’s voice is barely above a whisper now. “I wasn’t sure if you’d still want it. But I remembered how you looked at it. Like it meant something.”

You nod slowly, still staring down at it. “It did.”

She swallows hard, then adds, “I wanted to get you something beautiful. That didn’t make sense, like, practically. But made sense in my head, because... I don’t know. You deserve things like that.”

Your throat tightens, full of too many words and not enough breath.

You look up at her — really look, and she’s not the cool, collected Juju Watkins that the world sees on ESPN. She’s just Juju. Barefaced, hoodie-clad, nervous as hell on your couch, trying not to ruin the one good thing she never expected to find.

“Put it on me?” you ask softly, holding the box out.

She blinks, startled by the request but then she nods, all fidgeting stilled by the ask. She shifts closer, carefully lifting the necklace out of the box. Her fingers are a little clumsy with the clasp, probably from nerves but they’re warm against the back of your neck and the moment feels soft and quiet and impossibly tender.

When the chain settles against your collarbone, you press a finger to the charm. It feels cool and delicate, like something you’ll wear every day.

When you meet her eyes again, yours are shining a little.

“Thank you,” you murmur.

Juju just nods like she doesn’t trust her voice anymore.

You reach out, your hand landing gently on her knee. “Come here.”

She hesitates for half a second, like she’s not sure she’s earned it. But then she moves, kneeling on the couch beside you before curling herself into your side, arms around your waist, forehead pressed to your shoulder. She breathes you in like you’re air she’s been missing.

Your fingers slide into her curls, slow and gentle, scratching softly at her scalp like you always used to. Her arms tighten around you. She melts into it, into you.

Neither of you speak for a while.

The silence is full, but peaceful this time. A stillness you both fought hard to earn.

Eventually, she murmurs against your neck, “I missed you so much.”

You press a kiss to the top of her head. “I missed you too.”

She leans back just enough to look at you. Her eyes are glossy, but she’s smiling now. That small, crooked smile she tries to hide when she feels too much.

“I’m gonna mess up sometimes,” she says. “I probably won’t stop being obsessive about the game. But I promise I’m gonna try. Like... really try. I don’t want to lose you again.”

You lean your forehead against hers. “You won’t.”

You both stay there for a long time. Wrapped up in each other, legs tangled, the city outside your window humming softly into the night.

Eventually, she falls asleep like that. Arms still around you, your head resting on hers. The necklace catching a glint of the streetlight outside, blinking soft silver against the lavender hoodie.

And for the first time in weeks, everything feels right again. Not because it’s perfect. Not because it’s easy. But because she came back, and you let her.

Because she finally said the words.

Because she asked.

And you said yes.

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

[letsnowtalk]

The girl they want

Part 2

⸻

She didn’t ask for the spotlight. She just walked into it like she belonged there.

You stepped off the LSU team bus wearing a white cropped puffer, purple miniskirt, and fresh kicks that looked like they were custom-made just for your skin tone. A dainty “15” necklace glinted on your collarbone as your curls framed your face like you were stepping into a Vogue shoot, not a basketball game.

And that was the thing—people couldn’t look away.

The cameras caught it. TikTok caught it. So did the entire WBB world. Within minutes, your tunnel walk clip was viral—again. Comments flooded in like they always did.

“Is she a hooper or a runway model? 😭🔥”

“This girl’s got the whole league pressed.”

“Y’all… Skylar Diggins is in the comments. NO WAY.”

You didn’t even check the notifications. You were too locked in. Big SEC matchup. Bright lights. Baton Rouge buzzing.

But 3000 miles away, someone did check. And she was already fuming.

⸻

AZZI FUDD, back at UConn, sat in her dorm, phone in hand, still sweaty from practice. The moment your video popped up on her feed, her mouth tightened.

The comments? Full of heart eyes. Some from her teammates. Some from people she knew had no business looking at you like that.

Azzi stared at your smirk in the video—the little way your tongue touched your lip ring. The ring she remembered you getting on a road trip with her. Her thumb hovered over the “like” button but didn’t press it.

Instead, she clicked “repost” with just one caption

“Y’all late.”

⸻

Across the country, at USC, JUJU WATKINS leaned back on her locker bench, watching the same video for the third time. Her teammates were too busy laughing about some post-practice nonsense, but she wasn’t listening.

All she could see was you.

The camera caught your smirk perfectly. That slow, effortless confidence. That barely-there wave you gave the security guard who tried not to drool when you passed him.

Juju snorted. “She know what she doing.”

She opened Instagram and posted a story. your walk.

“Yup. That’s mine. Y’all can keep staring though.”

Ten minutes later? Azzi saw the post.

And she did like that one—just so Juju would know she saw it.

⸻

Your game was brutal.

You dropped 27 points, 6 rebounds, 4 steals. Crossed a girl so bad her knee sleeve came off. LSU won by 20.

But the real win came after, when the post-game media asked you the one thing that always made you roll your eyes.

“So many players—college and pro—have been very vocal about their admiration for you lately. Is it overwhelming, or… flattering?”

You smiled, slow and sultry.

“I think it’s sweet,” you said. “Girls show love different in basketball. It’s competitive and flirty at the same time. I don’t mind it.”

One reporter laughed. “Any favorites?”

You grinned, lips glossy and full of secrets. “No comment.”

⸻

But you knew.

Azzi was your ex—and that flame never really went out, no matter how cold things got.

And Juju? She was bold, cocky, and way too confident for someone who hadn’t even kissed you yet. But the way she looked at you like you were the whole world?

It made your heart race.

⸻

Later that night, you posted your own story.

A picture of your game shoes, still laced.

“Only showing up for the ones who show out. Y’all know who you are 💜”

The comments exploded.

“She mean Juju.”

“No she mean Azzi.”

“Nah she mean me.”

“She got the WNBA and NCAA in a CHOKEHOLD and don’t even care.”

“Imagine being the girl every girl wants. Insane.”

And just like that, the war had begun.

You weren’t just the girl everyone wanted.

You were the one Azzi loved.

The one Juju wanted.

And the one no one could stop watching.

⸻

Guys juju won the poll shes endgame🤫