aphroditsdaughter

[aphroditsdaughter]

would yall be down for a coaches daughter x paige?

[aphroditsdaughter]

AFTER HOURS

party p

paige bueckers x reader

sexual content, language, the hat stays on, save a horse ride a cowgirl

You watch her from across the bar, the music pulsing through your body like a second heartbeat, low and deep in your chest. It’s loud, thick with celebration and spilled liquor and voices raised just a little too high but it all fades. None of it touches you. Not when Paige is in the room.

God, she’s hot.

Not just “attractive.” Not just beautiful in some polite, acceptable way. No, she’s jaw-clenching, thigh-clenching, can’t-take-your-eyes-off-her kind of hot. She’s hot in a way that’s soft and dangerous all at once sharp jawline, collar popped, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong, veined forearms you’ve kissed more times than you can count. Her shirt clings just enough to her chest to tease what’s beneath, half untucked like she got dressed in a hurry—or like she let you undress her before she even walked on that stage. The Dallas Wings draft cap sits low on her head, tilted with just the right amount of swagger. That hat shouldn’t be sexy. But on her? It is. Everything is.

She moves like she knows it, too. Like the world just shifts a little to accommodate her. Number one overall pick. The kind of headline that makes strangers toast her name, eyes lingering, hoping for a smile, a touch, anything she might offer.

But she’s not looking at them.

She’s looking for you.

Her eyes cut through the noise, through the bodies and the chaos, and when they find yours, something in your chest stutters. That look low, hungry, intimate makes your pulse flutter in places too deep to name. Her lips twitch, just the hint of a smirk, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to you. And of course she does. She’s always knows.

You shift on your stool, suddenly too warm, too aware of the way her gaze lingers like a hand beneath your clothes. It’s not fair. The way she can make you feel undressed with a single glance. The way she stands there, sweat glistening at her collarbone, shirt clinging to her back, radiating heat and power like she’s never doubted herself a day in her life.

You want her.

Not in some abstract, distant way but in the sharp, breathless, aching sense that makes you forget where you are. You want her mouth, her hands, her weight, the sound she makes when she exhales against your neck.

She moves through the crowd like a slow-burning flame, every step a tease, loose-limbed and liquid with heat, adrenaline, and the golden burn of tequila. The air seems to ripple around her, the room itself bending in quiet reverence, parting to let her pass as if even the noise and bodies know better than to interrupt her momentum. She’s magnetic, untouchable, dripping with the kind of confidence that makes people turn just to feel the wake of her presence.

That smile—God, that smile—is already tugging at the corner of her mouth. It’s lazy, full of mischief, arrogant in the most intoxicating way. A little uneven, a little wild. It hits you low, sharp and sudden, like a hook behind your ribs pulling you toward her. You feel it in your chest, your stomach, your hips every place she’s ever touched, branded.

And you love her like this. No you’re undone by her like this. Flushed from the high, her skin warm with the thrill of a moment seized, a dream tasted and swallowed down. She walks like she owns the night—like she is the night—and every look she casts says she wants to spend all of it wrapped around you, breathless and burning.

She spots the two tequila shots in your hands and grins like you’ve just handed her something sacred like you’re offering worship at her altar. There’s a glint in her eyes now, playful and wicked, and then she’s closing the space between you with a kind of gravity, her body brushing yours like she belongs there.

She smells like heat and adrenaline—salt-slick skin kissed by sweat, the bite of cologne still clinging to her from hours ago, and underneath it all, that electric scent of celebration and something distinctly her. She leans in until her lips hover just beside your ear, breath warm and humid, a whisper of contact that tightens every muscle in your body.

“What’s that look for?” she murmurs, voice rough-edged from yelling over the music, from laughing too loud, from the press of your mouth on hers earlier—still raw from wanting, from not having enough.

You raise one of the shots, offering it like a dare. Slowly, deliberately, you bring your hand up and drag your tongue across the line of salt at the edge—slow enough to feel her watching every inch of it. Your gaze never leaves hers, locked in and dangerous. “That look?” you say, lips curling into a knowing smirk. “That’s for the hottest girl in the league.”

Paige laughs—low, husky, ruined in the best way—and it slips out of her like smoke curling from a lit match. Her smile darkens, dips into something hungrier. “Say that again,” she breathes, like it’s not a request but a command laced with desire.

Her fingers find the small of your back, a light touch that ignites, like she needs skin-to-skin just to stay grounded. Like she’ll combust if she doesn’t anchor herself to you.

You let the silence build, thick and taut with everything unsaid. Then your tongue flicks across your bottom lip, slow and sinful, before you lean in—your mouth nearly brushing hers. Voice low. Dangerous.

“The. Hottest. Girl. In. The. League.”

She groans—deep and low, like the sound’s been dragged from her chest against her will. It’s raw, hungry, like she wants to tear the words from your mouth with her teeth, taste every syllable, and swallow them down like something that belongs to her. Her fingers dig into your waist, not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to claim. Her gaze drops to your lips, slow and deliberate, and suddenly the bar vanishes around you. The lights blur into nothing, the music fades to a dull hum, and the crowd dissolves. It’s just her and you, suspended in the thick, electric air between two bodies that know exactly what they want.

She leans in, breath shallow and uneven, her mouth so close you can taste the heat of it. Her lips hover just shy of yours, her voice a low, dangerous whisper. “Keep looking at me like that,” she says, her tone rough with promise, “and we’re not gonna make it out of this bar.”

You don’t look away—not even for a second. Instead, you hand her the lime and salt like it’s a challenge, a dare wrapped in citrus and heat. “Who said I want to?” you murmur, voice steady, and tap your stomach in invitation.

Her eyes flare, slow-burning and ravenous. The corner of her mouth curves up, a dark smile playing at her lips. She gets it—oh, she gets it. And from the look in her eyes, she’s more than ready to play whatever game you’re playing.

You lie back against the cool, polished wood of the bar, the grain beneath you smooth and unfamiliar. The din of the room fades — the clink of glasses, the low hum of voices, the thump of bass — all of it dissolves into a distant blur. Your focus narrows to her. Just her.

She’s above you now, framed in the low light eyes dark, lips parted in a quiet, knowing smile. Her fingers move with deliberate care, trailing down your side, slow enough that your skin prickles in anticipation. She sprinkles the salt just above your hipbone, her touch feather-light, sending a ripple of heat across your stomach. You feel each grain land like a spark, each one a tiny burst of tension waiting to be set alight.

Then the tequila—cold as ice when she tips the shot glass, and the liquid cascades over your skin. You gasp softly at the shock of it, a shiver racing through you. It slides in a thin stream over the curve of your abdomen, settling in the dip above your navel. And then she leans in.

Her mouth touches you — hot, wet, soft. Her tongue flicks out, slow, deliberate, gathering the salt grain by grain. She moves like she has all the time in the world, savoring you, her lips pressing heat into your skin. She doesn’t rush. She lingers — her breath, her mouth, her presence and each second stretches out, suspended between your heartbeat and hers.

You feel her tongue trace the path of the liquor, following the chilled trail with molten heat. She kisses lower, tasting every inch, the drag of her lips almost too much to bear. Your stomach tightens, hips rising ever so slightly, involuntarily. When she reaches your navel, she pauses her lips pressing a single, lingering kiss there that makes you exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for years.

And then… lower.

Just enough.

Enough to make your thighs tighten. Enough to make your pulse trip over itself. Enough to make your fingers curl against the edge of the bar in a silent, aching plea.

Finally, she rises, her face inches from yours. Her gaze holds yours hungry, unspoken things crackling in the space between you. You offer the lime wedge between your teeth, but she ignores it. Instead, she kisses you.

It’s slow. Deep. Open. Her mouth finds yours with a sweetness that smolders — lips parting, tongues meeting, the sharp bite of citrus between you, mixed with tequila and heat and want. It’s a kiss that melts you, that says this is only the beginning. You can barely breathe through it, but you don’t want to. You only want her.

And it’s still not enough.

The room swirls back into focus, but it’s too loud, too bright, too crowded for what’s burning between you. You reach for her, fingers wrapping into the fabric of her shirt, tugging her closer with trembling urgency.

“Come on,” you whisper, lips brushing her ear, your voice a threadbare plea. “Get me out of here.”

The hotel elevator barely pretends at privacy. The second the doors slide shut, she’s on you — breath hot, hands everywhere, kissing you like she’s already unraveling. You’re pressed hard against the mirrored wall, her thigh wedged between yours, grinding just enough to make your breath catch in your throat. Her fingers are under your shirt, impatient, rough, dragging along your skin like she can’t get close enough, fast enough. When her fingertips brush just beneath your bra, you let out a soft, broken sound you didn’t know you were holding back.

She groans into your mouth, like the sound drives her wild. The elevator lurches to a stop, but you barely feel it. You stumble through the hallway, half-blind, your hands tangled in her shirt, her mouth never far from yours — biting, panting, needy. The door slams shut behind you and then she’s on you again, pinning you to the wall like it’s instinct, like she couldn’t bear the inches between you for another second.

Her lips are relentless your jaw, your throat, your collarbone — licking, sucking, biting, marking like she wants to claim every inch. Her teeth scrape along your neck and it’s not gentle. It’s not soft. It’s desperate. She’s not thinking. Neither are you.

You yank at her shirt and she buttons it down in a hurry, skin flushed and muscles tense. Your eyes can’t stay still — the lines of her body, the heat radiating off her, the way her chest rises and falls like she’s trying to breathe you in. Then she lifts you without effort, your body folding into hers like you belong there. And maybe you do.

You don’t know if the heat in your skin is from the bar, from the tequila, or from her. It doesn’t matter. She carries you across the room and drops you onto the bed like you’re something sacred — worshipped, needed. She follows you down without hesitation, hands gripping your thighs, spreading you open like she’s already lost in the idea of you.

And then she pauses just for a breath hovering above you with that look, wild and intense. Like she’s drowning in it. Like you both are.

“You know how proud I am of you, right?” you whisper, voice almost shaking, because your body can barely hold everything you're feeling.

Her eyes are dark, her voice wrecked. “Show me.”

And then she’s between your thighs.

Her mouth is molten as it glides lower along your stomach, every slow pass of her tongue drawing fire beneath your skin. She moves like she’s rediscovering you—each sweep deliberate, reverent—tracing invisible paths over flesh she already knows too well, yet treats like a new map every time. The air between you crackles, charged with memory and hunger.

Her fingers slip beneath the waistband of your skirt, nails grazing just enough to make your breath catch. You hadn’t noticed it riding up, only that the weight of it now feels intrusive, like an unnecessary barrier between you and the heat building where her mouth just left. You lift your hips in a silent offering, needing no command, and she accepts it with a slow drag of fabric down your thighs, knuckles brushing tenderly as she goes.

Her eyes never waver from yours. There’s something ravenous there, something worshipful.

“You’re so fucking sexy,” she whispers, the words rough and low, like they’re meant only for you—like saying them louder might shatter whatever sacred thing is building here. She’s said it before, a hundred times, in locker rooms, against closed doors, in the dark—but tonight, it lands differently. Tonight, it’s not a compliment. It’s a claim. It’s devotion. All that fierce, unstoppable energy—the drive that put her at the top of her game—now turned inward. Focused entirely on you.

And it feels like being chosen. Like being the only thing in her world that matters right now.

She parts your thighs with reverent hands, thumbs pressing gently into the soft flesh as she spreads you open like something sacred — something hers. When Paige settles between your legs, it isn’t hurried or hungry just yet. It’s worshipful. Patient. A slow unraveling. Her breath ghosts over your skin, warm and deliberate, and then her lips press a kiss to the inside of your knee — soft, almost chaste. But you know better.

She trails higher, leaving a line of heat in her wake, her mouth brushing, then sucking, the tender skin of your inner thigh. When her teeth graze just above the pulse there, sharp and teasing, your whole body jolts — back arching, a gasp slipping free before you can stop it.

She chuckles, low and amused, her voice a delicious rasp against your skin.

“You’re already shaking.”

“I’ve been thinking about this all night,” you breathe, fingers curling in the sheets, knuckles white with the tension of wanting.

Her arm slides beneath your thigh, strong and sure, anchoring you to her. She pulls you in closer, deeper, and then — she tastes you. Her tongue is hot, slow, devastating — dragging broad, unhurried strokes over your clit like she has all the time in the world and every intention of making you feel each second of it. Your head falls back, mouth open in a moan that’s raw and real, the kind that breaks loose when pleasure blinds you.

One hand tangles in her now curls, the other clutching the sheets as if they’ll keep you grounded. You’re already floating — every nerve lit, your body thrumming with need.

Paige groans against you like she’s starved, like the only thing that matters tonight is the sound of you falling apart. Her cap is still on barely tilted from your tugging, the brim nudging against your belly with every movement. It’s dizzying, the way she devours you, tongue relentless, pressure perfect.

Then she shifts — faster now, tongue flicking in rhythmic pulses that make your thighs tense around her. You barely register her fingers until they’re sliding through your slick folds, teasing, spreading, then slipping inside — two of them, thick and slow. The stretch pulls a cry from you, hips lifting to meet the thrust as she curls her fingers just right.

“That’s it,” she growls, voice dark and wrecked. Her mouth stays on your clit, tongue circling, relentless, while her fingers fuck you deep and steady. “Come for me, baby. I want to feel you lose it.”

And you do. With her name on your lips and your back arching high off the bed, you shatter loud, messy, every nerve splintering into pleasure as your orgasm crashes through you in waves. Still, she doesn’t stop. Paige holds you open, her mouth catching every twitch, every pulse, licking you through it until you're trembling, breathless, utterly undone.

When she finally rises, dragging her body up yours, her mouth is wet and swollen, her eyes wild with heat. She kisses you hard, messy and claiming, and when you taste yourself on her tongue, it turns you on in way you didn’t know possible. Something primal stirs in you, a second hunger, greedy and unashamed.

“I’m not done with you,” she whispers against your mouth.

You reach for her belt. “Good. Because I want to make the league’s number one pick scream.”

Still above you, flushed and cocky, but her breath comes in ragged little bursts now, hitching in her chest. Her pupils are blown wide, dark and lust-drunk, and her lips are slick — gleaming with a mix of your want and her hunger. You can feel her heat, see the way her bare chest rises and falls like a tide she can’t control. Her trousers hang dangerously low on her hips, teasing the soft line of skin just above. And somehow impossibly that crooked team cap still clings to her curls, wild and defiant, like her.

There’s something about the way she looks right now all swagger and softness, her beauty unraveling at the seams, wrecked and still just a little drunk on you — that strikes a match in your chest, something primal, something greedy.

“Lay back,” you murmur, your voice low and edged with command.

Her mouth quirks, cocky even now, like she’s about to throw something smug back at you but then you move. You crawl up her lap, your thighs straddling hers, and you settle your weight deliberately, purposefully. The look in your eyes stops her mid-breath. It says don’t

“You had your turn, superstar.” Your fingers go to her belt, slow and unhurried — teasing more than taking. “Now it’s mine.”

She groans low, guttural, and utterly wrecked — the sound vibrating through her chest as her head falls back, sinking into the couch cushions. Her lashes flutter like the wings of something trembling on the edge of surrender, and you take your time with the buckle, popping it open with a soft click that feels louder than it is in the thick hush between you. One hand slips beneath the waistband, fingers firm and deliberate as you tug her trousers down just enough to expose the swell of her hip, the elegant, aching line of the V that leads your gaze further down. Her skin is warm, smooth under your palm, and your touch turns possessive languid and claiming, like you already own her.

Her thighs twitch beneath your body, tension tightening them as she gasps, breath skipping and catching like she can't keep up with the pace you've set. You sit up higher, straddling her abs now, feeling the rigid strength of her core under your knees. She groans again, softer this time — breathy, almost desperate when the slick heat of your arousal glides against the flat plane of her stomach. The contact is enough to make her exhale through gritted teeth, eyes dark and hooded, hands tightening at her sides like she's fighting the urge to touch.

You drag your fingers slowly down, nails tracing each sculpted ridge of her abdomen. They flex for you, contracting under your touch, as though her whole body is leaning into the attention.

“You’re so needy,” you whisper, breath brushing against her jaw as your hips rock just enough to send a jolt of friction between you. She bites down on her bottom lip hard, eyes fluttering shut, jaw tense with restraint. “How long have you been thinking about me riding you, huh?”

“Since the stage,” she breathes, voice thick with heat, rasping like it’s scraped from somewhere deep. “Maybe before.”

You chuckle, the sound rich and knowing, dipping your head lower so your mouth can brush the shell of her ear.

“You really did it,” you murmur, more to yourself than her, letting your nails skim back up, raking lightly across her skin. “Number one in the league.”

Her body answers before her mouth does — hips rising, stomach quivering beneath you.

“Holy fuck…" Her breath catches in her throat, the words slipping from her lips in a soft, breathless moan.

You lean in close, your lips brushing against her ear as you whisper, "You like that?" Your hips roll with a slow, deliberate motion, pressing against the tight, sculpted muscle of her abdomen. Her skin is a molten heat beneath you, slick with the sweat of your shared passion, the sheen of your arousal mingling with hers. Every movement sends a wave of friction, the hard ridges of her body pushing against you in just the right way—perfect pressure, perfect sensation, as though she was made for this.

You feel the rapid beat of her pulse beneath your fingertips, the heat of her body rising to meet yours. You pull back slightly to look at her, the desire in your gaze unmistakable. "You like being used like this, Paige?"

Her eyes flutter, the words hanging in the air, charged with a quiet intensity.

She groans, eyes rolling back. “Use me. However you want.”

“You feel so fucking good,” you murmur, your voice low and filled with desire as you press closer to her, your body moving with a rhythm that’s all about pleasure. Each shift, each thrust is deliberate, taking your time to savor every moment. “All those workouts really paid off, didn’t they?” you whisper against her skin, your hands exploring her curves, feeling the strength and softness beneath your fingertips.

You grasp the brim of her cap, lifting it with a slow, deliberate motion before settling it onto your own head. A smirk tugs at your lips as you look down at her, catching the flicker of something intense in her eyes. You can almost taste the tension in her, knowing just how much this small gesture is driving her wild.

You brace your hands on her chest and start riding her harder dragging your clit along every contour of her abs, slick spreading across her skin, your thighs starting to shake from the way your body’s winding up again. The muscles beneath you flex every time she breathes, every time she reacts to the sounds you're making and the pressure against your clit is so perfect, so intimate, you’re already dizzy.

She’s watching you like she can’t believe it’s real. “You’re unreal,” she whispers. “You’re so fucking hot like this.”

You pull her head up just enough to kiss her messy, deep, desperate as your hips grind down faster, harder, chasing the edge.

“Fuck— Paige—” you whimper, mouth pressed against her jaw. “I’m gonna—”

She wraps her arms around your waist and flexes, tightening her abs under you and the pressure sends you crashing over the edge with a cry, your body clenching, thighs trembling, soaking her stomach as you come hard against her.

You collapse onto her, both of you panting, stuck together with sweat and sex and pride.

She strokes your back gently, voice a lazy rasp in your ear. “Might’ve just made that my new favorite workout.”

You laugh, lips brushing her collarbone. “Get used to it, superstar. This is what being number one gets you.”

[aphroditsdaughter]

KISS IT BETTER

kiss it, kiss it better, baby

paige bueckers x reader

fluff, sexual content, (rushed writing lol)

You barely make it to the hotel room in one piece.

Paige has been all over you from the moment you arrived hands brushing over your back, fingers dipping just beneath the hem of your dress, lips barely grazing the shell of your ear with whispers that melted like honey. Every glance she gave you tonight felt like a promise laced in fire. And you? You’ve been unraveling silently, letting it eat at you from the inside out. You couldn’t show it, not out there in the world, but your mind… your mind was wrecked the moment you laid eyes on her.

She’d walked into the room like a sin draped in satin wearing a black slip that clung to her every curve like it had been sewn onto her skin. The hem swayed with every calculated step. The bedazzled collar caught the dim club lights and refracted them like stars orbiting her throat. And beneath it? Nothing. bare, dangerous, and holy.

You wanted to fall to your knees before her, to surrender completely. You wanted to do the most sinful, blasphemous things to her devour her body in ways that would leave you both undone. But at the same time, you wanted to build an altar around her, to worship her as if she were a deity, sacred and untouchable. You wanted her all of her in ways that words couldn’t capture, couldn’t even begin to explain. It was something primal, something deep, a yearning that reached far beyond mere lust.

And now, finally, she’s here. In your hotel room. The door clicks shut behind you with a soft, final sound, locking out the rest of the world, leaving only the two of you in this space where the tension crackles in the air like static.

The room glows in low amber hues. A tall brass floor lamp stands in the corner, casting golden shadows that dance lazily across the dark wood floors. Everything is quiet — muffled, intimate like the room itself is holding its breath. The king-sized bed sits beneath a canopy of heavy drapes and soft cream linens, scattered with dark gray accent pillows. The air carries the faint scent of sandalwood and something sweeter maybe the trace of her perfume lingering in the warmth of her skin. It feels like a sacred space. Like something is about to happen that will change you.

Shes in front of you now, close enough that you can feel the heat of her skin, radiating warmth like a temple's sacred fire. Her hand rises, fingertips gliding across your cheek, tracing the curve of your jaw, dipping to your throat with a tenderness that aches, that trembles like a prayer whispered in the dark. She pauses, her touch hovering just above the zipper of your dress, an offering of unspoken desires.

“Paige…” you whisper, voice trembling, caught between the beat of your heart and the breath that stirs in your chest.

“Please,” she murmurs, her voice raw, frayed with longing, like a hymn sung with desperation. “I’ve been wanting this... wanting you... all day.”

Her hand rests at your waist, a soft and silent promise, and her gaze intense, molten burns into yours.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” she says, her words heavy, each syllable a prayer. “That dress. The way you wear it... the way you let everyone see you, showing yourself off. Do you know how hard it was for me, keeping my hands off you?” Her teeth graze her bottom lip, the slightest flash of a secret sin. “If only I didn’t have an image to protect…”

You place a finger gently against her lips, silencing her.

“Paige,” you breathe, voice low, almost reverent. “Less talking. More kissing.”

She pauses, studying you with eyes that darken like the sea before a storm. And then, she kisses you.

Hard.

Desperate.

The kind of kiss that knocks the breath from your lungs and makes time slow. Her hands grip your hips like she’s anchoring herself to something real. You kiss her back with everything you’ve been holding in the tension, the ache, the reverence.

She walks you back toward the bed, never breaking contact, and gently pushes you down onto the mattress. She climbs over you like she owns you, her legs straddling your thighs, her palms braced on either side of your head. Her mouth finds your neck, your jaw, your collarbone — planting heat, claiming you. You arch beneath her as her fingers pull the zipper down inch by agonizing inch, revealing skin she’s been dying to touch.

And then you stop her.

She blinks. Confused. Breathless. Wanting.

“Now what?” she asks, her voice rough.

“Just… let me,” you say, sitting up slowly, hands brushing her waist.

There’s a moment of hesitation. She’s used to being the one in control. Used to taking what she wants, when she wants it. But this time… you want to give her everything. You want her to receive it all.

“It’s your night,” you murmur. “Let me take care of you.”

She exhales, the tension melting from her shoulders like wax under flame. She lets you in.

She leans back, giving you room. You rise to your knees, facing her, hands slipping beneath the hem of her shirt. You lift it slowly, revealing the toned lines of her torso, the soft dip between her ribs, the curve of her breasts held in by the barest excuse of a sports bra. You slide your fingers under the elastic and peel it upward, baring her chest to the warm glow of the room.

You look at her, fully look at her and you swear you’ve never seen anything more beautiful. Her skin glows gold in the lamplight, goosebumps rising in your wake. Your fingertips graze her breasts, gentle as breath, circling her nipples until they pebble beneath your touch. She gasps a small sound, almost involuntary. You lean in, dragging your tongue lightly over one, then the other, while your hands hold her close.

She’s trembling now.

You kiss down her chest, your lips moving reverently over the space between her ribs, her stomach, her navel. You glance up at her. She looks like something out of scripture like a goddess half-undone, wild-haired and radiant, backlit by amber light. Her eyes meet yours, wide and hungry, and for a moment the world falls silent.

You take her nipple into your mouth, slowly, softly, and she moans your name like a prayer.

You release it, just to hear her gasp, and push her back against the pillows. She goes willingly, lips parted, hands tangled in the sheets. You kiss your way lower, leaving a path of fire down her belly, taking your time.

She whimpers. “Don’t stop.”

“I’m not going to,” you say, voice thick with desire. “I’m right here.”

You reach her waistband, your fingers finding the edge of her boxers. She lifts her hips in silent permission. You pull them down slow, deliberate, peeling them away like a gift unwrapped and slide them off her legs along with her panties. They land somewhere on the floor, forgotten. All that matters is her bare and waiting.

You hook your arms beneath her thighs, placing them gently over your shoulders, and pull her closer until she’s exactly where you want her.

You pull her closer, her thighs resting gently against your shoulders, and the heat of her skin against your chest makes your pulse quicken. The soft scent of her of warm skin and that intoxicating perfume swirls around you, clouding your thoughts. You take a moment, just to breathe her in, just to appreciate the way her body trembles under your touch, as if she’s both terrified and excited by what’s about to happen.

Her hands grip the sheets beside her, fingers digging in, her knuckles white with anticipation. You can feel her pulse beating wildly beneath your fingertips as you slide them up her inner thighs, moving with excruciating slowness, savoring every inch of her.

She’s breathing faster now, her chest rising and falling with each heavy inhale. You kiss her inner thighs, tenderly, reverently, feeling the heat radiate off her. Her body tenses when your lips hover just above the sweet spot she’s been holding back, and you smile against her skin, savoring her vulnerability.

“Please,” she breathes, voice barely a whisper, but you hear it desperate, pleading. Her legs tighten around your shoulders, urging you closer, needing you, wanting you to push past her restraint.

You move slowly, deliberately, kissing your way up her body, trailing soft, wet kisses from the crease of her thigh up to the sensitive skin just beneath her navel. Every inch of her is so soft, so warm, it feels like the very air is laced with desire. You pause, looking up at her once more, your gaze locking with hers.

In that moment, she’s yours completely, utterly. But something shifts. Something in the way her eyes flash no longer full of longing, but of something else… of surrender.

You dive in.

The first touch of your tongue against her is slow, languid. Her breath hitches, a soft moan escaping her lips as your mouth moves with deliberate intention, teasing, exploring. You can’t get enough of her. Every touch, every sound she makes stirs something deeper inside you, something that has nothing to do with urgency and everything to do with devotion.

Her hands slide through your hair, her grip tightening as she pulls you closer, urging you on. “Don’t stop… please don’t stop.”

You smile against her, your fingers grazing the soft curve of her hips, pulling her closer, pushing deeper, if only to feel her melt beneath you. You keep going, slow, steady, each movement a worship, each touch an offering. Her body arches against you, her breath a symphony of soft gasps, her legs trembling around you as she’s lost in sensation. You can feel the tension building in her, the way she’s holding back, clenching everything as she fights for control but tonight, it’s all about letting go.

You push her to the edge, your tongue and lips tracing the sensitive folds of her body with an intensity that makes her cry out. Her back arches as she gasps for breath, her entire body taut like a bowstring pulled to its limit.

“Please…” she begs again, her voice raw with need.

And you can feel it the moment when everything shifts. When she lets go.

Her body trembles violently beneath your touch, and she comes undone, fingers tangling in your hair as she pulls you closer still, as though she wants you to be part of her — to consume her entirely. You hear the sound of her moans echoing in your ears, feel her hips buck against your mouth in rhythmic waves, and it’s enough to make your own heart race, a mixture of pride and deep, unspoken affection flooding you.

When she finally quiets, breathless and sated, you slowly pull away, trailing one final kiss along her inner thigh. She’s still trembling, her body slick with sweat, the glow of her skin in the dim light like a goddess fallen to earth.

You crawl back up her body, hovering above her, your hands cupping her face, gently guiding her into a kiss. It’s soft now not frantic, not hungry, but something deeper. A kiss that speaks of reverence, of care, of adoration. You pull her against you, feeling her heartbeat still unsteady beneath your touch.

“Thank you,” she whispers between kisses. Her hands glide along your back, tracing every curve, every line as though she’s memorizing the feel of you.

But you don’t answer. Instead, you kiss her again, your body pressing closer to hers, feeling her warmth radiate through every inch of your being. The sheets beneath you are forgotten now, a tangle of fabric and memories.

“I’m not done with you,” you whisper in her ear, your breath hot against her skin, your voice low and full of promise. “I’m just getting started.”

She smiles, her lips curving up in that way you know so well a smile that promises more.

[aphroditsdaughter]

The Number One Pick

Paige Bueckers x Teammate!Reader — WNBA Draft Night

Angst— Smut bottom!paige, detailed but not crazy;)

“You’re shaking.”

“I am not shaking.”

Brittany raises an eyebrow at you through the mirror, curling wand paused mid-air. “Babe. You’ve been death-gripping the counter for the last ten minutes.”

You glance down. White knuckles. Shit.

“Okay, maybe I’m a little nervous,” you mumble.

She smirks, focused again on perfecting the perfect curl in your. “You’re more than nervous.”

“I am not—”

“—internally monologuing about how tonight’s the biggest night of her career, and if you sit next to her it means something, and if you don’t it means something—”

“Okay!” You groan, covering your face. “Damn, Brittany. Go for the jugular, why don’t you? Plus her family’s sitting with her— i will be sitting with the team.. no if, butts or ands”

Brittany smirks like she knows something you don’t, turning back to your hair, the scent of product and heat curling in the air. “You just won a National Championship. You’re literally staying an extra year at UConn to run it back. And yet you’re sweating bullets because you’re about to see a girl in a suit?”

“She’s not just a girl,” you say before you can stop yourself.

Britt freezes.

Then smirks wider.

“You sure you’re not gonna finally make it official tonight?”

You blink at her in the mirror.

The words sit heavy in the air.

“Britt…”

“I’m serious,” she says, turning the curling wand off and setting it down. She steps in front of you, gaze softening. “You two have been dancing around each other since sophomore year. Everyone sees it. And if you don’t think Paige is gonna lose her mind when she sees you tonight? You’re delusional. And for the record she’s free from that uconn private life— she has nothing to lose now”

You exhale, heart thudding.

“It’s always been unspoken,” you say quietly. “Like… if we never say it, we never have to risk ruining it.”

“Unspoken doesn’t mean invisible,” she replies. “You should see the way she looks at you.”

You meet her eyes in the mirror.

She laughs under her breath like you just asked if water’s wet.

“She looks at you like she wants to rewrite her whole damn life around you. Like you hung the moon and the stars for her—”

Your heart thuds.

Brittany takes a step back, eyes scanning you from head to toe. She adjusts the straps of your dress—black satin, fitted like sin, slit high up your leg, your favorite necklace nestled between your collarbones.

“I swear to God,” she whispers, half in awe, half in triumph. “If she doesn’t make a move tonight, I will.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Britt, you’re straight.”

“Details.” She waves it off. “Now go knock her out. And if she does make it official tonight?” She leans in like it’s a secret. “Let her beg a little. She owes you that much.”

You blink at her.

She winks.

And then you’re out the door—nerves buzzing under your skin, dress hugging every inch of you, and the weight of what might finally become something real sitting heavy in your chest.

Because tonight, it’s not just about the draft.

It’s about Paige.

And maybe—finally—you.

—

The car ride to the venue is silent, your hands tucked in your lap, dress clinging like second skin. Your phone buzzes as you’re pulling up to the orange carpet entrance.

Brittany: She sees you and it’s over. Trust me.

You don’t get a chance to respond.

Because when the door opens, the first wave of camera flashes blind you.

And then—

Then you see her.

Paige is already there.

She’s standing just inside the velvet ropes of the orange carpet, talking to a reporter. But the second you step onto the carpet, her head snaps toward you.

And everything stops.

She’s in a tailored, all-black Coach custom glitter suit, glinting under the lights. The jacket clings to her broad shoulders perfectly, chain resting across her chest, one hand deep in her pocket like she owns the place and a large clutch at her side. She’s cool. Confident. Composed.

Until she sees you.

Her whole body shifts. Her jaw tenses. Her lips part slightly like she’s forgotten how to breathe.

And her eyes—God, her eyes drag down your body like a slow, burning prayer. Like she’s cataloging every curve, every shimmer, every reason she’s in danger of losing her mind.

The reporter is still talking.

Paige doesn’t hear a word.

You take a slow, steady step forward, aware of the way your heels click against the pavement. Aware of the slit in your dress, the way it flows behind you like smoke. Aware of the fact that the moment you reach her, something might change forever.

And it does.

She walks straight to you, dodging cameras and mic’d-up chaos like nothing else matters.

You tilt your head, keeping your voice low. “You good?”

She laughs under her breath, eyes never leaving your face. “I’m not even close.”

You try to hide your smile. “You’re staring.”

“Yeah,” she says. “I am.”

There’s a pause. Her eyes flicker to your lips, then back up again.

“Paige..” i mumbled, “watch those eyes of yours..”

“You wore that on purpose.”

You tilt your head. “What, this old thing?”

She laughs under her breath, shaking her head. “You’re dangerous.”

You raise a brow. “You’re not looking so innocent either.”

She smirks her fingertips trailing your elbow but before you can answer, a publicist sweeps in and pulls you toward a nearby mic for a quick solo interview.

You hesitate—just a glance over your shoulder at her.

She holds your gaze. Doesn’t say anything.

But her eyes say everything.

You step up to the mic, smile for the reporter, try not to let the adrenaline rip through your chest.

“(Y/N)! You look amazing tonight—who are you wearing, who put this masterpiece on you?”

You chuckle softly leaning down ���Prada— Brittany Hampton styled me!“ you smile.

The mic is warm in your hand. You shift slightly in your heels, satin gown hugging your frame as the lights beat down on you and the cameras zoom in like they can smell the nerves off you.

“She’s on a hot streak tonight between you, Paige Bueckers and Azzi Fudd,” they laugh. “You’re absolutely glowing. What’s it like being here tonight—not for yourself, but for someone you’ve played alongside for years?”

You pause.

Careful.

Measured.

“I’m here for Paige,” you say softly. “This night… it’s hers. I just wanted to show up for her the way she’s always shown up for me.”

There’s a flicker of silence between questions.

Then—

“Well, there’ve been a lot of rumors about the two of you for a while now,” the reporter says, not unkindly. “Some fans think tonight might be… significant.”

You keep your smile in place.

But it falters just a little.

Before you can answer, someone crashes into the edge of the shot.

“I’m so sorry,” Paige deadpans, clearly not sorry at all. “Didn’t see the camera there.”

“Paige!” The interviewer smiled pulling her into the interview making you sigh softly “how does it feel to be here? we were just talking about the things your amazing stylist has done for you and (Y/N)!”

“She looks beautiful, doesn’t she?” Paige asks the reporter, as if you’re not standing right there.

You blink. “Okay. Relax.”

“What?” Paige lifts a shoulder in mock innocence. “I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking.”

The reporter is practically beaming now. “So is this a soft launch?”

You laugh, more breath than sound. “Paige is getting drafted. That’s what tonight’s about.”

“That’s not a no,” the reporter fires back, grinning.

You go quiet. You feel Paige’s gaze heavy on your profile, the weight of everything unsaid hanging between you.

“I’m just here to support her,” you finally say, voice barely above a whisper. “This is her night.”

It’s the right answer. The safe one. The one that doesn’t throw a grenade at the years you’ve spent dancing around something real.

But it doesn’t feel good.

Not when Paige is looking at you like that. Like you just said the one thing she didn’t want to hear.

Her expression falters. Just a flicker. But you catch it.

The corners of her mouth drop ever so slightly. Her shoulders pull tighter beneath the glittering fabric of her suit. And when the reporter chuckles and says, “Well, we’ll let you two get back to pretending you’re just friends,” Paige doesn’t even fake a smile.

You step off-camera, heart hammering, hands suddenly clammy. You barely make it three feet before Paige grabs your wrist—not hard, not rough, just enough to make you stop.

“Why’d you say that?” she asks quietly. Her voice is tight. Controlled. But her eyes—they’re bleeding.

Your throat dries. “Say what?”

“That this is my night. That you’re just here to support me.” Her grip is light but unrelenting. “You know how that sounds?”

You hesitate. “Like the truth?”

“No,” she says. “It sounds like you’re trying to disappear.”

Her words gut you. You hate how well she knows you.

“Maybe I am,” you whisper. “Maybe it’s easier to vanish than… than admit I’ve been holding my breath around you for the last three years.”

Paige flinches. Like you punched her with something she wasn’t ready to hear.

“I’m terrified,” you say, voice breaking. “Because if I say the wrong thing tonight—if I get this moment wrong—then it’s not just the draft that falls apart. It’s us. And maybe we never had a name for it, but Paige… we are something.”

She lets go of your wrist like it burned her.

And for a second, you regret everything.

Until she steps closer.

Closer than the cameras would approve of. Close enough that her breath ghosts against your cheek. Her voice is nothing more than a ragged exhale.

“You think this night matters more than you?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

She shakes her head slowly, jaw tight. “If they called my name right now and you weren’t beside me, it wouldn’t mean shit.”

Your heart thunders in your chest.

“Say something,” she whispers. “Please.”

You lift your eyes to hers, and it’s all there—years of almosts, late-night hotel rooms and shoulder touches and stolen glances when you thought no one was watching. The way she carried you off the court after you got injured. The way she stood at your door in sweats and socks at 3am when your world felt like it was caving in.

The way she’s always looked at you.

Like she already knew.

Like she’s been waiting for you to catch up.

“I didn’t want to make tonight about me,” you say finally. “But the truth is… you’ve always been the big thing in my life, Paige. And I’ve been so scared to lose you that I’ve just—stayed quiet.”

She steps even closer. Her forehead presses to yours.

“I’ve been waiting for you to be loud about me.”

And before you can say another word, her publicist appears again, tugging her back with a whisper of, “We’ve got to get you changed before they start Paige”

She lets them lead her away—but not before glancing back at you with a look that says, don’t run.

And just like that, the carpet lights feel cold again. Lonely.

You swallow the lump in your throat.

Because maybe this is her night.

But she just made it feel like yours, too.

—-

You’re still trying to steady your breath as she walks away and someone hands you a water bottle you don’t remember asking for.

Paige has already disappeared backstage to change into her second look.

And for the first time all night, you’re alone.

Your heels click softly against the floor as you weave through the crowd, heading for the team section. You spot your girls in the front row—Nika, Ice, Ayanna, Aubrey and Kaitlyn. Nika throws her hands up like finally, mouthing something dramatic. They’re already shoving a jacket off one of the seats for you, saving your spot like always.

It’s familiar. Safe.

And it’s not Paige.

You tell yourself that’s fine.

You’re here for her, not to complicate anything. Not to get in the way.

So you’re halfway down the aisle, halfway to slipping into the seat next to your girls—

When you hear her voice behind you.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

It’s quiet. Sharp. Hits like a punch.

You stop. Turn.

And there she is.

Paige Bueckers, standing at the top of the stairs in a completely new look— black suit, deep plunge down her chest, no shirt underneath. Her chain and silver rings catches the light. Her jaw is tight. And her eyes—God, her eyes—are locked on you like she’s barely holding something back.

You blink. “I was just gonna sit—”

“With them?” she cuts in, taking a step down. “You were gonna sit with them?”

“Paige—they are our teammates, who are also getting drafted”

“No.” She shakes her head, quiet and fierce. “No, not tonight. Not when you showed up looking like that. Not after everything we’ve been through. Not after you let Brittany put you in that damn dress, knowing exactly what it would do to me.”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

She keeps walking. She’s close now, too close, and you swear the air crackles between you. Her voice drops.

“You think I could sit there, five feet away from you, and pretend you’re just my teammate? Just some friend from college?”

You swallow hard. “I didn’t want to make this harder—”

“It’s already hard,” she snaps, voice cracking. “It’s already fucking hard, (Y/N). Every game, every flight, every hotel room where we didn’t say anything. Every moment I wanted to reach for you and didn’t know if you’d let me.”

Your breath hitches.

“You think I want to sit up there,” she says, gesturing toward the stage, “and hear my name called, and walk up like everything’s fine—without you next to me?”

You don’t know what to say.

Because the truth is, you were going to sit with the team.

You thought it would be easier.

Cleaner.

Less dangerous.

But now she’s standing in front of you, dressed like your undoing, spilling every word you thought she’d never say. And there’s no escaping the way your chest aches with it.

You meet her eyes.

“I didn’t think I was allowed to sit next to you,” you whisper. “Not really.”

Her face twists, something almost broken flashing across it.

“Then let me be clear,” she says. “You’re the only person I want next to me when my whole life changes.”

And there it is.

Raw. Unfiltered. Heavy with everything you’ve tiptoed around for years.

You take a slow breath. Step closer. Your hand brushes hers, hesitant—until she grabs it.

Firm. Steady. Like she’s been waiting her whole life to hold it.

“Okay,” you say, voice barely there.

Her fingers tighten. “Yeah?”

You nod, jaw clenched, because if you speak again, you might say too much.

And just like that, Paige pulls you with her—past the stares, the murmurs, the people who’ve always wondered about the two of you.

Now they don’t have to wonder.

Because when Paige Bueckers takes her seat in the front row—waiting to be drafted #1—she doesn’t sit alone.

You’re right there next to her.

And her hand never lets go.

—

“With the first pick in the 2025 WNBA Draft… the Dallas Wings select… Paige Bueckers, University of Connecticut.”

The second her name is called, your heart stutters.

The arena explodes. Applause rains down, phones fly up, cameras flash like lightning. A tidal wave of sound hits, but your ears go quiet.

Because she doesn’t move.

Not at first.

She just turns—to you.

Not to Geno, who’s sitting proud in the seat next to you.

Not to her parents, who are both misty-eyed and clapping.

Not even to the stage, where the league is waiting to hand her everything she’s worked for.

She turns to you.

It’s you.

It’s always been you.

You barely have time to process it before her arms wrap around you—tight, grounding, like she’s anchoring herself in your body. Her forehead presses into your shoulder. You feel her exhale, slow and shaky, like you’re the only place she’s ever felt safe to fall apart.

You hold her back just as tightly, fingers curling into the soft, expensive fabric of her suit jacket—black, deep-cut, shimmering under the overhead lights. No shirt underneath. All power and elegance and Paige.

But here, wrapped in you, she feels like the same girl who used to pull you into gym bleachers after practice, who brought you extra Gatorades, who never needed to say the words out loud for you to know exactly how she felt.

The rest of the world disappears.

All you feel is her.

Her grip, her breath, her weight.

When she finally pulls back, it’s just enough to look at you. Her eyes are glassy. Her jaw’s tense. And her hand lingers at your waist like she can’t bear to let you go.

She doesn’t say anything.

She doesn’t have to.

Because everything she’s feeling is right there, in the way her thumb drags gently across your waist. In the way her eyes memorize you like she’ll need this moment to survive later. In the way she leans in just slightly, not for a kiss—but like you’re the only thing keeping her standing.

She lets go.

Only then.

Only when she has to.

You watch her hug Geno— then her parents before stepping toward the stage—slow, deliberate, composed. The cameras track every second. Her name thunders from the speakers. Her jersey is raised like a trophy.

But before she climbs the steps, she looks over her shoulder.

Right at you.

Not coach. Not her family. Not her team.

You.

And in that look—just a second, just a glance—there’s everything.

I’m yours.

You’re mine.

I love you.

We don’t have to say it.

We know.

Next to you, Geno exhales softly, eyes tracking her.

“I didn’t even get that good of a hug— and I coached her for five years,” he says, but he’s smiling. Like he’s known this would happen for years. “I knew all along.”

You blink at him.

“She only ever needed one person in this room,” he says, nodding once toward the stage. “And it’s not me.”

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

Because Paige is at the podium now—jersey in hand, lights blazing, world watching.

And when the camera pans across the crowd—you’re the first person she looks for.

You.

Only you.

The rest of the world may see the superstar.

But in this moment, Paige Bueckers is yours.

—-

Later, when the cameras die down and the interviews wrap, Paige finds you again. This time backstage, where the lights are lower and the noise finally fades.

Your fingers are still interlaced.

She bumps your shoulder, quiet. “Still scared?”

You look up at her.

She’s glowing—truly glowing. Not just from the lights, but from being seen. From letting it happen. From choosing you in the middle of the biggest moment of her life.

You shake your head. “Not anymore.”

She smirks leaning down to kiss your neck softly— innocently before whispering “good because tonight— after this little after party. Your mine.”

You smirk sliding your hand on the bare part of her chest, “sure superstar, we’ll see..”

—

The club is already packed by the time you both arrive. There’s velvet rope chaos outside, a line around the block, but the bouncer sees Paige and waves you through like royalty. Cameras flash as the two of you slip past the crowd, still hand-in-hand, still lit from the moment her name was called.

She hasn’t let go of you once.

Inside, the bass is heavy. Deep. The lights strobe red and gold across the dark room, casting her in flashes of glitter and shadow. And her suit? God, it should be illegal. The black plunge, the chain,the rings, the way her sleeves are rolled just enough to flash her forearms—it’s a threat.

She’s still in that plunging black suit — no shirt, just skin and audacity — and now she’s got the Dallas Wings draft hat tilted low over her brows like she owns the damn city already. And maybe she does, because the way she’s looking at you from across the VIP couch?

That’s not just a #1 pick energy.

That’s come here and sit on my lap energy.

Azzi clocks it first, chokes on her drink. “Y’all. She’s wearing the hat and the face.”

Nika’s halfway through filming an Instagram story, and Ice is shouting, “Somebody sedate her—she’s gone full Paige Bueckers.”

And you? You try to look away, to pretend your legs aren’t jelly, but she crooks a finger at you and grins—that slow, smug, dangerous smile.

“Come here, Wings fan.”

You’re toast.

She tugs you right into her lap like she’s done it a hundred times before, like it’s not the first time you’re letting her touch you like this in front of the whole damn world. The Dallas hat is crooked now, knocked askew from your fingers in her hair as you lean in close, your nose brushing hers.

“Didn’t I tell you,” she drawls, voice like smoke and sin, “you were supposed to sit with me?”

You blink up at her. “You told me a lotta things tonight.”

She leans down. Close. Her mouth nearly brushes your ear. “Yeah? Want me to say them again, slower?”

Your whole body lights on fire.

I chuckle softly shaking my head.

“You like it?” she asks, voice husky against your ear.

“The hat?” you murmur. “Or the cocky smirk that came with it?”

Her hand slides up your thigh, gripping tight. “Both.”

You lean back just enough to steal the hat straight off her head and tug it over your own.

Her mouth drops open.

She’s got her hands on your hips now. Her mouth ghosting against your jaw. “Look at you in my hat,” she breathes. “Fucking dangerous.”

And just like that — you’re the problem now.

“C’mon,” she murmurs, nodding toward the dance floor. “One Dance. Just us.”

You follow. You’d follow her anywhere.

The girls, our teammates whistle and hoot as she gets up and pulls you towards the dance floor, almost whispering ‘finally’ as you both wonder off.

You barely register them.

Because the minute the music hits your system your done for.

And God—the way she moves.

It’s slow. Confident. Her hand never leaves your hip. Her eyes never leave your face. It’s like she’s dancing with no one but you in the world, like she knows every song was made to score this moment. The crowd fades. The lights melt into a blur.

“You look like a sin,” she murmurs, voice low, lips brushing your cheek. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”

You lean in, breath hot against her throat. “I’ve got a few guesses.”

Her hand tightens on your hip.

You smile.

The song shifts, bass dropping harder now, and your bodies fall into rhythm—pressing closer, tighter, her thigh slipping between yours in a move that makes your whole brain short-circuit. She leans in like she’s about to kiss you—finally—but pauses just close enough that you can feel her smirk.

Tease.

“Paige,” you whisper, half-warning, half-plea.

And that’s all it takes.

She grabs your jaw, gentle but firm, and kisses you like it’s the first thing she’s wanted since forever. Right there, under the flashing lights and pulsing bass and god-knows-how-many watching eyes. It’s not tentative. It’s not a question.

It’s a claim.

The kiss leaves her breathless—and it’s not even the kiss itself. It’s the way you kissed her. Like you’ve had enough of the games. Like you’re done pretending. Like it’s your hands on her jaw, your lips that take what they want, your body setting the rhythm.

She pulls back just a little, dazed. Lips parted. Breath shallow.

And you don’t give her a second to recover.

Your fingers slide beneath the open lapel of her jacket, just barely brushing the skin underneath—warm, soft, bare. You feel her stutter a breath, eyes fluttering half-shut. Yeah. That’s right. All that cocky swagger? Gone. Reduced to silence because of one thing: you.

“Paige,” you whisper, voice low, wicked, brushing your lips against the shell of her ear, “you look real pretty in that suit.”

She swallows hard, jaw flexing under your touch.

You drag your nails lightly down her chest, smiling when you feel her shiver. “Bet you thought you were gonna run the show tonight.”

She huffs a breath that’s half-laugh, half-moan. “Didn’t realize you had a switch to flip.”

“Oh, baby,” you murmur, slipping a hand around the back of her neck and guiding her lips back to yours. “It’s your night. But I’m the celebration.”

And you kiss her again—slow and deep, hips swaying to the beat as you lead the rhythm, not her. She lets you. Wants you to.

She melts into you, arms wrapping around your waist as if she doesn’t trust her own legs to keep her standing. Her Dallas Wings hat is still perched on your head, tilted just enough to keep her staring like she might combust.

“You’re such a fucking tease,” she breathes when you pull back just enough to grind slow and deliberate against her thigh. Her hands twitch on your hips, like she wants to take control back—but doesn’t dare interrupt whatever spell you’ve cast.

You smirk, lips brushing hers. “And you love it.”

“I do,” she admits, breathless. “I really fucking do.”

You lean back slightly, just to see her. Her flushed cheeks. Her parted lips. Her eyes—wide and wild and all for you.

“You gonna be good for me tonight, superstar?” you whisper.

And she nods—Paige Bueckers, number one pick, in a custom black suit and glittering chains, nodding like she’d say yes to anything you wanted. Anything.

“I’ll be so good,” she promises.

You take her hand, lace your fingers through hers, and start walking backward through the crowd—still dancing, still smirking, still wearing that hat.

“Good,” you say, voice like honey and hellfire. “Because I’m just getting started.” you smirk, “Lets get drinks.”

—-

14 drinks— too many shots later, your lips are tangles within each other as you both make your way up to Paige’s hotel room.

The hotel door barely clicks shut behind you before she’s on you again—but you stop her. A gentle hand to her chest. A smug little smile.

“Nuh-uh,” you murmur, backing her up slowly, walking her in like you own the place. “Take a seat, Bueckers.”

She stumbles back onto the edge of the bed, flushed and wide-eyed. Hair mussed from dancing. Jacket open, suit still clinging to her like sin. She watches you kick off your heels, watches the way you walk toward her—slow, deliberate, dangerous.

“Thought this was my night,” she tries to tease, voice already wrecked.

You tilt your head, smirk sharp as you unzip the back of your dress letting it fall to your feet leaving you in nothing but black lace panties as Paige’s breath catches in her throat . “It is. But I’m the one giving you the present.”

You crawl into her lap—straddling her, hands on her shoulders, hat still low over your brow. She reaches for your waist, but you grab her wrists, holding them still.

You guide her hands to her sides, then slide your fingers down her chest, slow, torturous, feeling every inch of bare skin her open jacket reveals. “No shirt, huh?” you murmur, eyes locked on hers. “You really came ready to misbehave.”

She grins, cocky for half a second—until you roll your hips, slow and deep against her.

“Oh—fuck—” she gasps, head falling back, hands flexing beside her on the bed.

You lean in, kiss down her throat, just under her jaw, dragging your teeth along her skin until she trembles. Her pulse pounds under your mouth.

You nip once—hard enough to make her gasp—and pull back, eyes blazing. “Still think you’re in control?”

She shakes her head fast, completely gone for you.

“Good,” you whisper, voice all smoke. “Now lay back, baby. And let me give you the kind of night a number one pick deserves.”

And she does. Star player, spotlight darling, Dallas Wings future—flat on her back and moaning your name like it’s the only thing she’s sure of anymore.

“Bab—“ She starts before you lean up looking at her.

“Now did i say you can talk…” you bite your lip softly.. “You’ll sit here and take your celebration..”

She nods at what you say. Lies back on the bed, suit jacket falling open, hat still tipped on her head, blonde hair a mess against the pillows. Her chest rises and falls, quick and shallow, as you kneel between her legs—dragging your hands up her thighs with maddening slowness.

“You’re not used to this, huh?” you murmur, eyes on hers. “Being the one who gets taken apart.”

Paige swallows hard, hands gripping the sheets. “Not like this.”

“Good.” Your smile turns wicked. “You’re mine tonight.”

You crawl up her body, pressing a kiss to her collarbone, then lower—slow, reverent—down the center of her chest. Your fingers hook the edges of her waistband, tugging at her pants with a raised brow.

She lifts her hips without question, watching you peel them off, breath hitching as you pause to rake your nails lightly up her bare thighs.

“You looked so good on that stage,” you whisper, mouth hovering just over her hipbone. “So powerful. So composed.”

Your lips press to her skin. “I wanted to ruin you the second I saw you in that suit.”

“Then do it,” she rasps.

You look up at her, that cocky Paige Bueckers fire barely holding on in her eyes—and you smirk, devilish.

“I already am.”

Your mouth moves lower, kisses turning hotter, wetter, slower before re reaching her already wet slits, you slowly move your tounge through then, dangerously slow. Paige gasps—hips twitching, fists gripping the sheets tighter than ever. Her hat falls off somewhere between her second moan and her third curse, but she doesn’t notice. Not when your mouth is on her like that. Not when your voice is in her ear telling her exactly how beautiful she looks when she begs.

I smirk against her as i hum softly at her warmth, “you deserve this..” you whisper looking up at her from her thighs as your ring finger and your middle finger slides into your mouth coating them before instantly putting them into her slowly before pumping fast curling slightly.

“Fuck baby..” she moans loadly making you smirk, her hips twitching up as you tilt your head down again to cat lick her clit ever so softly as your didgets pump in and out of her slowly before quickening again, her fingers tangle in your hair as she softly tugs on your curls, “your such a fucking tease..” she grits through her teeth.

With those words you dip your head into her your tounge fully pressed on her clit as you pump your didgets hard into her curling your fingers to hear her wet juices swish between your fingers.

“fuck princess i’m so fucking close” She breaths.

Her legs start to shake. Her breathing’s all over the place.

And you don’t stop.

Not even when she’s crying out your name like a prayer. Not even when she’s completely undone beneath you.

When she finally comes back down—glowing, panting, spent—you crawl back up her body, kiss her lips slow and deep, hand framing her jaw like she’s the most precious thing you’ve ever touched.

She blinks up at you, dazed and wrecked, with a little grin tugging at her lips.

“You… are evil,” she whispers.

She’s panting under you, wrecked and glassy-eyed, the Dallas Wings hat long forgotten on the floor. Her jacket’s gone. The gold chain around her neck dangles against her flushed chest, catching the low hotel light every time her body jerks beneath you.

You lick your lips. Watch her tremble.

“Look at you,” you murmur, thumb brushing her bottom lip. “America’s sweetheart. Spread out for me like a goddamn reward.”

She groans, hips bucking up, chasing your touch. You slide your hand lower, slow and cruel.

“I said look at me.”

Her eyes snap open, and fuck—she’s gone. Drenched in sweat and need and whatever wicked thing you’ve unlocked inside her. You dip your head, drag your tongue down her throat, across her chest, teasing the edge of her bra with your teeth.

“Tell me how bad you want it.”

She gasps. “So bad.”

“Not good enough.”

You slide your hand between her legs again, just enough pressure to make her twitch, not enough to give her what she wants.

“Use your words, Paige.”

“I—I need you,” she stammers, hips rolling. “I can’t think straight.”

You smile, hot and evil. “Good. You don’t need to think. Just feel.”

Then you give it to her—your fingers, your mouth, your body grinding into hers like you’ll never stop. She’s gasping, cursing, biting down on her fist to muffle the sounds—but you pull it away.

“Let them hear,” you whisper. “Let them know who you belong to tonight, who’s got the number one pick on her back begging for me.”

She whines. Begging now. Nails clawing down your back. She’s everywhere—moaning your name, shaking under your hands, saying “please” over and over like it’s the only word she remembers.

And when she finally breaks?

It’s a full-body surrender. Her back arches, mouth falling open in a silent cry, thighs trembling around your shoulders.

You don’t stop.

By the time you’re done, she’s limp beneath you. Boneless. Glowing. She’s not even pretending to hold it together anymore.

You kiss her, soft and slow now, brushing her sweaty hair from her face.

“How’s that for a celebration, superstar?”

She just blinks up at you, dazed and ruined. “Marry me.”

You laugh—dark, low, breathless.

“Ask me again after round three.”

[aphroditsdaughter]

everything dyker in texas or whatever megan said

these picks..

can’t nb outdyke texas

[aphroditsdaughter]

gag it

[aphroditsdaughter]

FRIENDS?

based on this for @fuddaround

paige bueckers x reader

sexual content, language, cheating, (not proofread at all)

hope this did your request justice!!

The cabin sighed with the wind, its creaks soft and rhythmic like the breath of an old house lost in slumber. Outside, the night enfolded everything—cool, still, aching with the scent of pine sap and damp wood, smoke lingering in your clothes and hair. The lake mirrored the sky, black and infinite, and the trees whispered overhead as though they knew too much.

You shouldn’t have come here. A hundred times, you’d told yourself that.

But here you were. Again. Following Paige down the winding dirt path to the dock, heart pounding, a familiar beat that echoed with every step you took toward her. You felt it already—the coil of longing in your gut, the pull curling around your ribs, tight and restless. You tried to blame it on the booze, the summer haze, the sleepless nights. But you knew better.

You had known for weeks.

She walked ahead, her hoodie loose around her frame, sleeves rolled up, the collar stretched from too many nights carelessly tugged off. The moon tangled in her hair, and her hands were buried in her pockets, fingers twitching, as though she had something to say, but wouldn’t.

You’d been noticing things—small details. The way her voice softened when she spoke your name. The way she looked at you when she thought you weren’t watching—slow, steady, patient. The way your skin burned where her hand brushed yours.

For weeks, maybe longer, you’d been consumed by the thought of her. But every time the feeling surfaced, you buried it, told yourself it wasn’t real.

You had a boyfriend. You were straight. You were just drunk. You were just lonely.

But none of those things explained why she was the one you pictured in the quiet moments, why your thighs clenched together under the covers as you thought about the curve of her mouth when she smirked, the way her voice deepened when she grew serious, the way her hands looked wrapped around a bottle or a steering wheel or your wrist.

You sat beside her on the dock, legs swinging over the water, your thigh brushing hers—warm, electric.

And you couldn’t take it anymore.

“I can’t believe we’re still doing this,” you whispered, not even sure what “this” meant.

She turned her head, her face carved in moonlight, silver and sharp.

“Doing what?”

You couldn’t meet her gaze. “Being... us.”

Silence fell between you. The lake lapped gently at the dock. Somewhere distant, a loon called—low, aching.

Then, softly, she asked, “Do you want to stop?”

God, how you wanted to say yes. You wanted to lie, to tell her it didn’t mean anything, that this was all just a strange, messy game. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. You turned toward her instead really looked at her and felt everything you had buried come rushing to the surface, breaking free.

And then you kissed her.

Your hands trembled as they cupped her jaw, but her mouth was steady, open, waiting. She kissed you like she had been starving for it, like she had never stopped craving this moment. Her tongue slid against yours with a confidence that made your heart race, that made the heat surge between your legs.

“You don’t have to pretend anymore,” she murmured, her breath hot against your lips. “You don’t have to lie to yourself. I see you. I always have.”

She pulled you into her lap, her hands firm on your hips, guiding you to straddle her. The dock creaked beneath you, but neither of you cared. Her hoodie brushed against your bare legs, her body solid and warm beneath you. Without thinking, you ground against her, and she cursed softly, biting your bottom lip.

“I knew it,” she breathed, voice thick with desire. “I fucking knew you wanted this.”

Her hands slid under your shirt, rough palms mapping the curve of your waist, the line of your spine. She pushed your shirt up and over your head, then stared at your bare skin like she’d discovered something breathtaking.

“You’ve been pretending so hard,” she said, her breath grazing your collarbone. “Trying to be the good girl for your boyfriend back home. But you don’t come like this for him, do you?”

“Paige…”

“Shh,” she whispered, her voice a promise. “I’ve got you.”

And then her mouth was on your chest—hot, open kisses across your skin, her tongue circling your nipples until you gasped, until your hips moved without permission.

She flipped you gently, laying you back against the dock, her body stretched out between your legs.

“Tell me you’ve thought about this,” she said, her voice rough, eyes locked on yours. “Tell me you’ve touched yourself thinking about my mouth.”

You bit your lip, too afraid to speak.

She laughed softly. “I don’t need you to say it. I can feel it.”

And then she was kissing down your stomach, her fingers tugging your shorts and panties down in one slow motion. You should’ve been embarrassed. But the way she looked at you reverent, greedy, sure—made you feel holy.

She settled between your thighs like she belonged there.

“Keep your legs open for me,” she whispered. “Let me taste you.”

And when her tongue slid against you slow, deliberate, devastating you couldn’t hold back the sound that tore from your throat.

Her hands gripped your thighs, holding you open, grounding you as her mouth moved in rhythm—tongue circling, lips sucking, every flick and press sending lightning through your veins.

“God, you’re perfect,” she murmured. “So wet. So sweet. You were made for this.”

You cried out when she added her fingers—two, deep, curling right where you needed them. She fucked you slow, steady, coaxing your body higher and higher.

“Come for me,” she said, voice shaking. “Come on my fingers. I wanna feel you.”

And you did. Your orgasm ripped through you, sharp and sudden, and she didn’t stop. She fucked you through it, her mouth never leaving your skin, whispering your name like it was something precious.

When it was over, she climbed back up, kissed you long and slow, and held your face in her hands.

“I know you’re scared,” she said softly. “But don’t run from this. You don’t have to live halfway anymore.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You just held her.

It didn’t stop after that night on the dock.

It couldn't.

You tried to pull away the next morning, like you always did buttoning your shirt too fast, brushing your hair like you could smooth yourself back into the girl you were before. But Paige didn’t let you go easily this time. Not with her fingers still smelling like you, not with your taste still on her tongue.

She caught your wrist just before you stepped back inside the cabin and kissed the inside of it, eyes dark and full of quiet promise.

“We’re not done,” she said softly. “You know we’re not.”

And you did.

That night, you didn’t even try to resist.

She came to your room once the house was quiet, slipping inside like shadow, her hoodie thrown over a tank top, hair still wet from the lake. You were already half-awake, already burning. She didn’t ask. She just slid beneath the sheets and wrapped her arms around you from behind, her lips pressing into the curve of your shoulder like a prayer.

And it went on like that. Night after night. Mouths and hands and secrets held in the dark. You learned the weight of her body in the hush between midnight and morning. Learned the way she liked to kiss you slow before she fucked you fast. The way she whispered things in your ear that made you soak the sheets.

She never asked you to choose. She just waited. Took what you gave her. Loved you in the spaces you weren’t brave enough to speak into yet.

You still answered your boyfriend’s texts. Still called him, still pretended. But every time you touched yourself, it was Paige’s name in your throat.

And then came the night everything cracked open.

You were in her room. The window open, moonlight spilling across the bed. The air was heavy, thunder threatening far off, wind moving through the trees like a warning.

She had you naked, again, as easily as breath.

You were on your back, thighs parted, her mouth soft against your inner thigh as she bit down gently, marking you.

“Mine,” she said, voice low, voice wrecked. “All fucking mine.”

Your hands were in her hair. You could barely think. Her tongue flicked over you once, slow and devastating, and your head rolled back.

And then

Your phone rang

You didn’t even look.

“Don’t,” you gasped, tugging her closer. “Please, just—keep going.”

But she paused, glancing up at you with a wicked grin.

“No, baby,” she said, crawling up your body until her mouth was at your ear. “Answer it.”

“What?”

“Answer. The. Phone.”

You shook your head, heart racing. “Paige— no he’ll know—”

“He won’t know a thing if you keep that pretty little voice under control.”

Her hand slid back down, fingers parting you, stroking slow and light.

“Or maybe,” she whispered, “you want him to know. Maybe you want him to hear what it sounds like when someone actually makes you come.”

You moaned, breath hitching.

“Answer it,” she said again, licking a slow stripe up your throat. “Be good for me.”

Your hand shook as you grabbed your phone. The screen lit up with his name. Your boyfriend. His contact photo smiling up at you like nothing had changed.

You slid your finger across the screen.

“H-Hey,” you said, voice tight, too high.

Paige smirked and kissed your stomach, dragging her tongue lower.

“Hey, babe,” came his voice, casual, clueless. “You okay? You sound weird.”

“I—yeah,” you said quickly. “Just tired.”

Paige’s mouth closed around your clit.

You nearly dropped the phone.

“Tired, huh?” he laughed. “Long day at the lake?”

Her tongue circled, relentless and slow, fingers easing into you like she knew exactly how to break you apart from the inside out. You bit down on your fist to keep from gasping.

“Mhm,” you choked. “Really… long.”

There were a few seconds of him talking—something about a friend of his, something about plans for when you got back but you couldn’t hear a thing. Not with Paige’s mouth on you like that. Not with her hand gripping your thigh, her fingers curling just right.

She looked up at you as you fought to stay still, your eyes wide, breath shuddering.

“You’re doing so good,” she mouthed. “So fucking sexy like this.”

You whimpered, trying to nod along to whatever your boyfriend was saying, but your body was already too far gone. The heat was rising too fast.

You heard yourself say, “Yeah, I miss you too,” just as Paige moaned into you, the vibrations making your hips buck.

“Fuck,” you whispered just barely catching yourself. “I-I need to go. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Sure,” he said. “Love you.”

You didn’t say it back. You hung up.

The phone hit the floor.

And then you were grabbing Paige by the hair and pulling her deeper.

“No more teasing,” you begged. “Please. Make me come.”

She didn’t answer.

She just did.

Her mouth worked you over until you were writhing under her, biting down on your own wrist to keep from screaming. The orgasm hit you like a storm—wild and consuming, washing away everything that wasn’t her.

When it passed, you lay trembling beneath her, drenched in sweat, heart hammering.

She kissed her way back up to your mouth, her fingers still inside you, keeping you grounded.

“You’re mine”she whispered. “Even if you can’t admit it yet.”

You didn’t argue.

Because it was true.

You were hers

in secret.

In shadow.

In every breathless, dangerous moment you stole.

And with every night that followed, every lie, every whispered name in the dark, you sank deeper.

You didn’t know how long it could last.

You just knew you couldn’t stop.

The lake was a memory now, sunburns fading, dock creaking only in dreams, the air in town heavier, more artificial. But the heat between you and Paige hadn’t gone anywhere. If anything, it had worsened.

You were back home. Back to routines, back to your boyfriend's arm around your shoulder, back to smiling like everything was the same. But Paige was still in town for the summer, crashing on couches, bartending at some place downtown, wearing tank tops that clung to her shoulders like second skin.

And you? You were unraveling.

Every time you saw her across a room, it felt like something electric crawled under your skin. Every time she brushed past you in public, her hand ghosting your waist like an accident, it felt like being burned in the best way.

Your boyfriend suggested the dinner—some bright, cheerful place with outdoor seating, fairy lights strung above the patio like it was trying too hard to be magical.

“I thought it’d be nice,” he said, slinging an arm around your waist. “Us three hanging out, you know? You always talk about Paige. I figured we should all just chill.”

You said yes because it was easier than saying no. Because the idea of being across the table from her, watching her eyes darken as you sipped wine, was too tempting to resist.

So you wore a skirt. Short. Soft. Paired with a top you told yourself was casual but hugged your body just enough to keep Paige's eyes lingering.

And she noticed.

The moment she saw you across the sidewalk, something in her jaw tightened. Her gaze dragged down your body with slow, deliberate heat, and the corner of her mouth lifted like she already had plans.

Your boyfriend didn’t notice. He was talking about the menu, laughing too loud. Paige just leaned back in her chair, legs wide, drink in hand, her gaze flicking between your eyes and your lips like she was remembering the sound you made when she fucked you last.

Conversation was light. Jokes, stories, clinking glasses. You tried to focus on your boyfriend, to smile in the right places. But Paige wasn’t making it easy.

Her foot touched yours under the table once, soft and fleeting.

The second time, it stayed.

You tried to breathe.

And then—when your boyfriend leaned forward to read something off the menu Paige’s hand slipped beneath the tablecloth, slid up your thigh, slow and wicked.

You froze. Your heart thundered so loud you were sure someone would hear it.

Her fingers moved higher. Beneath your skirt. Bare skin. No hesitation.

You glanced at her, wide-eyed. She didn’t even look at you. She just smiled at something your boyfriend was saying, the picture of innocence—except for her fingers curling at the edge of your underwear, teasing the waistband, dragging along the slick heat she found there.

“You’re soaked,” she whispered, so soft only you could hear. “You’ve been thinking about this all night, haven’t you?”

You tried to answer your boyfriend’s question—something about appetizers but Paige’s fingers slipped beneath your panties and brushed your clit, and your voice caught in your throat.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded too fast. “Just warm. Gonna step outside in a minute.”

He smiled, completely oblivious. “I’m gonna run to the bathroom quick. Order me that flatbread?”

He stood, kissed your cheek, walked off.

And the second he was gone, Paige leaned in, her voice molten silk in your ear.

“You look so fucking good today,” she said, fingers now moving in slow, torturous circles over your clit. “And he didn’t even compliment you once.”

You whimpered, quietly. Your legs parted instinctively, thighs trembling.

“If I were him…” Her breath was hot against your neck. “I’d drag you into that bathroom and fuck the shit out of you. Bend you over the sink, make you scream into your own palm.”

Her fingers slid lower, finding your entrance, teasing.

“But he won’t,” she murmured. “He doesn’t even know what he has.”

You bit your lip hard, your hand gripping the edge of the table. A couple beside you clinked glasses. Laughter rippled from the bar. The whole world was spinning normal, and you were coming undone with her fingers inside you.

“Tell me,” Paige whispered, her voice like velvet, dangerous and sweet. “Has he ever even tried to make you feel this good?”

You shook your head before you could stop yourself.

She chuckled darkly, pressed a kiss to your jaw.

“I thought so.”

Then, with one final, devastating stroke of her fingers, she pulled away. Licked her thumb clean. And leaned back like nothing happened, sipping her drink, eyes glinting with victory.

You sat there trembling, ruined, thighs pressed tight together, breath shallow as your boyfriend returned and sat beside you again, touching your leg like nothing had changed.

But everything had.

Because Paige had touched you where no one could see—reminded you what it felt like to be wanted, to be devoured.

[aphroditsdaughter]

obsessed with this pick for azzi! It’s not about the draft, but more about what i feel would really suit her vibe. she gives me monet de haan from the gossip girl reboot energy (fashion wise). a character known for her sophisticated yet bold fashion choices. azzi, like monet, gravitates toward tailored silhouettes, luxurious fabrics, and bold color palettes. her style seamlessly blends timeless elegance with urban street style elements, resulting in a look that feels polished. accessories, particularly oversized sunglasses and statement jewelry, are key to her signature style, and i can definitely see azzi embodying that same vibe. while these outfit might seem a bit preppy or schoolish. i can totally see her pairing it with the right accessories and of course that face card

also azzi really gives off major zendaya vibes

her style has evolved so much, and she’s clearly confident in experimenting with new looks. it’s the versatility that makes me think she could absolutely pull off something like this Alexander McQueen blazer. (i was kinda gravitating towards paige for this at first but they share clothes anyways so) especially how zendaya styled it on the red carpet is the kinda of vibe i can imagine azzi pulling off.

OK. i don’t really know too much about azzis style so this is purely just what i think would suit her (anything would tbh).

i honestly really like the top part of this and i think it would look cool to have paige in all black and azzi in all white, not this exactly because idk about the short sleeves i think it would be a vest moment maybe??? the bottoms would obviously probably be trousers of some kind but i would also really like to see a short white skirt with this

[aphroditsdaughter]

on that

fic where p and her childhood best friend have an “accidental” hook up one night where theyre both tipsy and then start sneaking around bc reader has a bf and is in denial about her sexuality 🤗🤗

[aphroditsdaughter]

make it 1501 👅

my hearties🥹

each one of you r PERFECTION.

[aphroditsdaughter]

I think someone else may have mentioned this, but many of Paige’s ‘fans’ seem to be straight women who’ve never really been immersed in queer spaces. They convince themselves they’re straight by needing Paige to present in a way that aligns with their comfort zone—often by dressing more masculinely. In their minds, if she looks ‘like a boy,’ it’s easier for them to rationalize finding her attractive without confronting the idea that they might be attracted to someone of the same sex. Whereas, people who are actually in queer spaces, and queer women or lesbians themselves, understand that anyone can wear anything. Like you said, it’s not about looks or having a specific aesthetic it’s about the energy. And Paige? She’s got that energy.

it’s so extremely frustrating as well. it’s so often that you’ll see a straight girl on tiktok raving about paige, the famous “i’m straight but paige bueckers” is SOOO annoying and repetitive. a lot of “fans” who care nothing about ball push this narrative about masc women period.

when seeing a woman, her energy is what takes the cake every single time. they see paige in a crop top and assume she’s straight, because in their heads masc women can’t switch it up, which is a really big insecurity that can arise within masc women who WANT to switch it up.

ive said before how straight women push hetero norms on masc women because they see them as boys—it’s aggy.

masculinity does not equal being a boy—or wanting to be one!

[aphroditsdaughter]

some of yall are SOOOO weird about BH it’s coming across as micro aggression.

[aphroditsdaughter]

Please tell me it ends with them togther and pia leaving that man?!?!? 🙏🙏🙏

part 3&4 is coming out next week but yeah it’s gonna be a LONG time till she leaves that man sorry!

[aphroditsdaughter]

MY BOY ONLY BREAKS HIS FAVORITE TOYS

Paige was the kind of girl who made you feel like the center of her world, only to let you slip away when you became too fragile to hold.

paige bueckers x reader

lots of angst, just sad sad sad (not proofread)

You never forgot the first time Paige looked at you

really looked at you.

It was winter, one of those moody afternoons where the sky can't decide whether to snow or just hang heavy and gray forever. You were tucked into the corner of a coffee shop, nursing a half-cold drink and pretending to read while people-watching, when she walked in. Her coat was too big for her, her hair wind-tangled, cheeks flushed. She was carrying a worn leather notebook, pressed to her chest like something sacred.

She ordered with a soft, low voice — oat milk latte, extra foam — and then turned too quickly, her elbow catching the edge of her cup. The coffee splashed across the pages of her notebook, and she froze, just staring at it. Not upset. Just… disappointed. Like she'd expected this.

You handed her a napkin. Then your pen. Then, hesitantly, your spare notebook.

She smiled. Not with her mouth, not yet but her eyes warmed, slow and molten. “Thanks,” she said, and the way the word slid off her tongue made your stomach knot.

That was it.

That was how it started.

Being with Paige was like falling asleep under stars you didn’t realize were dying. She was gentle in the way a wave is beautiful, captivating, but always pulling you somewhere deeper than you meant to go. Like a song, where the melody lured you in, and the words left a bittersweet taste in your mouth, something you couldn’t quite shake off even if you wanted to. There were days when she made you feel like art fragile, irreplaceable, but always under some kind of scrutiny. She’d trace your collarbone with her fingers like it was a sentence she was memorizing, as if the rhythm of her touch was a kind of poetry, one she couldn’t quite express fully in words. It was as if, with every stroke of her fingers, she was attempting to understand the parts of you that even you didn’t know how to explain. And in return, you tried to understand her — the pieces of her that she kept tucked behind the walls, the ones she rarely let anyone see.

She liked to talk in whispers when the world was quiet, when the space between you was small and humid, full of things neither of you knew how to say. It was as if you were both dancing around something, each touch and word a step closer to something you both feared and wanted at the same time. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was full of longing, a subtle pressure that built up without release. She spoke in ways that made everything feel delicate, like even the smallest thing between you could shatter if you weren’t careful. Her words had weight, but not the kind you could easily carry. There was always a tension, like she was both drawing you in and pushing you away, creating a space where everything felt just on the edge of breaking.

She’d call you “baby” with that half-sleepy voice in the mornings, the kind that seemed to come from somewhere deep, as if she were still caught between dreams and the reality of being tangled up in you. She’d tangle her legs around yours like she couldn’t bear to be apart for even a second, holding you in a way that felt both possessive and desperate. There was something in her touch, in her need for closeness, that made you feel like you were the center of her universe. But even in those moments, you could feel the distance. It wasn’t obvious at first, but you began to sense it, the invisible walls she built, the way she let you in only as far as the version of herself she felt comfortable sharing.

The intimacy she gave was like a door that opened just enough to let you see the shape of her heart but never quite enough to step inside. After sex, she’d rest her forehead against yours, breathing you in like she needed to be anchored, as if you were the only thing in the world that made sense. But even then, you could feel the walls — the barriers she carefully constructed. There was love there, undeniable and raw, but it was tempered by something older, something unhealed, something that kept her from fully surrendering. The need to be close, to wrap herself around you, was always followed by the retreat, like she was afraid that too much closeness would make everything unravel.

You asked her once, quietly, “What are you afraid of?” You didn’t expect her to answer, not really, but it was a question that had been pressing on your chest for days. You wanted to understand the distance she kept, the way she pulled away just when you thought you were close enough to hold her. She kissed you instead of answering, her lips pressing against yours with the kind of intensity that told you everything without saying a word. It was a kiss full of contradictions deep and passionate, but with an edge of sadness, as if she was trying to say something she couldn’t quite form into words. Her kiss was a language all its own, one you knew but still couldn’t fully understand.

In those moments, it felt like love was a fragile thing, something so close and yet so unreachable. She was like someone who loved too deeply to ever let go but also feared the weight of that love, afraid it might consume her if she gave it all. She was the kind of person who only let herself get close enough to love but not enough to break, like a favorite toy that gets put back on the shelf after too many tears have been shed over it. You knew that love could never be perfect with her, that the pieces of her you wanted to hold onto might slip away before you could ever fully catch them. But that didn’t stop you from wanting her, from reaching for her, knowing you’d never get the whole of her but always hoping for a little more.

Sometimes, when you lay beside her at night, the warmth of her body against yours felt like a tether but it was a tether to something you couldn’t quite keep. There were days when you would catch her staring at you, her gaze heavy, as if she were thinking of something far away, something you couldn’t reach no matter how hard you tried. The distance between you wasn’t always physical, but it was always there a soft, invisible line she couldn’t cross, no matter how much you both needed it to be crossed.

She loved you in a way that was both consuming and evasive, always giving but never fully surrendering. You could feel her love in the way she held you close, in the way her fingers lingered on your skin, in the way she kissed you with a quiet desperation, as if she feared the moment she let it go. But you knew, deep down, that her love — like her — was always on the verge of breaking. It was beautiful, fragile, and just a little out of reach. And no matter how many times you reached for her, you couldn’t stop wondering if you were just another one of the things she loved until it was too much, until it cracked and slipped through her fingers.

It didn’t happen all at once, but it felt like it was always coming. At first, the changes were small, so small that you could convince yourself they were just shadows passing in the corner of your mind. She stopped texting “good morning.” It was subtle like a song playing in the background, one that started with a soft melody but eventually turned into something more dissonant, something you couldn’t ignore anymore. When you told her “I love you,” the words used to be a rhythm between you, easy and true, but now she just smiled softly, her gaze drifting somewhere far away, almost like she was holding back something heavy.

Her kisses slowed, like she was hesitating, and for the first time, you wondered if she was thinking too hard about what they meant. Were they still the same? Or were they becoming hollow echoes of a love that was fading? You could almost hear the ticking of a clock, counting down the moments until she would slip further away from you.

Then came the nights, long and cold, like a broken lyric you couldn’t quite grasp. She stopped coming home until it was too late. Her eyes were always glassy, like she was lost in a world you didn’t understand, and the taste of her lips oh, it never tasted like her anymore. It tasted like someone else’s, someone else’s secrets, and you never asked who they were. You never had to. She didn’t offer, and you couldn’t bring yourself to demand it. After all, you were too scared to hear the truth. Sometimes you thought you could hear a familiar tune playing in the back of her mind—a rhythm that wasn’t yours, that you’d never been a part of. You thought you’d lost the song of her heart somewhere along the way, but you couldn’t find it.

It was one of those nights, lying together in bed, her body beside you but not really there, not in the way she used to be. You could feel the space between you, the absence where once there was connection. Your nose pressed to her shoulder, your heart tangled in confusion and hurt. You whispered, almost like a prayer, “You’re pulling away from me.”

She didn’t deny it. She didn’t fight it. She just whispered, “I don’t mean to,” her voice barely above a breath. It was the kind of thing that might have been said by someone who believed it someone who thought they were still holding onto you, even when they were already slipping through your fingers.

But she was. She was unraveling. Every part of her, each delicate thread that once held her close to you, was falling apart. It was like watching a poem burn, each line a little more charred than the last, until there was nothing left but smoke and ash. You tried to hold on, to remember who she used to be, to remember what love felt like, but the pieces of her scattered faster than you could gather them.

And somewhere, buried deep in the mess of it all, you realized that you were like the boy in the song, watching as the most precious parts of you crumbled in her hands. You were the one who loved too hard, and maybe that was the problem all along. You’d given her everything, all your tenderness and truth, but it wasn’t enough. She only broke the things she held most dear, the things that once meant everything to her. She only broke her favorite toys, the ones she swore she would never let go of.

And now, with the threads of everything you once had slipping away, you couldn’t help but wonder if love was always meant to be a tortured poem a melody that grew sharper with every note, a song that you couldn’t ever quite finish.

It ended in silence.

No loud arguments. No dramatic words exchanged. No grand gesture of closure. Just a quiet, drawn-out vanishing act, the kind that leaves you haunted, with no clear line to mark when everything unraveled. It was a slow fade, like a photograph being washed away by rain, and you didn’t even realize it was happening until it was too late. The silence settled into your bones, a lingering hum of unanswered questions. When did the curtain fall? And how could you have missed it?

You reached out. Texted. Called. There were words you never said, confessions you buried too deep, letters you wrote but never sent. You played out every possible scenario in your mind, but the silence only deepened. It was like trying to catch the wind futile, impossible.

And then, one morning almost like a ghost who remembers what it means to breathe again, she sent a message. Simple, too simple for the weight it carried. A single line, yet it landed like a thousand unspoken regrets.

“I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. I break things I care about. You were my favorite.”

You stared at the screen, blinking as the words swam before your eyes. Favorite. The word hung there, echoing louder than it should, reverberating in your chest like a broken melody. Favorite like a toy, something you played with and loved until it cracked under pressure, left in the dark, its broken pieces scattered in the aftermath. Something that was adored and then abandoned, tossed aside with the fragile promise that it could never be fixed.

You weren’t sure which hurt more, the truth in her words or the way you still felt that raw pull toward her. Something about the way she called you favorite made everything feel broken and incomplete, a love that never quite took form, that never had the chance to be real. It was like being something cherished for a moment, only to be left in ruins when it couldn’t hold up to the weight of reality.

Now, you walk through the world with a quiet caution, a softness that wasn't there before. You’ve learned to guard your heart, to shield yourself from the things that once came so easily. There are pieces of her in you — in the way you flinch when someone says they’ll call but never do, in how the sound of a song she used to hum makes your chest tighten like you’ve been holding your breath for far too long. You wish you could hate her, but you can’t. No, that would be easier. Hate would give you closure, a clean line to draw between the past and the present.

But you can’t erase her. You can’t forget the way she made you feel like you mattered for a brief, shining moment, before everything broke. No, you still love her. Quietly. Painfully. The kind of love that doesn’t need permission, doesn’t ask for anything in return, the kind that lingers in the quiet spaces, in the places where memories go to haunt you.

It’s the kind of love that feels like being something treasured, something played with, and then discarded when it starts to show cracks. The kind that leaves you wondering if you were ever really meant to last or if you were always meant to break. There’s a cruelty in being someone’s favorite and knowing, deep down, that the love wasn’t built to endure. It was always destined to shatter, to leave you in pieces.

And then you think of the places she left behind, of all the things she took without a word, and you remember the emptiness, the feeling of being left without so much as a glance back. It’s a feeling that stays with you, like something unresolved, like a goodbye that was never said, but that you still carry with you.

You were never her toy, not in the way she made you feel. But she broke you like one. And the worst part? You let her.

Because being her favorite — even for just a little while — felt like magic. Even if it was always meant to shatter. Even if it was always going to fade. It felt like the world, for just a moment, was holding its breath. It was a spell you didn’t want to break, even if you knew how it would end.

And in the end, you realized: it was never about being her favorite. It was about feeling like you mattered. And maybe, for a while, you did.

[aphroditsdaughter]

SPORTS CAR

no, you ain’t got no mrs. oh, but you got a sports car

paige bueckers x reader

suggestive but no actual smut, language

also feel like this story has been done before but i don’t remember by which author so please if you do lmk pleak!

like, feedback and comments are always appreciated!!

The world is a blur of neon lights and distant sounds as you glide through the city streets in Paige’s car. The night air feels thick with anticipation, humming with the quiet thrum of life, of people lost in their own worlds, unaware of the magnetic energy that crackles between you and the woman beside you.

Paige is different tonight. The glow from her recent championship win still lingers around her, lighting up her smile and igniting a spark in her eyes that is impossible to ignore. She doesn’t need to say a word for you to understand how much she’s glowing with pride, with confidence. The world has just witnessed her on the biggest stage, and now it’s just you two. You can feel it the weight of the night, the unspoken tension that hovers in the space between you.

She’s behind the wheel, but her energy doesn’t stay confined. You catch her glance every so often, her eyes flickering to yours with a heat that sends a shiver down your spine. You don’t need the words; the look in her eyes tells you everything. There’s a hunger there, a want that’s undeniable, and it’s growing with every passing second.

Her gaze shifts back to the road, but there’s something more than just focus in her expression. You notice how her lips curl slightly at the corners, as if she knows exactly what you’re thinking, what you’re feeling. You let your fingers rest on the leather seat, a small gesture, but one that causes your heart to pick up pace. Every move she makes is electric.

You want to reach out, to touch her, but you hold yourself back for a moment. The tension is thicker than you anticipated, swirling around you both, making every touch feel more loaded than the last. Paige doesn't say anything, she doesn’t have to. Her presence speaks volumes.

She slows down as she pulls into a quiet parking lot, the sound of the engine dying out, leaving the two of you alone with the night. The streetlights cast their soft glow, framing her in a halo of gold. She turns off the car, and everything goes still. For a moment, it's just the two of you, the silence between you loud, crackling with unspoken words.

Paige’s eyes meet yours again, locking with a gaze so intense it feels like you’re both drawn into another universe. Her lips part slightly, as if she’s about to say something, but the words never come. Instead, she leans forward, closer, her presence pulling you in like gravity. You feel the tension between you surge, and it’s all too much, too overwhelming.

Her fingers twitch on the wheel, a soft movement, but it speaks louder than anything she could say. You can feel her desire, her anticipation, and you realize that it mirrors your own. There’s no need for words now. You both know what’s coming. The unspoken connection between you is enough.

The air inside the car feels heavy, charged, as Paige moves, just slightly, reaching for you with an intent so clear it sends a jolt of heat straight through you. You can feel your heart in your throat, thumping with anticipation, the room shrinking around you. The space between you is shrinking, too.

Her eyes flicker from your lips to your eyes, and without a single word, you both move closer. The kiss that follows is slow, tentative at first, like you’re testing the waters, letting the moment wash over you before diving in completely. But the moment her lips meet yours, it’s as though the floodgates open. Her hands find their way to the back of your neck, pulling you into her with a desperation that takes you by surprise. It’s raw, urgent like you both can’t get close enough, can’t feel each other enough.

Every sensation feels amplified, electric. The heat from her body, the soft, hungry press of her lips, the faint sound of her breathing quickening. It all comes together in a moment that feels like it could break the world apart. Her kiss deepens, and so do you—pulled into her, caught in the surge of something far too powerful to name.

And just as quickly, she pulls away, not far enough to break the connection, but enough to leave both of you breathless, teetering on the edge of something more. The silence in the car is loud again, but this time, it's filled with the weight of everything you haven’t said. Your eyes meet once more, and you see something shift in her. Something that says, without a word, that this is only the beginning.

The moment stretches on, a suspended pause that hangs between you two, neither of you moving, yet everything is changing. Paige’s fingers trail lightly across your cheek, and it feels like every touch is a promise, silent, but clear. You feel the heat rising again, this time not in your chest but lower, between your legs, a slow burn that spreads through you like wildfire.

Her gaze never leaves yours as she shifts beneath you, her lips now brushing lightly against your skin in a series of soft, teasing kisses that drive you mad. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. Every glance, every motion between you is electric, loaded with more than just passion it’s desire, it’s need, it’s hers.

Paige’s hands wander to your waist, her touch gentle but firm, guiding you closer, pulling you into her space. You can feel her heartbeat, fast and unsteady, matching your own. It’s like an invisible thread between you, tightening with every inch that separates you.

You move without thinking, instinct pulling you as you straddle her, your body aligning with hers in a way that feels too perfect, too right. Every second that passes, the air between you thickens, saturating with desire, each breath a quiet plea for more. She doesn’t need to move, doesn’t need to do anything more, but you can feel the way she holds herself back, as if waiting for you to take the next step.

But it’s you who leans in first, your lips brushing against hers, soft at first, gentle, almost reverent. There’s an intensity in the way she responds, as though she’s been holding herself back, waiting for this moment. When her lips meet yours, it’s with an urgency that makes everything else fade away. Her hands grip your hips, pulling you flush against her, and you feel her heat in every inch of your skin.

The kiss deepens as you rock against her, a slow, sensual grind that leaves you both breathless. Your body is already moving with hers, instinct guiding you in perfect synchrony. There’s no need for words—every shift, every slight press of her body against yours speaks louder than anything you could say.

She breaks the kiss, but not entirely. Her lips hover just inches from yours, the heat of her breath mingling with yours. You’re both gasping for air, the space between you still too small, too charged. Her hands slide up your back, gently urging you to press even closer. You follow her lead, your body responding without hesitation.

The friction is agonizing in its slowness, each movement drawing you both deeper into the moment. Every inch of her body is alive beneath your touch, every shiver that runs through her body sending an electric pulse straight to yours. She doesn’t need to tell you what she wants. You can feel it in the way her body moves with yours, in the way her breath catches as she fights to hold onto control.

Her lips find your neck again, trailing hot, breathless kisses down to the sensitive spot just below your ear. The touch makes you gasp, your head tilting back instinctively, offering her more. The way she kisses you, slow and deliberate, makes you ache for her in ways you didn’t think possible. It’s a dance—each movement, each touch building toward something that feels too inevitable to stop.

Paige pulls back just slightly, her eyes flicking to yours. They’re dark now, full of desire, pupils blown wide, and you see the fire in them, feel the need radiating from her in waves. She doesn’t say anything, but the hunger in her gaze speaks volumes.

There’s no need for words between you two now. The connection between you is enough. You move again, this time faster, more urgently, every part of you alive with the feeling of her. The world outside ceases to exist. There’s only Paige. Only the way she feels against you. Only the way you’re tangled in each other, craving more.

And still, there’s that look the way her eyes lock with yours, holding you, keeping you tethered to her, making every second stretch longer.

The night continues to slip past you like a stolen secret. The car, once a silent observer, now vibrates with every breath, every movement. The air around you both is thick with unspoken promises and the hunger that has been building since you first stepped into this moment. Each shift, each subtle touch, is more than just physical—it's an exchange, a dance of desire that goes beyond anything either of you expected.

Paige’s hands trace the lines of your body as if memorizing each curve, each inch of your skin. Her fingers are a soft storm, never rushing, always lingering just long enough to drive you mad. You tilt your head back, eyes closing as the sensation overwhelms you, your skin alive with each new touch, each new kiss.

She leans into you, her lips brushing against the hollow of your throat, soft at first, then firmer, a trail of heat that sends a shiver up your spine. Her breath is a warm promise against your skin, and you feel her pulse quicken as she drags her lips lower, brushing against your collarbone, to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear that makes your breath catch.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” she whispers, the words barely audible over the sound of your heart beating in your chest. Her lips move against your skin as she speaks, sending a wave of heat through your veins. The sound of her voice, so raw and unguarded, only stokes the fire between you.

Your hands, previously hesitant, now roam freely across her body, finding purchase on her waist, pulling her closer, as though you can’t get close enough. The chemistry between you is undeniable, magnetic like you’re tethered by some invisible force that refuses to let go. You want more. You need more.

Your fingers trace the outline of her jaw, and her eyes flick up to meet yours, pupils wide with desire. There's a vulnerability there now, something softer than the confident, cocky smile she usually wears. But it only adds to the intensity—the understanding that this moment, this night, is for both of you. There’s no pretense here. Just raw, unfiltered need.

“You’re everything I wanted and more,” you breathe, the words slipping out before you can stop them. They feel like the truth, heavy and pure, and you know she hears it. You can see it in the way her lips curve up slightly, the way her eyes darken even more.

She responds with a soft laugh, a mix of satisfaction and something darker, almost teasing. "I'm glad I can live up to the hype," she murmurs, but her voice betrays her, the faint tremor in it telling you that, for all her control, she’s not immune to the same wild pull you feel.

Her hands slide down to the hem of your shirt, pulling it up slowly, deliberately, and you lift your arms without thinking. The fabric slides over your head, the air cool against your now-bare skin. Paige’s eyes are on you—on every inch of you—as she takes in the sight, her gaze almost possessive, the way she moves closer to you as if she’s been starving for this very moment.

You lean in, capturing her lips once again, but this kiss is different urgent, hungry, filled with a rawness that feels almost dangerous. There’s no hesitation this time, no testing the waters. You’re in this together, consumed by the fire between you. Your hands slide into her hair, tugging her closer, deepening the kiss, desperate for more of her, for more of this feeling that���s become all-consuming.

Paige’s hands are everywhere touching, pulling, guiding, exploring and each touch sends your pulse racing. She’s not gentle, not soft. There’s an edge to her, a fierceness that drives you wild, and you match her intensity, your bodies moving together in a perfect, fluid rhythm.

Her lips trail down your neck again, and you gasp as her teeth graze your skin, sending waves of heat and pleasure shooting straight to your core. You can feel the press of her body against yours, every inch of her warm, alive, and it feels like you’re dissolving into her, losing yourself in the sensation.

"You want me," she murmurs, voice low and husky, lips still pressed against your skin. It’s a statement, not a question, but the way she says it makes your body ache with need. You nod, unable to find your voice, but the answer is clear in every movement, in every breathless gasp that slips from your lips.

"I need you," you reply, the words barely more than a whisper, but they hang heavy in the air between you.

Paige’s hands move lower, tracing the curve of your waist, your hips, before sliding beneath the waistband of your jeans. The sensation of her touch on your skin, so intimate, so immediate, makes your breath catch in your throat. She pauses for a moment, her fingers still against your skin, and her eyes find yours again. There’s a wicked gleam in them now, something teasing, something dark and filled with desire.

“Tell me what you want,” she murmurs, her voice both seductive and commanding. It’s a question, but it’s also a challenge. And you know instinctively that there’s no going back now.

“I want all of you,” you breathe, your voice a mixture of urgency and desire. The words feel like they’ve been building inside of you, a dam that’s finally breaking, and you’re not sure you can stop them. But in that moment, you realize there’s nothing you want more than this. Than her.

Paige doesn’t waste any time. Her lips crash against yours once more, hungry and desperate, her hands moving with purpose, pulling at your jeans, guiding you, making you feel the urgency that thrums through her veins. The car feels like it’s closing in on you, the world outside fading into nothingness as you’re drawn deeper into the heat of the moment. Every touch, every kiss, every movement is building toward something inevitable.

Her hands are sure now, no hesitation, as she strips away the layers between you. The air in the car is thick, suffocating almost, with heat and anticipation. Her lips find the curve of your neck again, her breath shallow, her hands exploring the spaces where only you’ve been before.

[aphroditsdaughter]

IAMGONNAGETYOUBACK

told my friends, “i hate you but i love you just the same”

paige bueckers x OC (part 2 to guilty as sin) but can be read as a standalone

pretty heavy stuff don’t read if you’re under 18 or do im not responsible for your media consumption (all of the photos and graphics are from pinterest and belong to their original creators) also POV changes

like, feedback and comments are always appreciated!!

Paige’s mouth slips from between my thighs, her lips wet with me, her breath brushing across my skin like smoke. My body is still reeling, boneless and trembling, but she doesn’t give me space to breathe. She’s already climbing up my body, eyes dark with the kind of hunger that never fades.

“You think I’m done with you?” she whispers into my neck. Her voice is velvet-wrapped steel. “Cmon Pia you know you got another left one in you”

I don’t even have the strength to answer. I shake my head, already aching again.

“No?” she growls, kissing me hard biting my lower lip until I moan. “you’re a better liar than that? aren’t you?”

She shifts her body, gripping my thighs, spreading me wide, her strength effortless. She presses her core to mine wet, hot, aching. Our slick folds slide against each other, a slow, molten grind that makes me gasp.

“Fuck—Paige…”

“I want you to feel me,” she breathes, forehead to mine. “Every time you go home to him. Every time you look at him across that dinner table, wearing that pretty little lie of a smile.”

Each word is a knife wrapped in silk.

“You can love him, hate me, lie to my face I don’t care,” she says, voice rising with each thrust of her hips. “You’ll still come crawling back. You always do.”

She begins to move, rolling her hips in slow, deliberate circles, her clit brushing mine with every pass, every drag of her wet heat against mine. The friction is maddening. Our bodies slide together with a rhythm that's cruel and beautiful all at once.

With Paige it’s not just sex—it’s a haunting. A claiming.

Every time we were together, I could feel it—that quiet urgency in the way she touched me, the way her eyes lingered a second too long, as if she needed to stake her claim all over again. It wasn’t possessive, not exactly. It was more like a ritual, like drawing a boundary in the sand just to feel safe, even knowing the tide would come. I’d made her feel that way, like I was always half a breath from leaving, something wild and unpromised. So she marked me in small ways: with the press of her hand on my back, with silence that said more than words, with looks that burned like questions she couldn’t ask. And I let her. Not because I belonged to her, but because in those moments, I wanted to

Her hands grip my hips tight, holding me in place while she fucks me with her body, her voice, her rage, and her tenderness twisted together like vines choking a rose.

“I’m gonna get you back,” she whispers against my mouth, almost tender now. “Maybe not the way you think. Maybe not even the way you want.”

Her teeth graze my throat. “But you’ll remember this. When you’re in bed with him, thinking of me. When he touches you and you flinch, because it’s not the way I do.”

I whimper, overwhelmed her words, her rhythm, her dominance crashing over me like a tide.

“And maybe I’ll get you back by loving you more than he ever could,” she hisses. “Or maybe I’ll ruin you so thoroughly this time, no one else will even try.”

She grinds harder now, faster, our clits dragging against each other in slick, perfect friction. I feel her shaking above me, her muscles tense, sweat slicking her chest. Our nipples brush with every thrust. We’re skin to skin, heart to heart, sin to sin.

“Say it,” she demands. “Say you’re mine.”

I hesitate—but only for a second. My body’s too far gone, my pleasure cresting again like a wave crashing before I can pull away.

“I’m yours,” I cry out, voice breaking apart in her mouth.

But it’s a lie.

And we both know it.

The words taste like betrayal as they leave my lips sweet and sour, soaked in guilt. My body is hers in this moment, yes. My heart too. But I’m not going to leave him. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Probably not ever.

I say I’m yours with her hand between my thighs and his ring still faintly ghosting the skin on my finger. I say it because I want to believe it, even as something inside me recoils.

And Paige doesn’t stop. She doesn’t flinch. But I feel it the way her body stills for a half-second, like my voice cracked something open in her. Like she caught the hollow behind the words.

But she pushes through it. Forces the truth out of me through touch, through pressure, through pain.

“I’m yours,” I sob again, chasing the high, chasing the lie. “I’m yours.”

And I come undone, again, for her. My orgasm hits like a storm, tearing through me loud, desperate, consuming. I cry out her name, clutching her back, clawing her shoulders as my body arches into hers. for the woman I never left, not really. My body clenches around the lie and spills over, pleasure ripping through me so hard I feel the guilt burning right behind it.

She comes with me, her moan strangled, gasping my name into my mouth, her nails sinking into my waist as our slick bodies grind together, frantic and wild and so close it feels like we're trying to disappear into each other.

For a moment, there’s only the sound of our panting, the cooling sweat on our skin, the silent space between heartbeats.

Then she speaks—soft, but sharp.

“I hope he feels it,” she says. “Every time I fuck it out of you.”

She lies back beside me, tangled in the sheets, not touching anymore. Just breathing. Just watching.

And I lie there beside her, skin still buzzing, thighs still slick, knowing I’m going to get up in a few hours and go back to a man who doesn’t make me feel even half of this.

The morning light spills through the blinds, soft and relentless, kissing my skin with an unforgiving warmth that makes my stomach churn, making me squint and groan as I roll over. I’m tangled in sheets, half of my body still pressed against Paige’s, her chest rising and falling in a deep, peaceful sleep. If it weren’t for the tangled mess of our limbs and the reminder of last night’s chaos, it would almost feel like a normal morning. Almost

“Paige. Get up.”

“Paige, please. He’s going to be home soon.”

My voice cuts the air. Too sharp. Too cold. Like I didn’t just fall apart in her hands.

She groans into the pillow, her voice muffled but dripping with annoyance.

“Bro, what are you even doing?”

Still half-asleep, she stared at her like I was the one acting out of pocket. My head was heavy, heart heavier.

Last night, she said she’d leave him. Promised, even. But with Pia, the truth always shows up wearing half a disguise.

Now she’s pacing. Panicking. watching me like I’m the stranger. Like I’m not the same woman she just had shaking under her fingers, begging her name into the mattress.

“You’re seriously asking me what I’m doing?” I say, pulling on jeans with shaking hands. “I’m trying to get you out before my husband walks through that door and sees the Dallas Wings’ star point guard half-naked in our fucking bed!”

My voice cracks. Panic now curling around the edges of my words.

“and you’re over here acting like it’s brunch time.”

I say it with more urgency than I meant to, but panic’s starting to set in. It’s almost like I’m talking to myself at this point, more than to Paige. I need her to leave, but she’s making it impossible.

“Paige, please. It’s almost nine. His flight must’ve landed like forty minutes ago”

she rolls her eyes. unbothered

She lets out an exaggerated sigh, and I can almost hear her thinking, “Are you serious right now?”

“So you don’t even know when your own husband is arriving home? Wow, Pia. I mean, cheating on him a thousand times wasn’t enough? You can’t even remember when he’s coming home to you?”

“Paige…”

She stands, finally, in that slow, feline way she always does like she owns the air around her. Like there’s no version of this where she loses me.

“That’s a shame” she says, slipping her shirt on without looking at me. “I was hoping for a second round.”

I wanted to punch her. Dead in the mouth.

But that would mean I’d have to bruise the perfect curve of her jaw, the nose I’ve kissed like a prayer.

Maybe I should. Maybe the pain would help me forget.

“I swear to God—”

“Alright, alright,” she cuts m off, raising her hands like a surrender.

“I’ll go. Don’t worry.”

But then she flashes that smile. That smile—the one that used to make me forget my own name. The one that made me say “I do” and hear her voice instead of his.

I’m pulling on my clothes in silence. She’s quiet too. Not mad just… disappointed.

And maybe a little cruel about it.

She lets out a sigh, low and heavy. “Nothing,” she says when I ask what’s wrong.

But it’s not nothing. It never is.

She wants me to ask her to stay. Wants me to say I’ll finally leave him. Wants me to make this real.

But I won’t.

So she grabs her keys. Shrugs her jacket on.

No kiss goodbye. No goodbye at all.

Because if she kisses me, I won’t let her leave.

And if she asks me to stay, I’ll say yes.

Even if I mean no.

But she doesn’t ask.

She just slams the door behind her.

And in the silence she leaves, I hear it echo—

I’m gonna get you back.

Not now.

Not gently.

But she will.

Because Paige?

She doesn’t lose.

Not without burning something down first.

[aphroditsdaughter]

GUILTY AS SIN

what if she’s written “mine” on my upper thigh but not only in my mind

paige bueckers x OC

pretty heavy stuff don’t read if you’re under 18 or do im not responsible for your media consumption (all the photos and graphics are from pinterest and belong to their original creators)

also a huge congrats to the uconn huskies for bringing the 12th one back home!!

Truth is, this was never meant to happen. She was never meant to happen. The plan was simple, go to college, earn a degree you weren’t even sure you loved, find a nice husband along the way, and settle down by 26. A life laid out in careful steps, a future stitched together by your mother’s thread and needle.

But Paige Bueckers, point guard for The Dallas Wings, was never part of the blueprint.

And yet, here she is. Half-draped across your body, skin warm against yours, fingers tracing absentminded patterns on your arm. Her breath is soft against your neck, whispering promises that feel like lullabies, like confessions, like something dangerously close to forever.

And you, caught between the life you planned and the one unfolding right in front of you, don’t know whether to hold on or let go.

“Promise me you’ll leave him,” I whisper, my lips trailing down the curve of her jaw, grazing the delicate skin beneath her ear, descending toward the hollow of her collarbone where her breath stutters.

Silence.

“Promise me, Pia,” I say again, the words trembling between desperation and demand.

Her breath catches. Then, finally, through a shiver that sounds like surrender, she whispers,“I promise.” Her voice is a threadbare thing, trembling and unconvincing, but it pulls me in anyway.

I rise to meet her gaze, searching for truth in the depths of her eyes. They’re are glassy, deep pools of something I can’t quite name. Longing? Guilt? Deception? I don’t know, But the truth hides from me. I want to believe her God, I want to believe her. That this time, she’ll choose not just me, but herself. That this time, she’ll finally break free.

“What?”

“Tomorrow morning. You’ll leave him,” I say. The words come out firmer than I intended, more demand than plea.

No question in it. just a quiet ultimatum.

Her expression flickers, something unreadable passing over her face. And then silence again.

She starting at me now her eyes narrowing like I’m the one who’s lost my mind, like I’m the one slipping. Maybe I am.

“I will,” she says, and pulls me back into her mouth like a drowning woman clutching air.

Her lips are feverish against mine, igniting something reckless and raw in me. I know she’s lying. Of course she’s lying. But I’m too far gone, too tangled in her spell to care. I hate how easily I fall for her again and again, crawling back to her like a dog who doesn’t know better.

She’s unbuttoning my shirt now, her fingers deliberate and maddeningly slow. Her lips travel downward, planting delicate, burning kisses along my stomach, her touch a fire that consumes me.

I’m kissing her abs slow, reverent, like each press of my lips might absolve me. But it doesn’t. The knot tightens in my stomach, familiar and bitter, like a warning I’ve learned to ignore. That sick ache of knowing I can’t leave him. Not now. Not ever.

What am I doing?

Another empty promise slips from my mouth, like all the others. I said the same thing four years ago. Then again two years later. Each time with the same trembling voice. Each time with the same lie. And still, she takes me back.

Now she’s watching me, eyes wide open, seeing through every brittle mask I wear. She knows I’m full of shit. But she stays anyway. God, why does she always stay?

I move up, my lips tracing a path along her ribs, then her chest, until I’m hovering above her, so close to kissing her again. But something guilt or clarity or fear stops me. My body stills. My breath catches.

I shouldn’t do this.

I’m a married woman. I’ve made vows, signed papers, built a life with another. What am I doing here, on top of her, heart pounding like I’m nineteen and reckless again?

“Stop thinking about him,” Paige says, her voice soft, firm, desperate.

“I’m right here. Just stop. Please, let go, Pia.”

Let go.

I shouldn’t.

But I do.

My forehead falls against hers. Her hands cradle my face like I’m something fragile, worth protecting. Her thumb brushes my cheek slow, loving and then she leans back just enough to look me in the eyes.

“It’s just me and you,” she whispers. “Tomorrow he’ll be gone. And it’s gonna be me and you. Forever.”

But it’s not going to be. Not really.

Because I’m a liar.

Because I’m a coward.

Because I’m a horrible person wearing a woman’s skin.

But I don’t say any of that.

Her lips are soft, but the kiss is anything but gentle. It’s hungry. Urgent. Like we’re trying to consume the years we lost the years I wasted. She pulls me down onto her, fingers already tangled in the hem of my shirt. She lifts it, peeling it over my head like she’s done a hundred times before, like second nature.

"You feel so fucking good," she murmurs, breath hot against my neck as she kisses the curve where it meets my shoulder. Her hands are everywhere my waist, my hips, my back—like she’s afraid I’ll disappear again.

Her lips press against my skin, and I can feel the weight of her presence, possessive and commanding. She sits up, straddling my waist, her body flushed and glowing in the low light. Her hair is a mess, her lips swollen, eyes heavy with want. She looks like sin and salvation all at once, and I can’t look away.

Her hands roam over me, tracing the curve of my body with deliberate slowness, like she’s trying to memorize every inch of me, like I might vanish if she doesn’t hold me tight enough.

Her eyes glimmer dark, knowing, like she can see all my secrets, like she knows exactly what she wants. And right now, that’s me.

"Tell me. Does he know what to do with you? Does he know what makes you feel good?" she whispers, her voice a velvet threat.

I can’t lie to her. I can’t look away from those eyes, burning with jealousy and lust, wanting me in a way I haven’t seen in years. Her touch is electric, a sharp contrast to the dull, distant touch of him.

"Not like you," I breathe, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

And then, without warning, she flips me onto my back effortlessly, her hands sliding down my sides as she pins me beneath her. There’s something in the way she looks at me possessive, confident. I can see the hunger, but also the satisfaction. She’s always wanted this control power, and me, completely at her mercy.

"You always were such a fucking tease," she murmurs, her lips curling into a smirk as she hovers above me. "I've been waiting for this, you know. For you to finally get out of your head long enough to give in."

I bite my lip, the tension thick between us, and my heart races with anticipation. Paige isn’t gentle—she never has been. And that’s exactly why I’ve never been able to walk away. She knows me too well. She knows how to make me lose myself.

She leans down, pressing a kiss to the hollow of my throat, then another lower, over my collarbone. Her teeth graze my skin, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark. reminding me who really owns me. I gasp, hands reaching for her, but she swats them away, pinning them to the bed with one strong hand.

"No, no touching," she commands, her voice thick with authority. "Not unless I say so."

I moan softly in protest, but it’s more out of frustration than anything. I want to touch her. I want to feel the heat of her skin beneath my fingertips, but she’s not giving me that. Not yet.

"Shh, just relax," she coos, her breath hot against my ear. "Let me take care of you. Let me make you feel good like he never has."

She moves lower, her body following the curve of mine as her tongue flicks out, warm and slow, trailing kisses across my chest. When her lips wrap around my nipple, I gasp—a sharp, involuntary sound that makes her hum against me.

Her fingers slide down my stomach, so slow, so deliberate that I’m practically aching from the anticipation. She looks up at me, eyes gleaming, a cocky smirk tugging at her lips.

"I’m gonna make you scream my name, Pia," she says, her voice low, daring. "And you’re gonna love it."

I shiver, my pulse quickening as she slides down further, her hands brushing against my thighs, her lips leaving a trail of fire behind them. I’m helpless beneath her, body already responding to her every movement. When she finally reaches between my legs, she doesn’t hesitate. She slips two fingers inside me, pushing in with smooth, relentless precision.

"Paige..." I gasp, a sharp cry escaping my lips.

Paige doesn’t waste any time. She starts to move her fingers in and out of me, deep and slow at first, letting the pleasure build. My hips instinctively lift to meet her, but she pulls back, her grip on my waist tightening to hold me still.

"Not so fast," she warns, her tone mocking, filled with dark satisfaction. "Remember how long you left me hanging?"

I whimper, my body aching for more, but she just smirks, knowing exactly how to torture me. She continues her slow pace, fingers curling inside me, hitting that spot that makes my whole body tremble. The pleasure starts to build, but she’s taking her sweet time, pushing me to the edge but not letting me fall.

She chuckles darkly, her thumb circling my clit with a wickedly slow, teasing rhythm.

"Please what?" she taunts, her voice dripping with satisfaction. "Tell me what you want, Pia."

"Faster," I beg, my voice breathless, desperate. "I need you to... oh god, please—"

"Need me to what?" she presses, her fingers quickening now, but not enough to let me unravel just yet. "Use your words, baby."

"Please..." I beg again, my voice a whisper, desperate and needy. "Paige, please, faster."

"Make me come, Paige. Please..." My plea breaks in half, the words coming out in a fractured rush.

Her eyes lock onto mine, her smirk never fading. "That’s my girl."

My girl

Her pace quickens, fingers thrusting deeper, her thumb never ceasing its rhythm on my clit. She’s relentless, her pace unyielding, pushing me closer to the edge with every stroke. I can't hold back anymore. My back arches off the bed, and my body trembles violently as the orgasm hits me hard. Waves of pleasure crash over me, pulling the air from my lungs and making me gasp.

"Fuck!" I cry out, my hands gripping the sheets, knuckles white. "Paige..."

She doesn’t stop. Even as I tremble beneath her, she keeps going, prolonging my orgasm, pulling every last bit of pleasure out of me until I’m gasping for air, my body convulsing beneath her.

When she finally slows down, she watches me with satisfaction, a smug grin curling at her lips.

"Told you I could make you scream."

I’m left breathless, skin still tingling, my mind barely able to catch up with the aftermath of what just happened. Paige leans down, kissing me deeply, almost possessively, as if claiming me all over again. Her hands are on my hips, her body pressed against mine, and I can feel how much control she has over me how much she loves it.

"I can’t believe he gets to see you like this," she whispers, her voice thick with lust and satisfaction. "Fuck pia Do you know how insane that makes me?”

"I’m not done with you," she adds, her voice still low, laden with desire. "Not even close."