mmichog

[mmichog]

Not chipotle knowing my big back order and having it ready before I called. Mind you the store got my number saved like I work there.

Should I be mad? Cause what they trying to say….i mean I got a discount though but still

[mmichog]

You make an offhand comment to ur friend Johnny abt how hot that guy hes always hanging out with is. Yknow, the behemoth of a man who makes hilariously dark jokes and wears a mask? Yeah that one.

Its said in passing, and ur pretty sure Johnny forgets abt it entirely, until late one night he sends u a link to a dildo??? And its like, big, right? Much bigger than anything u go for. Johnny knows this, bc who doesnt discuss their sex life with their bestie? So u reply back "Johnny wtf u know thats not my thing, its huge lol."

His response? "Well I'd start practicin' if you wanna take on my 'hot friend'. Its to scale ;)"

...you add the dildo to ur cart.

[mmichog]

[mmichog]

What You Need

Caitlin Clark x fem!reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You and Caitlin Clark share a dorm. She has a boyfriend—Connor. But you’ve been in her space too long, too close, too bold.

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: Slow-burn tension, dorm-room drama, forbidden flirtation, emotional cheating, roommate obsession

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:Suggestive content, profanity, emotional manipulation, possessiveness, implied smut, cheating themes

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~ 2.7k

ᴠɪʙᴇ: “I’m what you need” in a hoodie and boxers, thigh spread on the futon, grinning like you already know she’s yours.

He hates me. And honestly? That shit turns me on.

Connor doesn’t say it out loud, not when Caitlin’s watching, but he doesn’t have to. His face twists every time I walk in the room, every time my hand lingers a little too long on her shoulder, every time I pull her into a hug that ends with her in my arms and her head buried in my chest like I’m home.

Like I’m the one she needs. Not him.

I always flash him a little smile when it happens. A low, lazy one—like I’m not trying. Like this is just me. Relaxed. Confident. Dangerous.

Because it is.

I’ve been a boxer since I was a kid. 5’10, all legs and control, knuckles that don’t bruise anymore. My coach used to say I fight like I’m waiting for the bell to confess something. Calm. Ruthless. Patient.

Which is perfect—because Caitlin’s been testing me since the day we moved in.

Not on purpose. She doesn’t even notice, not really. To her, I’m just her roommate. Her favorite hoodie thief. The one who knows exactly how she likes her tea and exactly when her cramps hit. I’m her best friend. Her shoulder. Her laugh when the world’s too loud.

And yeah… I also eat her out when Connor’s not around.

She doesn’t call it that. She doesn’t call it anything. Sometimes it’s late. Sometimes she’s tired. Sometimes she’s just “feeling weird” and crawls into my bed in her underwear, curled against me like I’m gravity. Her hand slides down, and I take it from there.

No questions. No strings. Just relief.

When it’s over, she turns away like it didn’t mean anything. And I let her. I always let her. Because she can lie to herself—but I see the truth in how she arches into me. In the way her hands shake when I kiss her collarbone. In the sounds she makes when my mouth is on her and nothing else in the world matters.

⸻

Tonight, it’s movie night.

Connor’s here. His hand’s on her thigh. And I’m sitting across from them on the floor, leaned back against the couch, watching them like a goddamn predator.

He hates how close we are. How I talk to her. How she laughs harder at my jokes. How she calls me “baby” when she’s sleepy and doesn’t even realize it.

At one point, I get up to grab my water and pass by them on the way back. Caitlin’s mid-laugh, and without even thinking, I lean down and kiss her cheek.

It’s soft. It’s quick. It’s casual. Like always. But Connor stiffens.

“What the fuck was that?” he says.

I blink. “Chapstick delivery. She asked earlier.”

“I was joking,” Caitlin says, flustered.

I grin. “I wasn’t.”

Connor looks at her, then me. “You let her do that?”

I tilt my head. “Let? I didn’t know Caitlin needed permission to be touched.”

“Y/N—” Caitlin warns, soft.

But I’m already smiling. “Relax, man. It’s not like we’re fucking.”

He opens his mouth. Shuts it.

Because he knows if he really wanted to throw hands, he’d lose. Everyone does. I’ve got shoulders built from rope and repetition. I’ve got forearms that crack necks when I stretch. I’ve got calluses and calm.

And Caitlin? She never defends him. She doesn’t defend me either—but she doesn’t shut me down. That’s enough.

⸻

Later that night, after he storms out (again), she’s sitting on the couch in one of my hoodies.

She always picks the gray one. The one that still smells like my cologne. She claims it’s warm. I know better.

“Why do you do that?” she asks, scrolling her phone.

I raise a brow. “Do what?”

“Mess with him.”

“You mean tell the truth?”

“Y/N,” she sighs.

“I’m serious,” I say, sitting beside her. “I don’t do anything you don’t allow.”

She looks at me. Really looks. And for a second, she doesn’t say anything. I reach out, brush her hair behind her ear. My hand stays there, fingers tucked under her jaw.

“Tell me to stop,” I say again, quiet.

She doesn’t.

I lean in, kiss the side of her neck. The same spot I left a mark last week. The same one she covered up with makeup before brunch.

“You’ve been mine,” I whisper. “Even when you don’t want to admit it.”

Her breath catches. Her phone drops between us.

“Y/N, I can’t—”

“You already do.”

I kiss her again. Her mouth opens. My tongue slides in. It’s hot and desperate and so damn familiar. She moans against my lips. One hand gripping my hoodie like she’s mad at herself.

I push her back on the couch, crawl between her legs, mouth trailing down her stomach.

“You let me do this,” I murmur, lips brushing her waistband. “You always let me.”

She gasps. One arm thrown over her eyes, like if she can’t see it, it’s not happening.

But it is. And we both know it always will.

⸻

She turned twenty-one and the world tried to hand her cake.I gave her everything else.

Didn’t interfere with Conor’s plans—wouldn’t want to seem messy. I let him have the dinner, the movie, the awkward handholding he calls romance. I let him try. But the day? That was mine.

Started with a knock on her door before she even opened her eyes. Fresh coffee, exactly how she likes it—hazelnut swirl, a splash of oat milk, extra whip. Balanced on top? A foil-wrapped breakfast sandwich and a little yellow card.

No name. Just:

“You’re my favorite part of waking up.” — your bestie 💋

Inside was a pressed flower from her favorite walk route and the tiniest heart drawn at the bottom corner.She smiled when she saw it. I know she did. She always smiles at my notes.

Around noon, her phone buzzed.

Another delivery: her favorite lunch, already paid for, dropped right to her hands while she waited in the film room. Everyone looked. Everyone knew. She texted me a soft “you’re insane lol” with a picture of her half-eaten wrap. I replied with a zoomed-in pic of my middle finger.

I signed it: Love, the reason your man’s nervous.

But the real fun didn’t start until she got back to the dorm.

She walked in humming. A little buzzed from the champagne mimosas Conor ordered at brunch. Still in that too-tight dress she didn’t pick for herself. I was sitting on the couch waiting.

Fitted black tee. Baggy sweats. Hoodie slung over my lap. Real domestic. Real demure. (Hehe)

“Hey, birthday girl,” I grinned. “You look uncomfortable.”

She tossed her purse on the table. “You’re such a dick.”

“I’m a visionary.”

She opened her mouth, probably to sass me, but stopped when she saw the small black bag on her bed.

“…What’s that?”

“Your last gift.”

“I told you no more stuff.”

“And I told you I don’t listen.”

She crossed the room, picked up the bag, and pulled out a tiny velvet box.

“…You didn’t.”

I leaned back and laced my fingers behind my head.

“Open it.”

She did. Slow. Cautious.

Inside: a delicate gold promise ring with a single tiny sapphire in the center. She stared.

“Y/N—”

“It’s not a relationship ring,” I said. “It’s a reminder. That no matter where you are, how confused you feel, or who you let inside your bed… you still belong to me.”

Her mouth parted. Her hand shook just a little.

“I’m not yours,” she whispered.

I stood up. Crossed to her slow. Brushed her hair behind her ear.

“You’re so mine.”

She didn’t move. I took the ring and slipped it on her finger myself. Kissed the top of her hand like she was a damn queen. Then I grabbed my phone, pulled her into me, and took a picture of us.

Posted it to my story with no caption. Just audio in the background—her voice from a voicemail she left two weeks ago:

“You’re my favorite person. Don’t tell anyone I said that.”

And the picture? Her curled into me, smile soft, ring glinting in the light.

Bestie behavior.

Conor showed up around seven.

Dinner reservations. A dumb card. One of those overpriced mall necklaces that looked like it came from a vending machine. She smiled. She always smiles. But she didn’t post him.

I watched them leave from the window. Smirked to myself. Because tonight? I’d get her back. And when I do?

I’m not stopping at flowers.

⸻

She didn’t knock.

Just walked in, kicked off her shoes, and threw her jacket across the futon. Her hair was messy. Her lip gloss was gone. And she was already pulling that little mall necklace off her neck like it itched.

I was laid up in bed, hoodie sleeves pushed to my elbows, scrolling my phone like I wasn’t waiting on her all damn night.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just disappeared into her room. A while later, she came back barefoot—in gray sweats, her skin glowing, sports bra tight across her chest like a bow I wanted to rip off with my teeth.

“Cute fit,” I said, smirking.

She rolled her eyes and climbed into my bed without hesitation, crawling under the blanket like it was her spot. Because it was. Wet hair damping the pillow.

I locked my phone and tossed it on the dresser.

“So?” I asked. “Tell me about your night.”

She groaned. “Do I have to?”

“Yes. It’s my gift.”

She laughed, already blushing. That guilty kind. She was curled up on her side, head on my pillow, and I was lying beside her, one hand resting just under the waistband of her sweats.

“I mean… it was fine,” she mumbled.

I raised a brow. “Just fine?”

She shrugged. “Dinner was mid. He kept talking about himself. Got me a necklace.”

“The ugly one?”

“Stop—”

“What about after dinner?”

She hesitated.

I leaned closer, lips brushing her ear. “You let him fuck?”

She didn’t answer. So I kissed her shoulder. Then her collarbone. Then lower.

“Caitlin,” I said, voice a whisper. “Tell me.”

“He—he tried,” she said. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Oh?”

“It wasn’t good.”

I slid my hand lower, tugging her sweats down just enough to settle between her thighs. She shifted. Didn’t stop me.

“So he couldn’t finish the job?”

“I didn’t come,” she whispered.

I grinned against her stomach. “You never do with him.”

She didn’t deny it.

“You know what I think?” I said, lips brushing her hip. “I think you come back here because you know who does it right.”

She inhaled sharply when I kissed lower. Open-mouthed. Slow.

“Tell me what he said when you moaned,” I whispered, tongue teasing her skin. “Did he think it was for him?”

“Y/N—”

“Tell me,” I said again, two fingers sliding in, mouth finding the softest part of her. “I want you to say it while I eat what’s mine.”

She gasped. Tried to speak.

“Use your words, Caitlin,” I growled, tongue sliding in deep. “You’re so good at pretending. Do it now.”

Her voice broke. “He said I was quiet… he didn’t know I was—was close—” I sucked harder. Smirked when her legs shook.

“Close?” I said, voice dark. “Baby, I haven’t even started.”

She whimpered. And I didn’t stop. Not until her whole body arched. Not until her hands gripped the sheets. Not until she came twice—loud, soaked, trembling. Afterwards she just laid there on her side, staring at me like I’d unzipped something inside her soul.

I brushed her hair back.

“He’s not me,” I whispered. “And he never will be.”

⸻

It’s game day. We were all squeezed around the patio table like this was some chill post-practice hangout, but let’s be real—it was a warzone with pretty drinks.

Caitlin sat between me and Connor. Technically, closer to him. But her body? Fully leaned toward me. Legs brushing mine. Elbow grazing my thigh. Reaching across the table—not for her plate, but for mine.

“Want another bite?” I asked, already holding up the sandwich.

She nodded, smiling, mouth parting before I even finished tearing it. I fed her slow. Let my fingers linger a little too long near her lips. She didn’t blink. Just hummed, satisfied, licking her bottom lip after like she forgot who was watching.

Connor shifted next to her, jaw tense, silent. I smiled to myself. Tapped away on my phone like I wasn’t soaking in every second.

“My baby just greedy,” I said, glancing up briefly, voice light.

Her friends across the table lost it—trying to hide their grins behind lemonades and fries, giving each other that look. Like they were watching a romcom where the villain boyfriend didn’t know he was about to get replaced.

Caitlin was laughing too, trying to play it off, but her shoulders relaxed every time I touched her. Like clockwork.

Connor finally spoke. “Didn’t know you were sharing.” I didn’t even look at him.

“She always eats off my plate,” I said, casually. “Says mine tastes better.”

Caitlin didn’t correct me.She was too busy sipping my drink.

He stared at the way she held the straw with two fingers, her pinky grazing the rim—her tongue tracing the top like she was teasing me in public. I knew she wasn’t doing it on purpose. Which somehow made it worse for him. Better for me.

“She could’ve ordered one,” he muttered.

“She likes mine,” I said, still scrolling, smug as hell. “Don’t you, Cait?”

“Yeah,” she said, softly. “It’s fine.”

I tilted my head. “Just fine?”

She looked at me. We both knew what I was really asking. Her smile slipped a little. Got shyer. “Better than mine.” Connor looked like he was about to crush his fork in half.

I just kept scrolling. Cool. Unbothered. Winning.

⸻

Halftime hit like a bullet. Whistle blew, lights flashed, crowd on their feet—but my eyes never left Caitlin. Twenty-two points deep, sweat soaking through her jersey, high pony sticking to her neck. She was locked in all quarter, hitting threes like it was light work, jaw clenched in that way she only gets when she’s trying to prove something. And yet, even in the chaos, she found time to look for him.

Connor.

He was down by the tunnel like he always is—hat backwards, hands in his pockets, pretending like he’s the kind of boyfriend who shows up and means something. And she—sweet thing—jogged over to him. Still panting, still lit up from the court, smile tugging at her lips like she forgot who she was walking up to. But the moment she reached him, he leaned back. Grimaced. Wiped his hand on his jeans like she was a spilled drink.

“You’re all sweaty,” he said, barely touching her arm.

Caitlin’s face twitched, like she was trying not to let it show. She nodded, turned, and that’s when she saw me.

I was leaning on the barrier. Hoodie half-zipped, gold chain out, rings glinting under the lights. Cool as ever. Didn’t call her over. Didn’t move. Just raised a brow and tilted my chin like, C’mon, baby. Don’t play with me.

She didn’t hesitate.

Crossed the space like it didn’t matter who was watching. Like cameras weren’t on her. Like Connor hadn’t just embarrassed the fuck out of her for being the star of the game.

“C’mere, mama,” I said as soon as she got close, arms already open. “You think I give a damn about a little sweat? You Caitlin fucking Clark. You supposed to sweat.”

She melted into me. Right there. Wrapped her arms around my neck like second nature, forehead resting against mine, breath hot. I grabbed her hips, pulled her in closer, let her rest. Didn’t care who saw. Didn’t care if her little situation was still watching. And yeah, he was. Eyes tight, arms crossed, jaw clenched.

I kissed her cheek and whispered, “You know where home is.” She didn’t say anything. But she didn’t pull away either.

⸻

We were out celebrating the win, and everyone looked good—fresh, dressed, glittered with that post-victory glow. Even Caitlin. Especially Caitlin. Hair curled, lashes long, lips glossy in a way that made it hard to think. She was radiant. She always is. And even if she rolled in mud before showing up, I’d still want her in my lap, on my lips, under my skin. I’d inject her into my bloodstream if I could—but that’s the crazy talking.

So instead, I just said “fuck it.”

The whole night. No hesitation.

From the moment we walked in, I didn’t give her space. My arm stayed around her waist like it was born there. Every time she tried to sit down, I pulled her onto my thigh instead. Every time she laughed at something someone else said, I leaned in and said something filthier under my breath to steal it back. She didn’t push me off. She never does. If anything, she leaned into it—body soft, breath hitching, eyes shining like she didn’t even realize what she was giving me.

And Connor? Oh, he saw everything.

He was at the end of the table—left out, watching us from two seats away like he was part of the team but not with her. Not really. Because she wasn’t reaching for his hand. She wasn’t touching his knee under the table. She wasn’t whispering in his ear.

Nah, that was all me.

I fed her from my fork again. Wiped her lip with my thumb and kissed it clean. When she got up to go to the bathroom, I tugged her back by the waistband of her jeans, just to kiss her temple first. “Don’t be long, baby,” I said. “I miss you already.”

⸻

She giggled. Giggled. And walked off like I hadn’t just claimed her with a sentence.

Her friends? Eating it up. Laughing, watching like they were waiting for someone to explode.

And him? Connor’s knuckles were white around his glass. He didn’t say shit. Didn’t move. Didn’t even try.

Because deep down, he knew. She wasn’t fighting me. She never had.

He pulled her aside during dessert.

Not that far—just a few steps away from the booth, like he was trying to keep the drama contained. But the tension in his voice? That shit cracked through the music and the laughter like a mic drop no one asked for.

“I just feel like you’ve changed.”

Caitlin tilted her head, calm. “Okay.”

He blinked. “You’re not even gonna argue?”

“No.”

“…So that’s it? We’re done?”

She nodded, simple. “Yeah. We been done.”

His mouth opened, closed. He looked confused. Like she was supposed to cry, or fight for him, or say she didn’t mean it. He took a half-step forward, brows furrowed like he was going to say something—

But then I called, “You done, babe?” from the booth, legs wide, arms slung across the backrest like a fucking throne. Caitlin turned. Walked straight over. Didn’t look back.

Climbed onto my lap like her seat was never at that table to begin with. My hands found her thighs instantly, fingers sliding under the hem of her dress. I smiled, big and slow, eyes flicking past her to Connor, who still hadn’t moved.

“You good, man?” I asked, voice dripping with mock concern. “You look kinda pale.”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Because Caitlin was already leaning in, whispering something in my ear that made me groan low and pull her even closer. I kissed her neck, didn’t even try to hide it, and when she laughed—real and full like she hadn’t just been dumped—his face cracked.

Too late. She’s mine now. And the best part? She never looked sad. Not even once.

[mmichog]

ONG JUJU WATKINS

honestly anything for her that u like buttt if u need ideas:

Enemies to lovers: UCLA player x juju

Going to one of her games and she can’t stop looking at you

Becoming friends with her family bc you helped them out in some way and then you meet her at a family event where her relatives are raving about how nice u were to help them

Best friends to loversss she strikes me as the type of girl that wouldn’t be super forward and you would need to do small things to feel her out like touching your knee off hers to see if she would pull away etc

ᴊᴜᴊᴜ ᴡᴀᴛᴋɪɴꜱ x ꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏɪɴ’ ʜᴇʀᴇ?

MASTERLIST, MORE

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You play for UCLA. That’s enough reason not to mess with her. But fate doesn’t care. You ran into her aunt one day—helped her during a flat tire situation—and next thing you know, you’re at a family cookout in her backyard. And Juju? She’s stunned. You’ve been a rival on court, silent tension and sharp glances—but now you’re sitting next to her, laughing with her grandma, accidentally touching knees, and acting like this wasn’t supposed to be war.

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: Enemies to lovers | Best friends to lovers | Slow burn | College athlete drama

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: Mouthy teasing, light language, knee touching that feels illegal, Juju being awkward but fine as hell, your friends side-eyeing your life choices

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~ 1k

ᴠɪʙᴇ: “You always look at me like that?” “I only look at people who bother me.” → Except her leg hasn’t moved away from yours in 15 minutes.

It’s the kind of gym that feels like war. Bleachers packed. Energy loud. Rivalry hot before tip-off even starts.

USC vs. UCLA.

And then there’s her. She walks onto the court like she owns it. Jaw clenched, bun high, eyes already locked in. And then they lock on me.

And she smirks.

I don’t smile back. I don’t do that. Not for her.

They announce the starters. I’m already walking to center court before the ref calls us. She’s already there.

We don’t speak. Never have. But the tension’s been building since our first silent stare-down two games ago. Her name stays in my mouth when I vent to my teammates. Mine probably lives in her scouting report.

The ball goes up.

First quarter? Tight.

Second quarter? I strip the ball from her and flex on the fast break. I can feel her heat behind me. She doesn’t like that.

Third quarter? She hits a three with my hand in her face, and laughs. Literally laughs. I bite my tongue before I bark something dumb.

Fourth quarter? The crowd’s in it. Cameras are in our faces. She walks past me on the free throw line, bumping my shoulder just enough to get a reaction.

“You holding up?” she says under her breath.

I don’t flinch. “Are you?”

She smiles again. Doesn’t answer.

Game ends with us both at 20+ points. USC wins by three. I shake hands like a professional, but when I get to her, all I do is nod.

She nods back, lips twitching like she’s trying not to grin.

Two weeks later, I’m in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the 405, halfway to losing my mind, when I spot a car on the shoulder. Hazard lights blinking. Hood popped. It’s hot. Nobody’s stopping.

I don’t know what gets into me.

Maybe it’s just the fact that she’s alone. A woman. Hood up. No one even slowing down.

So I pull over.

“Everything okay?” I ask, jogging up, keys in my hoodie pocket.

She turns.

Older woman, moomoo on, fanning herself with a phone.

“Oh baby thank you”

It’s her aunt. I don’t know that yet. Not until she asks my name while I help figure out what’s wrong, and says, “My niece plays for USC. Juju. You probably know her.”

I freeze. Laugh. “Yeah. I’ve seen her around.”

Her aunt kept in touch.

It wasn’t a lot—just texts now and then. Updates. A check-in here, a funny TikTok there. Every time she messaged me, she ended it with:

“You ever need a plate, baby, you know where we at.”

“You got fam out here now.”

“Let me know if you ever hungry on a Sunday.”

I never expected it to be real. You know how people say stuff like that and don’t mean it? Yeah. That’s what I thought.

Until I was actually in LA again for a summer run and stuck around for an extra weekend. Training schedule was light. My coach told me to rest. I remembered her text.

And now?

I’m standing in the middle of Juju Watkins’ backyard, holding a red solo cup, while her entire family moves like I’ve been here before.

There’s ribs on the grill, a domino game on the table, music blasting from a speaker that looks older than me. Her aunt pulls me into a side hug like I’m her goddaughter. Cousins wave. Grandma offers me foil like she knows I’ll be taking a plate home.

Nobody told Juju I was coming.

That much is obvious the second she walks out from the house, sunglasses on, plate in hand—and stops.

Straight up stops mid-step like her brain just glitched.

She lowers her shades and looks right at me. “…What you doin’ here?”

I raise my brows. “Hi to you too.”

Her aunt shouts from the grill, “That’s the one I told you about! Baby, she saved me on the freeway!”

Juju blinks like she just got dunked on. “That was you?”

“Guilty.”

She licks her lips, clears her throat. “I didn’t even know you knew my family.”

I shrug. “Didn’t know it was your family till after I helped.”

She’s still looking at me, eyes a little too sharp, like she’s searching for something.

“You crashed my family cookout?”

I sip from my cup. “Your aunt invited me.”

“She didn’t even tell me.”

“Guess it was on a need-to-know basis.”

She stares a second longer, then exhales a laugh—short, disbelieving, soft.

“You just be showing up places, huh?”

“Only when I know the food’s good.”

Juju sits down across from me later. Doesn’t say much. Just watches me joke with her uncle. Pretends she’s not staring when I talk to her grandma.

We didn’t talk for two weeks after the cookout.

Not in a dramatic way. Just… we didn’t have a reason. I wasn’t gonna text her first, and she didn’t seem like the type to reach out without something to say.

Then out of nowhere, I get a message.

Juju: “Your plate’s still in my grandma’s fridge.”

I stared at it for a minute.

Then replied:

“She packed me two.”

“And she said I could come back anytime.”

Juju: “Don’t be weird.”

Me: “Too late.”

It started there.

Little messages. Story replies. Her liking a pic I posted in her school colors, me pretending I didn’t do that on purpose.

A week later, she sent me a TikTok of a couple arguing over who said “I love you” first. No caption.

I sent back the 🤨 emoji.

She sent:

“I’d win that argument.”

“Just saying.”

Then there were FaceTime calls. Short at first. Then longer.

We talked about basketball at first. Our teams. Practice. People on our rosters who irritated us. But eventually, it shifted. Books. Music. Family. Dreams.

She called me one night at 11:54 PM. I answered half-asleep.

“You ever think about what you’d do if you weren’t hooping?”

“Huh?”

“If you never picked up a ball. What would you be doing?”

I rolled onto my back, pulled the blanket up. “I don’t know. Maybe coaching kids. Maybe traveling. You?”

“Probably teaching,” she said. “Or working at Foot Locker. I like telling people what shoes to buy.”

I laughed.

She didn’t say anything for a second. Then.

“I like talking to you.

My heart jumped. I said nothing back. Just stared at my ceiling with a dumb smile and hoped she couldn’t hear it in my silence.

By the time preseason rolled around again, we were different. Still not together. Still not calling it anything. But her name was saved in my phone under a nickname. I kept a screenshot of a blurry photo she took of us on my lock screen, and I knew she had one of me tucked in her camera roll too.

She came to one of our games.

Sat two rows behind the bench. Hoodie up, glasses on. Her teammates didn’t say a word. She didn’t cheer. But I saw her watching.

Later that night, I posted a story of my post-game meal. She replied.

“You looked good.”

“Wanna see if you move like that off court?”

I waited 15 minutes to respond.

“You ever coming outta that hoodie and saying what you really mean?”

She didn’t answer.

But she called. And when I answered, the first thing she said was:

“I think I like you.”

It was quiet. Careful. Soft in the way girls like her rarely let themselves be. So I touched my knee to hers the next time I saw her. Didn’t say a word.

And when she didn’t move?

I leaned in. And kissed her.

[mmichog]

Reader is the only one to ever see Diana’s hair without the bun and brags all the time about it

Diana Taurasi x Cocky!Fem!Reader

Down & Out

MASTERLIST | MORE

Summary:You’re the only person who’s ever seen Diana Taurasi without her signature bun—and you don’t shut up about it. Locker room? Brag. Practice? Brag. Press conference? Slight, humble flex. She threatens you every time, but never denies it.

Genre:, flirtation, WNBA chaos, soft dominance

Warnings: Light language, smug behavior, teammates fed up, implied intimacy

Word Count: 0.7k

Vibe: Cocky, smug, “you wish you were me” energy, gay bragging rights

You don’t shut up about it.

Not in the locker room. Not on the team plane. Not during interviews, even when the question had nothing to do with Diana.

“She’s never taken the bun out in public,” Sophie says one day, tying her shoes. “Like… ever. I don’t think I’ve even seen her without it.”

You wait. Let the silence settle. Then you grin.

“Can’t relate.”

Half the team groans.

“She did not let you—”

“She didn’t let me,” you cut in, leaning back on the bench like the smug little menace you are. “She just did it. In front of me. In her apartment. No bun. No tension. Just waves. Like a Pantene commercial but gay and sexy.”

“She let you see it?” Kahleah says, squinting like it’s some kind of betrayal. “You?”

You nod, too proud. “Wanna know what it looked like after I ran my hands through it?”

“You’re disgusting.”

“I’m blessed.”

“Blocked.”

Diana walks in mid-brag, hoodie over her head, unbothered. “You still telling people about my hair?”

You don’t miss a beat. “You mean my little secret?”

She tosses her bag down. “You mean the reason I might retire early?”

You smirk. “The reason you fell asleep with no scrunchie and woke up with compliments.”

“Keep talking,” she warns, tying her laces. “I’ll make sure you never see it again.”

“Lies,” you say, biting into a protein bar. “You like when I touch your scalp. You melted.”

Whole room loses it. Someone throws tape at you. Another yells, “GET A ROOM.”

You grin, unfazed. “We did. That’s where the bun came down.”

Diana doesn’t deny it. Just walks past, flicking your ear on the way out. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Lucky?” you call after her. “Babe, I’m a national treasure.”

She flips you off without turning around. You hold your hands up like, exactly.

[mmichog]

This is amazing… and hit maybe a bit too close to home lol

The Way Life Goes

UConn WBB x fem!reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

Summary: Your slipping—mentally, physically, emotionally. Your grades are tanking, her game is off, and her spark’s gone out. No breakdowns, no pleas for help. Just soft shrugs and quiet “I’m fine”s.

Genre: Angst, mental health decline, found family dynamic, emotional detachment, slow-burn comfort (implied)

Warnings: Depression, academic stress, sports performance anxiety, emotional numbness, isolation, mentions of disordered eating/sleep, no overt self-harm

Word Count: ~ 8.3k

I don’t remember the last time I felt like I was actually here.

Like—not just physically. But really here. In my body. In this life. In this uniform with my name stitched across the chest like it means something.

Most mornings I get up because I don’t wanna make anybody worry. Not because I have anything to look forward to. Not because I believe it’ll get better. Just because I don’t want someone knocking on my door, asking why I missed weights again. Or why I didn’t show up to film. Or why I haven’t eaten anything that wasn’t from a vending machine in two and a half days.

Coach yelled at me last week. Said I’ve been coasting. Said I don’t look locked in. I nodded. Took the hit like I should. My fault. I’ll get better. That’s what I said. But I knew I wouldn’t.

I’m tired.

But it’s not the kind of tired you fix with sleep. It’s deep. Rooted. Like my bones are waterlogged and I’m dragging around someone else’s body.

My grades are circling the drain. I missed a quiz two days ago because I genuinely forgot what day it was. Showed up to the wrong class building the next day. Laughed about it when Jana asked. Told her I was just “fried.” She smiled, but she looked at me too long after. Like she was trying to figure out if I was actually joking.

I wasn’t.

My car broke down last week outside the Shell station on Whitney. Smoke poured from the hood like my life was trying to take visible form. I just stared at it. Didn’t call anyone. Just sat on the curb with my chin in my hands and watched people pass like I wasn’t sitting in the middle of my own collapse.

I think someone recognized me. I heard, “Isn’t that—” and I smiled before they could finish the sentence. Not because I was happy. Just because it was automatic. I’ve learned if you smile while everything’s burning, people assume you’re fine.

They walked off. I walked to campus. Halfway there it started raining and I didn’t even flinch.

Hair wet. Socks soaked. Hoodie clinging to me like skin. I looked up at the sky and thought—at least it’s not snowing.

That’s where I’m at now. Finding gratitude in the bare minimum. No tears. No anger. Just… acceptance. Like, damn. This is what it is, huh?

I cracked a tooth in practice yesterday. Slipped on a rebound, elbow to the mouth, and all I felt was the crunch. I got up slow, spit blood into a towel, and shrugged when Ice asked if I was okay.

“Yeah,” I said, licking the jagged edge with my tongue. “Could be worse.” I smiled.

Azzi looked at me like I’d said something in a language she couldn’t translate.

I’m losing pieces of myself every day and all I can do is keep count. That’s all I got left. The keeping track of the downfall. Hair falling out in the shower? That’s six days in a row. Appetite gone? I’ve had a protein bar and three sips of water since Tuesday. Can’t sleep without waking up in a full sweat? I stopped counting that one. Doesn’t matter. I’ll still show up. I’ll still run. I’ll still fake it.

Because what else is there?

Sometimes I hear them whisper about me in the locker room. Not loud enough to be shady, but not quiet enough to be innocent either.

“She look tired.”

“She ain’t been eating.”

“She snapped at Coach the other day.”

“She smiled when her lip was bleeding.”

And I know it don’t make sense. I know I look like a warning sign in human form. But every time someone asks if I’m okay, I say the same thing.

“I’m good.”

KK tried to pull me aside last week. Put her hand on my shoulder and said, “You know you can talk to me, right?” Her voice was soft, real. The kind that makes you wanna break down just outta spite. But I couldn’t do it.

“I’m okay. Just a lot on my plate.” I smiled.

She looked at my plate like she could see straight through it. Like she knew there was nothing on it but air and pride. Still, she nodded.

I appreciated that.

Nika’s the only one who stopped asking. She just watches now. From across the gym, in film, walking out of class. Her eyes track me like she knows I’m about to disappear.

And maybe I am. Maybe I already did.

I put my airpods in before games now. Not because I’m listening to anything. Just so I don’t have to talk. Just so I can pretend the silence is a choice.

Sometimes I play that Trippie song, though. The one that goes, “I wish you would find your chill, ‘cause Lord knows this shit get real.” That one line feels like a prayer. Like someone wrote it with me in mind. I whisper it under my breath like a spell. Doesn’t work. But I say it anyway.

Coach pulled me into his office yesterday. Said he’s worried. Said the staff’s noticed. Said I look “distant.”

I nodded again. Said, “I hear you.” He asked if I needed anything.

I smiled. “No, sir. I’m good.”

He looked like she didn’t believe me. But what can you do? You can’t force someone to want to be helped. And I don’t. Not really.

I just want to float. Just for a while. Not swim. Not sink. Just… drift. I go to sleep hoping I don’t dream. I wake up hoping I feel something.

I laugh when I forget things now. When I show up to practice without my jersey. When I leave my shoes in the locker room. When I forget to eat. When I mix up plays. I just laugh. Not loud. Not crazy. Just a soft, “Huh.”

Like I’m watching myself from somewhere else. Somewhere colder. Somewhere quiet.

I’m not looking for sympathy. I don’t even want anyone to check in. It’s too late for that. I already made peace with it. This is the part where I fade out for a while. Maybe forever. Maybe just long enough to feel real again.

And if I don’t? Then I guess that’s just how the story goes.

———————————————————————————————

Practice was brutal today.

Not cause it was hard. Not cause I was sore. Not cause we were running drills ‘til our lungs gave out. I barely felt any of it. The burn in my legs, the ache in my shoulder—background noise. White static. I heard it, sure, but it didn’t matter.

What got me was Geno’s voice. Sharp. Heavy. Constant. Cutting through the gym like it was trying to fillet my spirit in real time.

“Are you serious right now?”

“What the hell was that?”

“You do know you’re not just here to jog around and look tired, right?”

“Pick it up. You been sleepwalking since warmups.”

I nodded. That’s it. No excuse. No attitude. No fire. Just… nod.

What could I even say? That he’s right? That I know I look like shit? That I feel worse than I look?

He moved on, barking at someone else, but his eyes flicked back to me like he knew he didn’t get through. Like he saw the dull in my stare. The silence behind my nod. The nothing.

At one point, Ice passed me the ball and I missed it completely. Like didn’t even move my hands. It bounced off my knee and rolled into the corner.

“She wide open and asleep,” Paige muttered, just loud enough. I smiled.

Not cause it was funny. Not cause I cared. Just cause I didn’t want her to think I’d heard it and been hurt. Easier to smile. Easier to act like I agree.

Later, in the locker room, no one really talked to me. Azzi handed me a towel. I said thanks. She didn’t move right away. Just looked at me like she wanted to say something.

I tucked the towel into my lap and bent down to untie my shoes. Silence is my defense now. Not cause I’m trying to be cold, but cause I don’t trust what’ll come out if I open my mouth. Maybe a scream. Maybe a sob. Maybe nothing at all.

Some of the girls are starting to get frustrated. I can feel it in the way they pass me the ball just a little too hard. The way they huddle without me. The way their tone shifts when they say my name.

Caroline called me out during walkthroughs.

“You’re not even running the plays,” she said. “You’re just kinda… there.”

I nodded. Again. Said, “My bad.”

She blinked at me like she was waiting for more. Something. Anything. But I didn’t have it. Didn’t even try.

They don’t get it. How could they? I used to be sharp. Funny. Reliable. I used to know every damn set like muscle memory. I used to lead warm-ups. I used to hype people up when they missed. I used to care.

Now I just… exist. Like a light switch someone forgot to turn off in an empty room. Coach Geno pulled me aside after practice. Private, but not gentle.

“You either get your head on straight, or you’re gonna sit. I don’t care how much talent you’ve got. You’re hurting this team.”

His voice was steady, not yelling. Almost worse. He sounded disappointed. And that—that used to break me. But now? Now it just bounced off. I stared at the wall behind him and nodded.

“You hearing me?”

“Yeah.”

“You care?”

That one made me blink. I didn’t answer. Just looked at him with eyes that probably said more than I could. Eyes that whispered, I’m trying. But I think I already drowned. He sighed. Walked off.

I sat in the locker room after everyone left. Hoodie on. Music low. Something old—Trippie, maybe. Something sad with too much bass and not enough hope.

Wish you’d get out my face

Might go MIA

Might just blow my brain…

I mouthed the words but didn’t sing. Just let them sit on my tongue like smoke I didn’t have the energy to exhale.

I haven’t cried in weeks. I want to. Desperately. I want to sob. Scream. Punch a locker until my knuckles split. But there’s nothing left inside to release. No pressure. No build-up. Just a flat line where my heartbeat used to live.

I can’t sleep. Can’t eat. Can’t feel my face half the time. I watch the world through glass, and nobody notices I’m behind it. Or maybe they do, and they’re just scared to tap on it too hard.

I laugh now, at everything. At nothing. Dropped my phone in the shower yesterday. Fried it. Laughed so hard I had to sit down.

Stepped in gum. Laughed.

Burnt my toast. Laughed.

Got an email saying I’m failing two classes. Laughed so long the girl next to me in the library moved tables. I think I’m becoming a ghost.And the worst part? No one can even say I didn’t try.

———————————————————————————————

I didn’t go to practice today. Not because I overslept. Not because I was sick. Not because I had something else to do. I just didn’t feel like going. I knew what time I needed to be there. I knew what would happen if I missed.

I knew Geno would call me out, that the team would probably run for me, that my absence would be loud even if I didn’t say a word. But I stayed in bed for a while, then I got up, grabbed my hoodie, and walked off campus until I found somewhere with water.

It was some lake—I couldn’t tell you the name. I don’t even remember how far I walked to get there. I just sat down and watched the ripples.

The way they moved like they had direction, like they had somewhere to be, calmed me. Everything in my life feels stuck, but the water kept flowing. That made me feel less alone, in a weird way.

My phone vibrated in my pocket every couple of minutes. I didn’t look at it. I knew it was them—coach, teammates, maybe even someone from academic support. At one point, I think my mom called too.

I felt it ring a little longer than usual, which is what happens when she’s trying to wait me out. I let it pass.

It’s not that I don’t care. It’s just that I don’t have the energy to pretend I do. I haven’t felt anything in weeks—not really. I eat because my stomach cramps when I don’t. I show up to class and sit in the back because if I don’t, I get flagged for attendance.

I speak in practice when spoken to. I smile when someone makes a joke. But it’s all fake. A tired performance I don’t have the strength to keep doing. So today, I didn’t perform.

I haven’t answered a call from my mom since last Thursday. I’ve opened her messages, read them in full, and just… set the phone down.

She keeps saying she’s worried about me, that I sound different, that I “don’t check in anymore.” And I want to say something. I really do. But nothing feels true. Nothing feels worth saying. What would I even tell her?

That I think I’m fading out of my own body? That I sit on the floor of my room at night and stare at the same spot on the wall for hours and it brings me more peace than any conversation could? That I don’t want to die but I wouldn’t fight it if it came?

I came back to my dorm once the sun started dropping. I took a shower without thinking—hot water on my neck, just standing there until I was dizzy. I laid in bed in a hoodie and let music play from my laptop, but I couldn’t hear any of it. I couldn’t feel it. The lyrics were there. The bass was low. But it didn’t reach me. It’s been like that for a while now.

I checked my phone briefly. Three missed calls from my mom. Two from my dad. One from Paige that just said, “You straight?” with a question mark and no follow-up. I didn’t reply. I stared at it until the screen dimmed, then flipped it over.

The team had bonding night tonight—Azzi posted a photo on her story. Everybody was smiling, even the ones who never smile.

I was tagged in it, even though I wasn’t there. I think that was someone’s attempt at pulling me in without forcing it. I didn’t repost it. I didn’t even look long.

They’ve stopped asking me to come to things. The invitations have turned into suggestions, and then into silence. And I get it.

I wouldn’t want to be around me either. I’m not fun. I’m not present. I’m not even angry anymore. I’m just… empty. I laugh at things that aren’t funny. I smile when I’m shaking. I tell people I’m okay when I feel like I’m made of glass.

And the worst part? I’ve accepted it.

I’m not trying to get better. I’m not journaling. I’m not meditating. I’m not reaching out. I’m letting it happen. Letting it all fade. Letting the world run past me while I sit still. I don’t think I want to be saved. I don’t want to be fixed. I want to be left alone, to let whatever this is run its course.

Maybe this is the end. Maybe this is just the part where I disappear without making a sound.

———————————————————————————————

The door wasn’t locked.

That’s the first thing I remember—hearing it click open. Then footsteps. Hesitant. Too soft for Coach. Too unsure to be campus security. It was one of them. Or maybe more than one. I didn’t look. I didn’t move. I barely even breathed.

I was curled up on the floor between my bed and the wall, right where the light didn’t reach. Hoodie on. Legs pulled to my chest. Arms limp. Not crying. Not asleep. Just still.

The room was dark. Not dim—dark. Curtains drawn. Lights off. Laptop closed. The only real sound was the faint hum of the mini fridge and the occasional creak of the building settling around me. I hadn’t cleaned in days. Maybe longer. Clothes everywhere. Trash untouched. Air stale. My toothbrush still sealed in the little cup of water I’d left it in three nights ago.

The silence broke when they stepped fully inside.

“…She in here?” someone whispered. A girl’s voice. Familiar. Too careful.

Another voice—closer. Lower. Less afraid. “Yeah. God…”

I didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just focused on the cracked piece of paint on the baseboard across from me. I’d been staring at it so long I started seeing patterns in it—faces, rivers, maybe even a map if I tilted my head enough.

Then the light from the hallway stretched across the floor, and I felt it touch my hoodie. A hand hesitated in the air next to me. Didn’t grab. Didn’t shake. Just hovered like they were scared I’d shatter if they made contact.

I would have.

“Hey…” It was a soft murmur, like they were testing if I was still alive. I was. Barely. I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. My lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. No energy left for anything but existence.

Someone crouched down. I heard a knee pop against the floor. Then breath. Real close.

“Can you… can you hear me?”

Yes. But I didn’t nod. Didn’t move. Couldn’t figure out if the truth mattered. What difference would it make? They were here now, and I was still on the floor.

Someone else walked around to the side of the bed. They were trying not to step on anything. There was too much to step on. I’d stopped noticing the mess. It had become part of me. Part of the decay.

“She’s not talking,” a voice said, somewhere in the corner. I didn’t know who. I could name every one of their shoes by sound, but their voices melted together. Gentle. Uneasy. Like I was something they didn’t know how to fix.

“She’s breathing, though.”

“Barely.”

“Fuck.”

The one next to me finally touched my sleeve. Just two fingers. Barely a nudge.

“You good?” she asked. Not because she didn’t know. But because people don’t know what else to say.

I could’ve laughed if I had the strength. Am I good? I was limp on the floor of my own room like a corpse that hadn’t made up its mind yet. Frail. Faded. My eyes were open but there was nothing behind them.

No hunger. No pain. No fear. Just… gone.

“She’s freezing,” someone said. “Her hands—look.”

There was rustling. A blanket. Arms. I didn’t resist when they shifted me slightly. I barely felt it. My body didn’t register the weight. I was used to being weightless now. Useless. Empty.

One of them settled on the floor behind me and let me lean into her. I think it was Azzi. I knew that smell. Subtle lavender, soft sweatshirt cotton. She didn’t say anything. She just exhaled and rested her chin against the top of my hoodie. Her arms wrapped loosely around my knees like she was scared to squeeze too tight.

The silence grew thick. Nobody tried to break it.

Someone turned on the lamp. Not the main light—just enough to see. The room looked worse in the glow. More real. More alive than I felt.

“I didn’t know it was this bad,” someone whispered.

“She’s been like this for how long?”

“I don’t know…”

“I didn’t think—”

“Nah. Me neither.”

I kept staring. Blank. Detached. Somewhere else. The weight of Azzi behind me was warm, but I wasn’t sure if I felt it or just remembered what warmth used to be.

The girls around us didn’t leave. They didn’t press. They didn’t cry. They just sat there, like they were waiting for me to come back to earth. But I wasn’t ready yet.

Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never. But they stayed. And for the first time in days, I realized I hadn’t imagined the world outside my head.

———————————————————————————————

I could move. That’s what scared me most.

Not that I was stuck. Not that my body had finally quit on me. But that I could move—still. That there was just enough breath left to keep going even though everything inside me was begging to stop. I wasn’t paralyzed. I wasn’t dead. I was functional, and that was worse.

The girls were still in my room. Not saying much. Just there. One of them—Azzi, I think—sat behind me, quiet and steady. She hadn’t moved since I’d curled into her chest. Her hand rubbed small circles on my knee. It was meant to be comforting. It didn’t reach me.

The others didn’t say my name anymore. They’d said it earlier. Once. Twice. Too many times. It hung heavy in the room like smoke no one could wave away. They knew now. Knew this was beyond a rough patch. Beyond a bad day. This was a collapse. A full shut-down in a girl-shaped body. This was what it looked like when someone gave up and didn’t bother to announce it.

After a while, I shifted. Slow. Mechanical. Like I had to remember where my limbs went.

Azzi’s arms eased back as I sat up. Her hand lingered for a second, just in case I fell again. I didn’t.

I didn’t look at anyone. My eyes were blurry anyway. Not from tears—there were none left—but from everything being too sharp, too loud, even in silence. I stood. My legs ached like they hadn’t been used in years. My back cracked when I straightened. I felt everything. Every joint. Every bruise. Every rib like it was separate from the rest.

I walked to the bathroom with bare feet, stepping over wrappers, books, and clothes without reacting to any of it. The light in there stung, so I turned it off and let the hallway lamp behind me throw in a little glow.

I shut the door. Not slammed. Not even fully closed. Just… pressed it mostly shut. Enough to breathe without them watching. I didn’t lock it.

My knees hit the tile slower than expected. My hand found the edge of the bathtub. I climbed in, not to run water. Not to wash off. Just to sit.

I curled again, this time in porcelain instead of carpet. My hoodie was too big, but the weight of it felt safe. Like armor I didn’t earn.

I opened my mouth to speak and nothing came out. My throat burned. Not from sickness. From silence. From fear. From knowing that if I said what I was actually thinking, I’d never be able to take it back.

Because if I said it—if I really let the words come—it’d be too real. The part of me that’s been quiet would finally scream. And it’d sound something like:

“I want to die.”

And I wasn’t sure who I’d become after that. So I didn’t say it. I sat there with my lips parted, my voice crumpled in the back of my tongue, and I imagined what it’d sound like anyway.

What it’d sound like if I let the truth slip out the way it always tries to in my sleep.

I imagined the water filling. I imagined floating. I imagined peace. Not escape. Not relief. Just nothing. Blankness. Silence that didn’t need to be survived.

My fingers twitched in my lap. I wasn’t in pain. Not really. Pain implies sensation. I was beyond that. I was absence. I was empty space. But still alive.

That’s the worst part.

They didn’t knock. They didn’t call my name. Maybe they knew. Maybe Azzi put her hand against the door and waited. Maybe someone cried quietly into my pillow. Maybe Geno was on the phone already, demanding answers no one had.

I didn’t care. Not because I was selfish. Not because I wanted to make anyone feel bad. I just didn’t have it in me to care anymore.

Not about practice. Not about school. Not about the game I used to bleed for. Not about the people I love who love me back. I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t resentful. I was just done. Done trying to fix it. Done trying to explain it. Done pretending like I wanted to stay.

The water wasn’t running. The light was off. The tile was cold. And I sat in the tub, knees to my chest, staring into a dark corner, breathing as quietly as possible, just waiting to either disappear or be left alone long enough to stop hoping I would.

And that smile—the small one I’d been holding on to like a shield—was still there. Tight. Faint. Fragile. But there. Because if I let go of that smile, even for a second, I knew what would come next. And I wasn’t ready to say it out loud. Not yet.

———————————————————————————————

I didn’t plan to die that night. But I also didn’t plan to stay alive.

I wasn’t thinking about tomorrow. I wasn’t thinking about anyone else. I was just… sitting. Letting the cold of the bathroom tile creep up through my bones, curled in the tub like a forgotten thing. My arms were wrapped around my knees, my hoodie damp with sweat and something else I couldn’t name. My lips were parted slightly, but no sound had come out in hours. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I didn’t try. My body was still, my mind somewhere far past quiet—hovering in that eerie space between numbness and surrender.

I could feel the edges of my thoughts turning darker. Not loud, not explosive. Just whispers. Steady, certain. You’re done. That was the tone. Not panicked, not afraid. Just done.

The room had been still for so long I’d forgotten how it felt to hear movement. When the door eased open, I barely noticed. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t lift my head. But I felt the shift—the pressure of air, the faint creak of the hinges, the gentle sound of sneakers moving slow across the tile.

Someone was here. But it wasn’t just anyone. It was Azzi.

She didn’t knock. Didn’t call my name. She must’ve heard them outside the room. Or maybe she saw my face back in that moment on the floor and couldn’t get it out of her head. I don’t know what pulled her in. All I know is that the second she stepped into the bathroom, everything inside me started to shiver. Not my body. My soul. Like it knew someone had finally come too close to the truth I’d been hiding.

Azzi didn’t hesitate. She didn’t try to make sense of the scene. She didn’t stop to ask questions or assess. She just moved. Fast and certain. She dropped to her knees beside the tub and looked at me, like really looked—like she already knew she wasn’t going to leave without me.

I didn’t move. Couldn’t. So she did the only thing she could. She climbed in.

I didn’t even realize what was happening at first. One minute I was alone, the next there was weight behind me. She pressed her body into the space, wedging herself between the edge of the tub and my hunched frame, and before I could think to resist, she wrapped her arms around me. Tight. Firm. Like she was physically anchoring me to earth.

I didn’t respond. Not right away. But when her arms didn’t loosen—when I felt her breath against the side of my neck, and her hands pressed flat against my chest like she was trying to catch my heartbeat—I broke.

Not loud. Not all at once. Just… cracked.

My head fell back against her collarbone. My fingers twitched against her arm. My chest rose in one sharp breath that didn’t quite make it out. I couldn’t speak. I was too afraid. Afraid of what would come out if I opened my mouth. I hadn’t said anything all day because I knew if I did, it would come out sounding like death. It would be the truth I’d been avoiding. The one I knew would scare her. Scare them all.

Because what I was feeling wasn’t just sadness. It wasn’t exhaustion. It wasn’t even hopelessness.

It was surrender.

If I had spoken, if I had said anything at all, it would have been, “I don’t want to do this anymore.” And once I said it, I couldn’t unsay it.

So I stayed quiet. But I held her. My hands clutched her sleeves, desperate and shaking. My head turned into her neck and I gripped her like she was the only thing keeping me here, because in that moment, she was. I couldn’t feel the floor. I couldn’t feel the tub. I couldn’t feel myself. But I could feel her. Warm, alive, breathing.

She rocked me slowly, not saying a word. Not telling me it would be okay. Not promising anything. She didn’t give advice or ask questions. She just held me like she knew I couldn’t hold myself anymore.

Eventually, I felt her whisper against my ear. Her voice was soft, cracking under the weight of her own fear.

“I got you.” That’s all she said. And that was enough to break me open.

Not in a messy way. Not in a way that made noise. Just in a way that finally let some air in. That allowed something inside me to tremble and not completely fall apart.

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. My throat was still too tight, my thoughts too dangerous. But I shifted closer. I pressed back into her like I was trying to disappear into her skin. Like if I held her tight enough, the darkness in me wouldn’t win.

And Azzi stayed. In that cold, dark bathroom. In the tub. On the floor. With her arms around a girl who wasn’t sure she wanted to live past sunrise.

She stayed. And for the first time in weeks, I didn’t feel completely alone. I still wasn’t okay. But I was still breathing. And for now, that had to be enough.

———————————————————————————————

I didn’t mean to fall asleep. Truth is, I didn’t fall asleep—I passed out. There’s a difference.

Sleep is something you ease into, something your body chooses when it feels safe. Passing out is when your body decides for you. When it can’t take anymore and pulls the plug without warning. That’s what happened.

One minute, I was in the tub with Azzi wrapped around me like she was trying to shield me from my own thoughts. Her arms still tight. Her breath steady against the back of my neck. My hands still gripping the sleeves of her hoodie like she was the only solid thing left in a world I’d long since floated away from.

And then everything just… went blank. There was no fade. No tunnel vision. Just lights out. No pain. No panic. Just stillness. It was the most peaceful I’d felt in weeks.

Azzi said later that she didn’t even notice at first. That I was already so still, she thought I’d finally fallen asleep. She didn’t want to move me, didn’t want to break the fragile quiet. But then my weight shifted. My grip loosened. My head dropped just a little too hard against her collarbone, and I didn’t correct it. She said she whispered my name and I didn’t flinch. She shook me and I didn’t respond.

That’s when she knew. She screamed my name. Once. Loud. The girls outside the door heard. They came running. Somebody was already on the phone before Azzi could finish the sentence.

“We need Geno. Now.”

And that was it. That was the moment everything finally cracked open.

They couldn’t reach my parents right away. My emergency contact on file wasn’t even them—it was Geno. I’d put him down when I first got to UConn. It was a joke at the time. Might as well put the man who runs my entire life.

No one was laughing now.

They said he got there before the ambulance did. Said he pushed through whoever was in the way and didn’t stop moving until he was kneeling beside the tub, checking my pulse like he was trying to will it steady.

He didn’t yell. Didn’t panic. But his face was white. Like he’d aged ten years in five minutes.

He rode in the ambulance. Sat right next to me the entire time. Quiet. Holding the blanket around my shoulders like I was glass and he wasn’t sure which piece to catch first.

When I finally opened my eyes, the hospital room was dim. Clean. Too cold. Wires were taped to my chest. My arm had an IV. My mouth was dry and my lips cracked. I didn’t feel pain. Just weight. Like someone had replaced my blood with wet sand.

There were nurses nearby, moving soft, not saying much. I heard them whisper things like “dehydration,” “malnutrition,” “severe exhaustion.” But I didn’t care about any of it.

I turned my head—slow, foggy. He was there.

Sitting in the chair next to my bed. Elbows on his knees. Eyes red. Still in his UConn jacket. He didn’t look like Coach. He looked like a man trying not to break in front of one of his kids.

I could’ve asked for anyone. My mom. My dad. My sister. But the first thing I whispered—barely audible—was:

“Coach?”

He looked up instantly. Eyes sharp, like he was waiting on that single thread of sound to come through. His jaw clenched, but he nodded. Stood. Moved to the side of my bed and sat on the edge like he was scared I’d slip away again if he didn’t get close enough.

“I’m here,” he said. I stared at him for a long time. Didn’t say anything else. Didn’t have to.

Because for the first time in this whole spiral, someone didn’t need me to explain. Someone had already shown up. Without conditions. Without questions. Just… present.

He didn’t say I scared him. He didn’t say he should’ve noticed sooner. He didn’t say anything at first.

He just reached over and wrapped his hand around mine, careful and firm. Like he was trying to ground me to something that mattered. And I squeezed back.

Not because I was okay. Not because I was fixed. But because for the first time in weeks, I didn’t feel like I had to hold myself together on my own.

———————————————————————————————

They put me on watch.

Not in the scary, screaming, strapped-to-the-bed kind of way. More like: someone had to be in the room with me. All the time. No closed doors. No unsupervised hours. And Geno made it clear—he was that someone.

When the doctor explained everything—dehydration, physical burnout, near syncope from starvation and stress—he didn’t blink. He just nodded once and asked, “What’s the recovery plan?”

They said rest. Fluids. Monitoring.

He said, “She won’t be alone. You have my word.”

That was two nights ago. He’s been here since.

I tried telling him to leave. Not because I wanted him to go, but because I felt guilty. Embarrassed. I was lying in a hospital bed with an IV and cracked lips, my skin pale, my bones sharp against the sheets, and he was sitting in a plastic chair next to me like it was his job. Like the Huskies didn’t have a game this week. Like film didn’t need to be watched. Like the world could wait until I got back on my feet.

I cracked my eyes open this morning and croaked, “You know you can go coach them now.”

He didn’t even look up from the stat sheet he was fake-reading. Just muttered, “Hush.”

I blinked at him, lips dry but tugging upward. “Yes, sir.”

He finally glanced over, the faintest twitch in the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. But almost.

He’d moved the rolling chair closer to the bed sometime during the night. I’d woken up once or twice, and he was still there—half-asleep, arms crossed, feet kicked out like he’d been guarding a door no one else could see.

Every nurse who came in, he asked questions. Double-checked vitals. Stood close but didn’t hover. When the attending physician came for rounds, Geno stepped aside but stayed in earshot, arms folded, listening to every word.

Later, the team came.

Not all at once. They rotated in. Small groups. Azzi was the first, obviously. She hadn’t left the waiting room since the ambulance pulled out. When they finally let her back in, she walked slow, like she didn’t trust the sight of me sitting upright in the bed, sipping water from a straw.

I gave her a tiny wave. She stared for a moment, then sat on the edge of the bed and touched my wrist like she was making sure I was real.

“You scared the shit out of me,” she whispered.

“I know,” I whispered back.

Then we just sat there. No crying. No explaining. Her fingers slid between mine and stayed there until the nurse came back.

The others came in waves—Paige, Nika, Ice, KK, Caroline. Some brought snacks. Some brought cards. One brought a plush husky someone had won at an arcade a month ago. I think it was Inês. She sat it at the foot of my bed and said, “He’s ugly but loyal,” and I actually laughed.

Geno didn’t say much while they visited. Just stood in the corner with his hands in his pockets, watching like a quiet referee. Every now and then, his eyes would flick to me. Checking. Measuring. Not for performance. For presence. He was making sure I was still here.

That night, after everyone had left and the room was quiet again, I looked over at him and asked, “Why’d you stay?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just reached up and rubbed the back of his neck like the words were heavy.

Then he said, “Because you’re mine.”

My throat burned, but I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have to. He kept going.

“I’ve seen injuries. Surgeries. Career-ending breaks. But this?” He gestured to me softly, eyes sharp but soft. “This scared me more than anything.”

I blinked up at him. My voice came out thin. “But I didn’t mean to—”

He shook his head. “I know. That’s the part that scares me. You didn’t have to try. You just… stopped.”

I looked down at my hands in my lap. They were shaking again.

“I didn’t want to die,” I whispered. “But I didn’t care if I lived either.”

He was quiet for a second. “That’s what watch is for.”

I smiled again, small and cracked. “You really don’t trust me, huh?”

“I trust you enough not to lie,” he said. “But I don’t trust your body yet. Or your brain. So yeah. You’re stuck with me.”

“Great.”

“Hush.”

I snorted into the pillow. “Yes, sir.”

And then he leaned back into the chair, one foot propped up, arms folded again like always. Like he could sit there forever if that’s what it took. And for the first time in a long time, I felt like maybe I didn’t have to fight alone.

Maybe I could let someone else stand watch for a while.

———————————————————————————————

The hospital cleared me to go home four days later.

Well—“home” was relative. Technically, I was allowed back in my dorm, but there was an asterisk on everything now. A counselor’s number. A new meal plan. A daily check-in from athletic staff. A list of suggestions that felt more like guardrails. I nodded through all of it. Smiled politely. Said thank you. But the truth was, I didn’t really hear most of it.

The one voice I did hear? Azzi’s. She rode back with me. Didn’t even ask. Just showed up at the discharge desk with my hoodie folded over her arm and said, “I’ve got her.”

And she did. Literally. She kept a hand on me the whole walk to the car. Not tight. Not possessive. Just… constant. As if her touch was the only proof I hadn’t disappeared again.

The team was already in my room when we got there.

Ice was sitting cross-legged on my bed with a smoothie in one hand and a protein bar in the other. KK was digging through my drawers looking for a clean hoodie to throw at me. Paige was trying to untangle my charging cord like it was a full-time job. Jana and Ayanna were at the desk building a Lego bonsai tree like it was life or death. Caroline and Inês? Hugging each other—until they saw me, and then it was me they were hugging. Hard.

I stood in the doorway, overwhelmed. I hadn’t said anything yet.

Then Azzi nudged my back gently. “Go on. They missed you.”

I blinked. Ice grinned. “Hey zombie.”

KK threw a hoodie at me. “Put that on. You look like you just broke out of a psych ward.”

Paige lifted her head. “Ok but if she did, that’s kinda iconic.”

And just like that, I was laughing. Not hard. Not loud. But real.

Paige’s eyes widened dramatically. “Oh my God. Did we just win?”

KK raised her fist. “YES. That’s one smile point for Team Dumbass.”

“Stop calling us that!” Paige yelled.

“We voted. It’s done,” KK said.

Azzi pulled me over to the bed and sat me down beside her. She handed me the smoothie Ice hadn’t touched and stared at me until I took a sip.

I raised my brows. “You watching me eat now?”

Azzi didn’t blink. “Yup.”

“I’m fine, Az—”

“Shush and drink.”

I sighed but took another sip. She held my gaze the whole time, like she was scanning me for secrets. I didn’t have the energy to hide anything anymore, so I just let her look.

Paige pulled KK up by the elbow like she was auditioning for Broadway. “Okay, so we’re doing a talent show.”

Azzi groaned. “Paige…”

“No, no—listen,” Paige said, spinning in a circle like a chaotic little planet. “KK’s doing spoken word, I’m doing a ventriloquist act with a sock, and y/n over here is doing—wait, what’s your talent again?”

I blinked. “Being alive?”

The room went silent. I let out a giggle. It was funny to me idk.

Then Paige clapped. “Honestly? That’s a showstopper. No notes.”

Caroline let go of my arm just long enough to squeeze my face with both hands. “We love you so much.”

Inês tackled me from the other side. “You’re never allowed to go ghost again.”

I mumbled into her shoulder, “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” she whispered. “Still not allowed.”

Azzi pulled me back into her side like she needed me closer. “You can sleep. You can cry. You can sit in silence. But you don’t disappear. Not from us. Not ever again.”

I nodded slowly. My hands were shaking, but I didn’t pull away. Jana tossed me a bag of Legos. “You’re on leaf duty.”

Ayanna handed me a piece with a wink. “It’s therapeutic. You’ll love it.”

And somehow, in the middle of my wreckage, I found myself surrounded by pieces that were trying—desperately—to build me back together. One sip. One laugh. One ugly little plastic bonsai tree at a time.

I wasn’t okay. That was the first piece I actually wanted to keep.

———————————————————————————————

The problem with recovery is that everyone treats you like you’re made of spun glass—pretty, delicate, and one good sneeze away from shattering.

I’d been out of the hospital for a week. Seven whole days. Enough to shower on my own. Enough to eat a full meal without Azzi breathing down my neck. Enough to walk across campus without someone holding my elbow like I might vanish mid-step. Or at least it should’ve been enough.

But everyone was still moving around me like I was some wounded bird they weren’t sure could fly again.

I was sitting on the floor in the locker room, lacing up my shoes before a light scrimmage when I finally snapped—gently, but loud enough.

“Guys. I’m fine. Please. Just… treat me normal.”

The room went still for half a beat. KK was mid-bite of a granola bar. Paige had one foot in a sneaker and the other on a bench like she was modeling. Ice was already halfway into her practice jersey. Azzi stood behind me, arms crossed, eyes locked onto my spine like she could see through it.

“Are you sure?” Caroline asked carefully.

“Positive.”

Inês looked like she wanted to hug me on the spot, but I held up a hand. “And no hugging. At least not every five minutes.”

That was it. That was the go-ahead KK needed.

She launched herself across the locker room with full linebacker energy, practically tackling me back onto the bench.

“I MISSED YOUUUUU—”

“KK!” Azzi’s voice shot out like a bullet. “Get off her!”

I wheezed, trying to suck in air under all the love and chaos. “Okay—okay, I take it back—”

“You said normal!” KK yelled, hugging me tighter. “This is so normal.”

“She’s not a jungle gym,” Azzi growled, stepping forward like she was ready to fight.

“Actually,” Paige chimed in, “this is exactly how KK treats people she loves. It’s terrifying. But very on brand.”

KK nuzzled into my neck dramatically. “Let me love you back to life.”

“I can’t breathe!”

Azzi yanked KK off me like she was detangling a toddler from a balloon. “Give her space, damn.”

KK threw up her hands. “Fine. But if she passes out again it’s not ‘cause of me this time.”

Azzi turned to me, kneeling a little to meet my eyes. Her voice dropped, calm but serious. “You sure you’re okay?”

I smiled, breathless but honest. “Yeah. I just… I want to feel like myself again. Not like a walking reminder.”

She scanned my face, searching. Then slowly, she nodded. “Okay.”

Paige popped up behind her, holding two rolled-up socks like microphones. “So you’re saying you’re well enough to help judge our locker room talent show.”

I blinked. “This is still happening?”

“Absolutely,” KK said, already doing stretches like she had choreography planned.

Ice tossed me a mini whiteboard. “You’re head judge. Be brutal.”

Caroline wrapped an arm around Inês’s waist. “We’re doing a dramatic reading of Twilight.”

Inês gave me a solemn nod. “I’m Bella.”

“And I’m Edward,” Caroline said, voice dropping two octaves.

I cracked up.

Like full laugh. No hesitation. No guilt. Just joy.

Azzi looked at me sideways, her mouth twitching. “You’re sure you want normal?”

I leaned into her just enough to feel her warmth. “Yeah. I want this.”

And for the first time since everything broke, it didn’t feel like I was putting pieces back together. It felt like they were already fitting.

———————————————————————————————

I don’t really know when it started. I just… started sticking close to Coach.

Not in a weird, clingy way. Not on purpose. It wasn’t a cry for help or some dramatic emotional moment. It was quieter than that. Subtle. I’d walk into the gym and instead of joining the girls in the weight room, I’d drift into his office and sit in the spare chair. Not talking. Not doing anything. Just… there.

And he let me. That was the thing. He never once asked why.

He never asked what I needed. Never said, Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Never told me to go join the others or encouraged me to laugh more. He’d glance up from his laptop, see me walk in, nod once, and keep typing. Like it was normal. Like I belonged there.

Sometimes I’d watch film with him. Just sit off to the side while he muttered about shot selection and turnovers under his breath. Sometimes he’d slide me a notepad and tell me to track plays, and I’d do it without question.

One afternoon, I followed him to weights.

Didn’t even realize I was doing it until he looked behind him in the hallway and blinked.

“You know we’re not conditioning today, right?” he asked.

I nodded. “I know.”

He held the door open anyway.

There were days I didn’t say a word. Days I just sat on the bleachers while he ran drills with the girls. He didn’t force me to participate. Didn’t try to make me run reps. He let me sit there, hoodie on, water bottle in hand, eyes dull but present.

Once, Ice tried to tease me about it.

“Yo, is Coach adopting you or something?”

Coach glanced over and without missing a beat said, “You jealous?”

The team erupted. I smiled into my hoodie.

Paige started calling me “Geno’s shadow.” KK started calling me “coach’s emotional support player.” Azzi just shook her head, but she never questioned it. She knew. Everyone did.

I don’t know what it was about him. Maybe because he never flinched. Never coddled. Never tried to fix what he didn’t understand. He didn’t ask me to heal faster. He didn’t give motivational speeches. He just let me exist near him like being around someone who always had a game plan made the world a little less chaotic.

One day, I dozed off in the corner of his office—hood over my head, knees to my chest in that ugly green chair. He was on the phone, probably with compliance or someone from admin. But when I stirred a little in my sleep, I heard him pause and say, “Hold on.”

A second later, he draped a blanket over me. Didn’t say anything. Just picked up the call again and kept talking like it was nothing.

But it wasn’t nothing to me. It was everything.

@xxsnowxx213 @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @let-zizi-yap @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey @julieluvspb @non3ofurbusiness @kcannon-1436-blog

[mmichog]

Request from Pookie: @heartsforari

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Start Biting Paige Bueckers or Arms

Paige Bueckers x Fem!Reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

Vibe: Toned-arm obsession, chaotic cuddling, light biting, horny softness

Warnings: Suggestive content, biting (playful but also… not), lowkey obsession

Tone: Flirty, funny, intense with soft moments, cannibal-coded

Word Count ~ 2.1k

It started with her hoodie sleeves.

Specifically, the way she’d roll them up to the elbows—casual, effortless, like she didn’t know what she was doing. Like the muscle definition in her forearms wasn’t enough to stop traffic. Like she didn’t bend her wrist back while tying her shoes, showing off tendons and veins that looked like God handcrafted them during a moment of divine precision.

She was built. She’s 6’0. She had the arms of someone who could lift you and your entire attitude, throw you over her shoulder, like nothing happened. I was hanging on by a thread. Going through something spiritual.

I told her once. Just once. I said, “You ever roll your sleeves up like that again, and I might bite you.”

She laughed. Thought I was playing. Thought.

We were laid up on her couch, a random Saturday. Hoodie weather. Blankets. Something playing in the background—some game, probably, but I wasn’t paying attention. I was slouched into her side, one leg over hers, head leaning against her shoulder like I belonged there.

And maybe I did. But also? Maybe I was suffering.

Every time she moved, every time her fingers twitched or she reached for her drink, the muscles in her arm would flex just a little. Not even on purpose. Just enough to remind me that she was built like a Greek statue and had no idea the hold she had on me.

It was the curve of her bicep. The veins. That solid, smooth strength under soft skin. And she was so casual about it. Talking to me like everything was normal. Laughing. Relaxed.

So when she reached forward again, arm stretching across me to grab the remote, I blinked… and then just bit her.

Deadass. No hesitation. No warning. Just opened my mouth, leaned down, and sank my teeth into that perfect spot between her elbow and her shoulder.

Firm. Solid. Delicious. She flinched like I stabbed her.

“What the fuck?!” Paige yelped, snatching her arm back and staring at me with wide eyes. “Did you just—did you bite me?!”

I blinked up at her slowly, still pressed against the couch cushion like I hadn��t just gone full cannibal.

“…yeah.”

She just stared, holding her arm like I took a chunk out of her. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted, completely deadpan. “I just… I looked at it, and I needed it in my mouth.”

“Girl.” Her face dropped.

“What you want me to say? My bad?”

“You’re not sorry.”

“Of course I’m not sorry. You built like that. You walk around with these arms and expect me to act normal?” She rubbed the bite mark like she was trying to erase the memory.

“That’s insane behavior,” she muttered, eyes still on me. “You bit me like a snack.”

“You are a snack,” I said defensively, leaning back in like I was gonna do it again.

She moved her arm just out of reach. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

I pouted, leaning into her lap like a sad, hungry puppy. “Just one more…”

“No.”

“Just a little one. A nibble.”

“Go brush your teeth.”

“Let me love you.”

“Get off me.”

But she was smiling now. She pulled her sleeve down and tried to act mad. Tried to turn back to the game like I didn’t just lose my entire mind over her triceps. But her hand found my thigh a few minutes later—just resting there, warm and easy. And when I leaned in and whispered, “That bite came from a place of love,” she rolled her eyes.

But she didn’t move her arm. And I didn’t bite again.

I don’t know what came over me.

One second I was just looking at her—like normal, like every other second of my goddamn day—and the next, I was moving. Lunging. There wasn’t a thought in my head, just raw instinct, pure muscle memory built off months of holding it together.

And then I bit her.

Hard enough to make her hiss through her teeth. Not hard enough to bruise. But enough to feel it. Right on her arm, near that thick line of muscle that forms when she flexes, when she holds herself up, when she wraps herself around me like a shield.

She blinked, slow. Looked down at me like I was wild prey in her kitchen.

“You did not just bite me again.”

I grinned, already inching back in for more. “You’re too fine to be walking around like that and expect me not to respond.”

Before I could get a second taste, she grabbed me—with ease—and in one smooth, practiced motion, Paige Bueckers threw me over her shoulder like she worked security at TSA.

Upside down and full of love.

“Oh my God— Paige!” I shouted, hanging there like a sack of flour. “Why is this making me worse?”

“You need help,” she muttered, marching toward the bed like I weighed nothing. “You’re not normal.”

“And I don’t wanna be!”

She tossed me on the bed like she was unloading a carry-on and stepped back, arms crossed, breathing like she was trying not to laugh. I laid there flat, stunned, starry-eyed, hair wild, staring up at her like she just split the sea in front of me.

She had the nerve to stretch a little, hoodie riding up, exposing the peak of her stomach and those arms again.

I rose like a demon.

Crawled to the edge of the bed like I was being summoned by divine force. And then I grabbed her arm—gently this time—and pressed a kiss to the inside of her forearm.

She flinched. “No.” I kissed her again, higher.

“No biting.”

I kissed her tricep. “I’m not biting.”

“You said that before.”

I kissed the curve of her shoulder, slow. Reverent. And then I did it. Bit.

Soft. Gentle. Like a lover’s nibble. Like worship. Just a little pressure with my teeth, lips warm, tongue following after with a soft hum of contentment.

She pulled her arm back an inch, staring down at me.

“Yo… are you alright?”

I just smiled up at her, teeth catching my bottom lip.

“No,” I whispered.

Then I reached for her waist. Pulled her closer. Let my hands slide under her hoodie, over her hips, thumbs brushing the cut of her sides. My mouth was back on her arm, kissing, nuzzling, teeth grazing again and again like I needed it to breathe.

“You’re so fine it’s actually a problem,” I murmured against her skin.

She exhaled hard. “I swear if you leave teeth marks—”

“Then you’ll know who you belong to.”

She stared at me. Shook her head. But didn’t pull away. Didn’t stop me either.

Her hand slid into my hair—slow at first, like she was just trying to move it, keep it out of my face while I kept kissing up her arm like I was reading Braille with my mouth. But then she gripped.

Not hard. Not rough. Just… firm. Fingers curling into the roots, holding me in place while I hummed against her skin like she just gave me my favorite flavor. My lips were right on that perfect curve between her bicep and shoulder, and when I felt her tug ever so slightly—ever so slightly—I paused.

Mid-bite. Mid-kiss. I looked up at her, still attached to her damn arm, with the dumbest, horniest expression imaginable.

Eyes half-lidded. Mouth open. Completely gone. Like I didn’t know whether to keep kissing her or bark.

“You really like this,” she muttered, half-annoyed, half-somewhere else entirely.

My mouth was still on her arm when I nodded, slow. Unbothered. Unashamed. I was thriving.

“You put your hand in my hair,” I said, muffled against her skin. “You trying to fuck?”

She stared down at me like I was a wild animal she accidentally raised from birth. “You need to be institutionalized.”

“And yet,” I whispered, trailing kisses down her forearm, “here you are. Feeding me.”

Another tug. A little sharper this time. I gasped. Froze. Smirked. Looked back up at her like she just awakened something she wasn’t ready to answer for.

“You gon’ take responsibility for this?” I asked, guiding her hand back into my hair.

She didn’t answer. She just let me kiss her again, slower now. My hands running down her waist. My lips chasing every muscle like I wanted to learn her body by heart. And I did.

“God,” she groaned, finally pulling me back by the hair just enough to make me arch. “You’re so—”

“In love?” I offered, dizzy with it.

She shook her head, but her eyes were hungry now.

“You’re lucky I like crazy.”

“You better,” I whispered, sliding back onto the bed with my arms wide. “You made me like this.”

She was just holding herself up. Just… bracing on the bed, one arm beside my head, the other lightly tugging my hair like she was keeping me grounded. Like she knew I was seconds from floating out of my body and into horny heaven.

And all I could see—all I could think about—were her arms.

Veins. Flexed. Solid. Skin smooth and warm under my hands. I was palming her biceps like I paid for them. Gripping like I had the right. And maybe I did. God knows I earned this moment after years of suffering.

I licked my lips, eyes locked on her forearm. My voice came out low, stupid, wrecked.

“I could honestly get off to just your arms.”

Paige blinked. “What?”

“Fuck,” I breathed, squeezing again. “You look so good, Paige. Like, disrespectfully good. You ever think about what that’s like for the rest of us? Having to look at you?”

She blinked down at me, half-laughing, half-shocked, but I was already kissing her again. Not her mouth—her bicep. Open-mouthed. Slow. Like she was a sin I was desperate to commit twice.

“I’m not even trying right now,” she said, voice tight with disbelief.

“That’s the worst part.” My lips moved up to her shoulder, dragging, desperate. “You’re just existing. You’re hovering over me with these goddamn arms, and I’m two seconds from moaning over muscle definition.”

“You are insane.”

“I’m in love,” I whispered against her skin. “And you’re mean for not understanding how bad you’ve got me.”

She shook her head slowly, like she couldn’t believe me. But her hips pressed down. Just enough. Just enough.

“Say one more thing about my arms,” she murmured, close enough that our noses brushed. I grinned.

“I’d let you crush my skull between them.”

She laughed. That low, breathless kind of laugh she only gives when she’s genuinely surprised by me. Then she shook her head, like I’m the ridiculous one, and laid back on the bed, arms behind her head like she was clocking out.

She really thought I was done.

Like I hadn’t just confessed that her arms could end me. Like I hadn’t spent the last ten minutes kissing them like scripture and moaning into her skin. She laid down. So I climbed on top.

Didn’t even wait. Just swung a leg over her hips and sat. Pressed myself down slowly, deliberately, mouth already back on her forearm.

“Oh my god—” she groaned.

But I didn’t stop. Couldn’t. I was moving against her now, slow and grinding like my body had its own agenda, hands wrapped around her biceps again like I was trying to memorize the way they felt under my palms. My mouth was dragging open kisses up the curve of her shoulder. Hickies. Hot breath. Tongue.

Every now and then I’d bite—just a little. My teeth would sink in with a hum I couldn’t hold back, and I’d flinch, trying to pull myself back from really biting, from marking her up like she belonged to me.

Spoiler: she did.

“Yo,” she gasped under me, half-laughing, half-concerned, “are you seriously—can you really get off to this?! It’s just arms!”

“It’s your arms,” I said, breathless. “That’s different.”

She shifted under me, but not to push me off. No, her hands found my thighs, grounding me. Her head tilted back, eyes closed, like she was trying to keep it together. And me? I was panting, grinding, lips dragging down the inside of her arm like I was feeding off of her. Like this was survival.

I kissed her again, right over a new hickey blooming on her bicep, and whispered, “I could come just like this. No hands. Just you. Just this.”

She groaned. Actually groaned. Her hands gripped tighter on my thighs.

“I am so scared of you,” she muttered.

“I’m scared of me.”

She opened her eyes then, looked at me like she’d finally accepted that I was not okay—and that maybe, just maybe, she liked it. Because she didn’t tell me to stop. Didn’t move me. She just let me work through it. Let me kiss and grind and whimper into her arms like I was starved.

“You’re so fine,” I breathed against her shoulder. “You don’t even know.”

“I’m starting to.”

“Good,” I whispered, biting down again, slow and sweet and worshipful. “Now shut up and let me adore you.”

@xxsnowxx213 @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @let-zizi-yap @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey @julieluvspb @non3ofurbusiness @kcannon-1436-blog

[mmichog]

Winter Smoke

Paige Bueckers x fem!reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

Summary: Paige is home for winter break. No practices, no pressure—just family dinners, small town snow, and that one girl who’s always been around.

Genre: SMUT. WLW, slow burn, emotional tension, questioning sexuality, winter break setting, pothead x athlete, domestic vibes, closeted yearning

Warnings: Weed use, internalized confusion, soft flirtation, light physical intimacy (touching, closeness, implied attraction), emotional vulnerability, questioning identity

Word Count: ~ 4.1k

Winter break had the same rhythm every year: Paige came home, parents hosted dinner, folks laughed too loud in the living room, and I minded my business from the basement.

I didn’t mind her being around. We weren’t close—just the kind of familiar that comes from small towns and mutual obligations. Her dad and mine coached together in high school, so technically we’d “known each other forever,” but we’d never really talked. Not like that.

She played ball. I played the system.

They wanted us to be friends, though. My dad always hinting about it, asking me to tutor her in something she didn’t need help with just to get us in the same room. Her mom dropping comments like, “You should bring Paige on one of those study trips you go on, maybe it’ll rub off.”

As if intelligence was contagious.

Didn’t matter. I was too far gone into my own world now. I had my weed, my theories, my books, my silence. I wasn’t even mad about my dad pushing me into academia instead of ball anymore—he got over it. He saw what I did with it. I finished high school early, left with an associate’s before I could legally drink, and now I’m 21 working on a master’s degree while barely blinking. A little weed wasn’t going to be the scandal that ruined me.

So when they pulled up again this winter—her whole family—I didn’t blink.

I was in the basement, like usual. Hoodie on. Socks mismatched. Blunt lit. Some quiet instrumental R&B bleeding out the Bluetooth speaker. I was reading an abstract on cognitive reinforcement while simultaneously plotting which chips I was going to eat next.

And then the door opened. I didn’t look up right away. I already knew. Paige.

“Your mom said you were down here,” she said casually, a soft thud as she dropped down onto the other end of the couch.

“Clearly,” I murmured, barely lifting my eyes from the page. “She send you to babysit me or something?”

“Nah. I just wanted to get out of there. It’s a lot.”

I hummed. “Yeah. That house too full of opinions.”

She laughed lightly, then went quiet. I could feel her eyes scanning the room—my scattered notebooks, the rolling tray, the cloud of sweet smoke hanging heavy in the air.

She leaned back, legs stretched long across the carpet, and asked, “Is that your study routine or your spiritual practice?”

“Both.”

That got a laugh out of her. I liked the way she laughed. It was light, not forced, and just dry enough to tell me she wasn’t as straight as she tried to act.

“You ever try it?” I asked.

She glanced over. “What?”

I tapped the blunt between my fingers. “This. You off-season now, right?”

She tilted her head like she was thinking. “I mean… I’ve been around it. Never really did it.”

“Now’s the perfect time. No games, no drug tests, no interviews. Just you and the void.”

She looked at me, a little too long, and I knew then she was considering it.

“You don’t gotta impress me,” I said. “But you curious. I see it.”

Her eyes narrowed, amused. “You always talk like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re narrating a Netflix show no one’s ready for.”

I smirked, slow. “That’s ‘cause they’re not.”

Eventually, she took it. Sloppy first inhale, a cough, another laugh. She settled into the feeling quicker than I thought. And then came the real problem—we started talking. Like really talking.

I don’t even remember what cracked it. Might’ve been a joke about her old baby photos upstairs or some memory we shared at a fourth-grade birthday party neither of us remembered happening until now. But the laughter settled into something thicker. Slower.

“People don’t really know how smart you are,” she said out of nowhere.

I blinked, caught off guard. “You stalking my résumé or something?”

“Nah, just… people talk. My mom brags about you to everyone. Said you had college credits before you had a prom.”

“That’s true. I skipped prom.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Cause I was gay and bored. And the DJ was trash.”

Her lips twitched like she didn’t know whether to laugh or process the information. “So you’re out?”

“Out? Baby, I was see-through.”

I stretched out further, dragging the blunt to my lips again. She was watching me now. Too closely. Her eyes darkened a little, the haze from the smoke mixing with the curiosity already crawling under her skin.

“And what about you?” I asked, soft. “You ever… explore?”

She didn’t answer immediately. But she didn’t break eye contact either.

“Not really,” she murmured. “Not in a real way.” I nodded. Said nothing. I didn’t need to press it.

She leaned closer. Just a little. Her hand brushed mine on the couch, slow like a test. I didn’t move. Just let the tension sit there.

“You ever think about what it’s like?” she asked quietly.

My eyes locked on hers, and for once, I didn’t say something witty. Didn’t joke. Just let my voice drop into something honest.

“All the time.” There was a pause.

“Can I… try something?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

She leaned in. Lips brushed. Slow. Careful. She tasted like nerves and chapstick and a little leftover smoke. And when I deepened it—just slightly—she let out the softest sound I’ve ever heard from her.

That’s when I knew I was in trouble. Cause I knew who I was. On the surface? Calm. Chill. Smarter than I look and twice as calculated. On the inside? Horny. Starving. Ready to fall to my knees and make her forget her last name.

But I held it in. Barely.

Our kiss broke and she smiled, dazed. “That was…”

“Yeah.”

She laid her head on my shoulder. I felt her fingers graze the hem of my shirt. Not sexual. Just curious. But I was holding on by threads.

We’d been like that for a while now—somewhere between silence and casual conversation, like neither of us knew how to say, “Hey, are we gonna talk about the way we kissed and didn’t stop thinking about it for the last hour?”

We hadn’t moved from the couch. Weirdly enough, it held both of us just fine. Just enough room. Just enough quiet. Except now Paige was laying on top of me.

Her legs tangled between mine, her body pressed down in a way that didn’t feel innocent anymore. Head on my chest, one arm hooked lazily around my waist, like she’d done this a thousand times. Her eyes were closed, but she was still talking—something about childhood basketball trophies and how her little cousin found her old highlights on YouTube.

I could barely register a word. Because all I could think about was how her thigh was right there—pressed between mine. Not moving. But not still either.

And I was high. Which made it worse. I don’t get stupid when I’m high—I get hungry. And every slow exhale from her nose onto my collarbone was pushing me closer to losing it.

I bit my lip. She didn’t notice.

Her voice was soft. “He said I looked mean. Like, ‘Auntie, why you look so mad when you play?’ I was like, bro, that’s my face.”

I huffed out a breath. Tried to shift. Tried to be normal. But she moved with me—adjusted her leg without even opening her eyes, and suddenly her thigh dragged right over where I’d been trying not to feel too much.

I clenched my jaw. She still didn’t notice.

“I used to hate watching myself,” she murmured, voice low and gentle against my throat. “Now it’s kinda cool, seeing where I started. You ever feel like that? Like—”

“I have to move you,” I cut in, voice tighter than I meant.

She lifted her head a little, brows furrowed. “What? Why?”

I sat up slightly, forcing her off me and into her own seat like it didn’t hurt. Like it wasn’t killing me to put space between us.

“Are you alright?” she asked, concerned, leaning closer. I licked my lips slowly, trying to keep my voice steady.

“I’m trying not to fuck you,” I said calmly. Deadass. Unapologetic.

She blinked once. Then again. And smiled. That slow, knowing smile.

“Oh,” she said, sitting up straighter. “That’s why.”

“Mhm.”

“You could’ve said something.”

“I did.”

“No, I mean earlier.”

“You were literally laying on me. I could barely breathe. You were talking about youth basketball and I was this close to snapping your waistband and licking your spine.”

She grinned wider, leaned in like she was about to say something smart, and kissed me instead. Not light. Not curious. Firm. Intentional. Her hand cupped my jaw while her mouth moved slow and deep over mine, and I was holding on by a damn thread.

Then she started licking my neck. Not just kissing—licking. Small, warm, deliberate strokes right beneath my ear, and then soft open-mouthed kisses trailing down to my collarbone. And I was still. Frozen.

Not because I didn’t want to touch her. But because I did. Because if I moved, I was going to flip her. Make her cry out. Make her feel every second of what I’d been holding in since she laid on me like that couch was neutral ground.

She sat in my lap now, straddling me fully, rocking just barely. Smirking.

“You good?” she asked in that fake innocent tone, head tilted, lips still swollen from kissing.

I looked at her. Stared. She thought she was winning. Thought she was in charge. But when she leaned in close again and whispered, “Yes…”—that was it.

Everything inside me snapped.

My hand wrapped around her waist and pulled her down flush. The soft gasp she let out told me all I needed to know. She didn’t expect me to take it that seriously.

I kissed her hard—like I was making up for every second I held back. My tongue slid into her mouth like I owned the space. My hands gripped her thighs, pulled her down tighter into me, and I felt the shift in her body—the sudden surrender. The way she melted under it.

“You thought you’d in charge?” I muttered between kisses. She tried to say something cocky. I swallowed it with another kiss.

“You laid on me like I wouldn’t do something about it.”

Her hips shifted. My fingers dug in. She moaned—soft, breathy, and fuck, I wanted more.

I kissed her jaw, her neck, the space just under her ear where she shivered like I found a secret. My voice dropped.

“Girl you got one chance to tell me to stop.”

She didn’t. Her hands gripped my shoulders. She leaned in again, kissed me like she was already gone.

I didn’t ask again. Didn’t need to. Paige had already told me everything I needed to hear—between her eyes, her breathing, her “yes,” the way her thighs clenched the second I kissed under her ear.

And I wasn’t about to waste that permission.

I flipped her slow. Nothing rough—just smooth and deliberate. Her back hit the cushions while I stayed above her, steady, calm, calculated. Her hands gripped my hoodie like she was holding herself together. That wouldn’t last long.

Then I was on her. Hands sliding up under her hoodie, fingertips dragging over bare skin, tugging fabric higher as I kissed down her neck. She lifted her arms, let me take it off, hair falling across her flushed face like some forbidden secret I wasn’t supposed to see.

But I was gonna see all of her. Every fucking inch.

No bra. Just her. Skin flushed pink, breathing shallow, chest rising. I stared. Just for a second. Just to memorize the shape of her. Then I dropped my mouth to her chest—tongue licking a slow circle around her nipple before pulling it into my mouth, gently, then harder, until she gasped and arched up.

My hands weren’t still either. One slid down, thumb dragging under the band of her sweatpants. I felt her tremble when I grazed the front of her, the heat, the way her body reacted instantly. My eyes were on hers the whole time.

I didn’t say anything. I just pulled them down. She lifted her hips to help me, quiet, legs parting slightly, thighs tense. No panties. She knew what she was doing. IM not mad at it.

She always looked so clean-cut. So composed. But here she was, laying back in my basement with nothing on from the waist down, wet and ready, thighs trembling, eyes locked on me like she didn’t know whether to speak or beg.

I dropped to my knees on the floor between the couch cushions. Didn’t rush. Just kissed the inside of her thigh, slow and firm. Then the other. Licked the softness just above where she needed it, blowing cool air across her pussy until she squirmed.

I didn’t tease her long. Not tonight.

I leaned in and kissed her there—deep, full tongue pressure, slow licks that flattened against her clit, then slid lower, tasting her. Her hips jumped immediately.

“Oh my god,” she breathed. I hummed against her. The vibrations made her moan. Then I really got to work.

My hands gripped her thighs and pulled her forward. I spread her wider, licking long and slow—up and down, circling, pausing only to suck her clit gently, then hard enough to make her back arch off the couch. She was losing it already, one hand tangled in my curls, the other gripping the pillow like it could ground her.

But I wasn’t done.

While I ate her, one hand slid back into my sweats—already soaked from how long I’d been holding it in. My fingers rubbed slow circles over my own clit, matching the rhythm of my mouth on hers. It made the pleasure sharper, more focused. Like I was feeding off her sounds.

She moaned louder. Her thighs started to tremble.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered, voice cracking.

I didn’t. I licked her like it was my purpose—slow but relentless. I flattened my tongue, sucked her clit again, then moved lower and slid my tongue inside her, moaning softly when she gasped and rolled her hips into my face. Her whole body tightened. She was close. Right there.

I pulled back just enough to say, “I want you to come on my mouth.”

She whimpered. “Fuck. I’m gonna—”

Her whole body jerked. Her legs shook around my shoulders. I didn’t stop—kept licking through it, softer now, coaxing it out of her, letting her ride it. She cried out, breathless, shaky, and her fingers pulled hard at my hair.

I stayed there until she twitched. Until she couldn’t take anymore. Until she pushed at me with a whimper and begged, “Wait—baby, stop—too much.”

I finally pulled back. Licked my lips. Looked at her. Wrecked. Flushed. Breathless. Still trembling.

I climbed back onto the couch beside her, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and leaned in to kiss her neck—tasting her skin, dragging my tongue up her throat slow and dirty.

“You taste so fucking good,” I whispered.

She blinked at me, dazed. “You’re high.”

“And you’re lucky I didn’t eat you through the fucking floor.”

She laughed weakly, still breathless. And then her fingers slid between my legs.

“Ohhh…” I smiled, slow and wicked. “You trying to be grown?” She looked at me.

“Say yes again.”

She hadn’t even caught her breath yet, still folded into the couch cushions, legs slightly open, chest rising in soft uneven waves. Her skin glowed in the low light—pink from heat, kissed red around her chest and throat. And yet she still looked hungry.

Paige shifted, climbing into my lap like the tremble in her thighs didn’t exist. She pushed me back into the cushions and settled over me, straddling me fully, hands on either side of my neck, gaze low and steady. There was something new in her eyes. Bolder. Like now that she knew what my mouth could do, she wanted to see what her hands could make happen.

“You good?” I asked, low.

Her lips curled into a smirk. “Shut up.”

“Excuse me?” I raised a brow.

But she was already kissing me—hot, slow, and wet, tongue teasing mine like she wanted to reclaim her breath through me. Her hand slid under my hoodie, trailing along my ribs, my stomach. She tugged it up, impatient. I let her pull it off.

She looked down at me now, eyes scanning everything, like she was seeing me for the first time. Then her hands cupped my chest, thumbs brushing over my nipples, and I sighed into the kiss, my back arching just a little.

“Tell me what you want,” she whispered, voice husky.

I opened my mouth to respond, but she kissed down my neck before I could answer—slow and messy, lips dragging across my collarbone, then lower. Her tongue flicked over my nipple and my breath caught. She smiled against my skin.

“Oh, you like that.”

“Mhm,” I managed. “But don’t get cocky. You still shaky.”

She ignored that, kissing lower. Her hand slid between my legs, over my sweats, slow pressure that made me sigh and grind into her palm.

“You’re soaked,” she whispered, surprised.

“Yeah. You. Did that.”

Paige hummed, dragging her fingers up and down through the fabric. Teasing. She didn’t rush. Didn’t try to prove anything. Just moved with confidence—like she’d been thinking about this longer than she admitted.

She tugged my sweats down, enough to get her hand in, and the moment her fingers slid through how wet I was, she moaned.

“Fuck.”

I grinned. “You good?”

“Yeah,” she muttered, dazed, like she forgot where she was. Her fingers rubbed slow circles over my clit while she kissed me again—deep and dirty, moaning into my mouth every time I twitched.

Then she slid one finger in. Then another. I grabbed her wrist on instinct, not to stop her, but to feel it. She started thrusting slow, her other hand gripping my thigh, and her breath got uneven again.

“You’re so fucking warm,” she whispered, looking down at where her fingers disappeared inside me. “I—I can’t—”

And then she froze. Her eyes fluttered. Her legs trembled.

“Oh my god.”

She gasped, sharp and loud, grinding down against me like she didn’t even mean to. Cumming. Again.

Right there. On top of me. Legs shaking, forehead pressed to mine, fingers still inside me but frozen. She whimpered, soft and stunned.

I bit my lip, smiling. “You were saying?”

“Shut up,” she panted.

“No, no, please,” I laughed breathlessly. “You were being in charge. Continue.”

She blinked down at me, red-faced. “I—I forgot what I was doing.”

I gripped her hips and started to move them. She moaned.

“Yeah,” I whispered. “Let me help you remember.”

I guided her—slow grind, right over my thigh now, slick and sensitive, her hands on my chest for balance. I kept moving her, small circles, steady pressure, and watched her fall apart all over again.

“You think I needed more than this?” I muttered, voice low. “Just you on top of me, making all those sounds…”

“Stop talking,” she gasped, but her hips didn’t stop.

“I came already, Paige. You know that, right?” Her eyes widened.

“I came while I was eating you.” (Literally a dream of mine.. don’t mind me)

She whimpered, grinding harder. “Fuck…”

“And now you’re gonna come again. Because you turn me on that bad.”

She didn’t argue. She just shook. Collapsed into my neck and came again, softer this time. Just a long, trembling sigh, her breath hot against my throat, body loose and weak and completely undone.

And I held her. Smiling to myself. Because yeah—she tried to be in charge. But I had her. Every. Single. Time.

It was sometime past midnight when we finally pulled ourselves together—sweatpants back on, hoodies thrown over bodies still warm, limbs still a little shaky. We laughed too much in the bathroom while brushing our teeth, hands knocking into each other, grinning like two kids who knew they weren’t supposed to be doing what they just did.

She stayed.

Of course she stayed.

Now we were in my room, the lights dim, comforter kicked halfway off the bed. She laid on top of me, hoodie half-zipped, cheek pressed against my chest like it belonged there. Her thigh was tucked between mine again, but this time I wasn’t grinding—I was too tired. Too satisfied. My hand rested on her back, fingers tracing lazy lines along her spine while she talked soft and slow, her voice fading in and out like she was about to fall asleep mid-sentence.

“You sure I’m not crushing you?” she mumbled.

I rolled my eyes. “You weigh, like, five pounds more than me.”

“But I’m taller. Got broader shoulders.”

I slid my hand down to squeeze her ass. “You’re not heavy, Paige. I lift.”

She chuckled, sleep in her throat. “Okay, hot girl.”

We laid there like that for a while. Comfortable. Quiet. Her breath evened out, her body melted against mine. I didn’t move.

I didn’t want to.

Morning came like a slap to the ego. The sun peeked through my curtains just bright enough to hit Paige’s face. She scrunched up like a cat and rolled off me with a groan, taking the covers with her.

“Damn,” I muttered, dragging my hoodie down.

“Shut up,” she grumbled. “Your bed’s too comfortable. I didn’t wanna wake up.”

“You drooled on me.”

She blinked. “What?”

I smirked. “Right here.” I tapped my chest. “Dead center. Like a badge of honor.”

She covered her face, laughing into her sleeve.

We got dressed in a mess of mismatched clothes. My sweats, her hoodie. My bonnet that she definitely did not need but still tried on for jokes. I tossed her one of my oversized tees to wear under her jacket and she looked at herself in the mirror like she didn’t hate it.

“You good?” I asked.

She nodded. “Yeah. Just don’t know how to walk out of here like I wasn’t literally—”

“Say it and I’ll drag you back in this bed.”

She bit her lip. “That’s not a threat.”

We made our way to the kitchen like two teenagers sneaking in past curfew—except it was 9 a.m., and both of my parents were already awake.

I should’ve known something was up the moment my mom turned from the stove with that look. That mom look. The one that says, “You think I don’t know, but I know.”

“Mornin’ girls,” she said sweetly, sliding pancakes onto a plate. “Y’all sleep good?”

Paige damn near tripped over the chair. I cleared my throat. “Yup. Great. Comfy.”

“Yeah,” Paige added too fast. “Really good. Slept really… peacefully.”

“Mhmm,” my mom replied, smirking. “Sure did look peaceful when I checked on you two. Cozy.”

I froze. “You what?”

“Oh relax. I didn’t open the door all the way. Just enough to see her head on your chest like a baby possum.”

Paige looked like she wanted the floor to eat her whole. And then came my father. He walked in holding his coffee like a championship trophy, grinning like he hit the lottery three times in one night.

“I knew it,” he said, loud as hell. “I told you, baby! Didn’t I say?”

He turned to my mom, eyes wide. “Didn’t I say, ‘Those two gone end up together. It’s only a matter of time’? Didn’t I say that?!”

“You said it,” my mom replied flatly, rolling her eyes.

My dad clapped his hands together once, loud and proud. “Welcome to the family, Bueckers!”

Paige’s eyes got so wide I thought she might pass out. I dropped my forehead to the table. “You’re embarrassing. Please stop.”

He ignored me completely, walking over to Paige and slapping her on the shoulder like he just drafted her to the Lakers. “I mean this girl right here—man! Best in the league. Smart. Focused. Got a crossover and a sense of humor.”

“She’s sitting right here,” I muttered.

He leaned in closer, whispering too loud to be subtle. “If you break her heart, I’m takin’ your jump shot. You hear me?”

Paige choked on her juice. My mom finally rescued us. “That’s enough, Mr. Hall of Fame. Go fix the screen door like you said you would.”

He walked off still talking. “Three for three! That’s what I’m talkin’ about. Three for three!”

I turned to Paige, deadpan. “You wanna run? Now’s your chance.”

She leaned over, bumped my shoulder, and whispered, “Actually… I’m kinda into it.”

I blinked. “Into what?”

She smirked. “Being yours.”

My heart did something stupid. Like real stupid.

But all I said was, “Better be. You drooled on me.”

@xxsnowxx213 @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @let-zizi-yap @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey @julieluvspb @non3ofurbusiness @kcannon-1436-blog

[mmichog]

The Most Awkward Minutes of Your Life

Hi.

There are 2 disclaimers here:

this is inspired by the video on Tiktok of someone saying they had an awkward encounter with the Barça players whilst that the hotel. I am an Arsenal fan, but I do watch Barça games and I do feel so desperately sorry for the girls and the Culers. I'm not going to wade in on any 'Barcenal' debates. It's a free world, people can do what they like. At the end of the day, it's people kicking a ball around a field for 90 minutes. It's the age old saying: if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all.

I have tagged Barça Femeni because I want people to read this fic and it is a relevant tag but it is an Arsenal fan!R

That being said, I hope everyone has a lovely bank holiday Monday.

The Most Awkward Minutes of your Life : Shake It, Caldentey

AWFC x Reader ; Barça Femení x Reader ; OC x Reader

Description: You have the most awkward lift journey of your life.

You were buzzing. Genuinely high on life as you made your way through the busy, cobbled streets of Lisbon, the sounds of drunken ‘North London Forever’ echoing in your ears as you listened to a very chatty Bella babbling away. She weaved between sunburnt tourists, dragging you with her as you tried not to trip over discarded plastic cups and uneven paving stones on your way back to the hotel.

It had been a whim initially. A random “why not?” moment, a little treat for yourself and Bella after a rough few months, booked long before you knew that The Arsenal would even get close to a final, let alone reach it. Back when even getting through to the knockout rounds had sounded like some impossible, foolish dream you only half-believed in. If you had told yourself, standing in your freezing living room back in October, that you and Bella would be able to watch your team lift that coveted trophy, you would have laughed in their face. Or cried. Possibly both.

And yet … here you were. Sun on your back, city lights glittering, Bella’s excitable voice skipping over half-formed words as she recounted every second of the match for the fifth time. She barely stopped to take a breath as she waved her arms about, her hat bobbing with every enthusiastic jump.

“Norf London forevaaaaa!” Bella sang out again, much to the amusement of a passing group of girls, as you finally made it through the lobby and to the check-in desk. The only, singular downside of this otherwise perfect weekend? By some cosmic joke or cruel twist of fate, you’d managed to book yourself into the same hotel as the Barça team. The very team you’d just watched your side snatch a dramatic win against. And now you felt like you had a massive, blinking target on your back, your red and white standing out just a bit too much against the sombre hordes of Blaugrana-clad Culers.

“Bells, babe,” you murmured, leaning down to catch her attention as she wiggled her hips dramatically to the chant in her head, “maybe don’t sing that right now, yeah?”

She blinked up at you, utterly unbothered, her six-year-old brain working on a totally different wavelength. She was covered head to toe in Arsenal colours. A bright red canon bucket hat, a full Mariona Caldentey kit, right down to the socks, and a pair of tiny adidas trainers that she insisted were ‘football shoes’. She had even demanded her knickers be red this morning for ‘good luck’. You should have known then she was going to be on one.

“We gotta show our support,” she declared, her tiny face set in that stubborn look she inherited from your mum.

“Bells, no one is going to know if you’re wearing red knickers or not.”

“Yeah, well … I’ll know,” she shot back without missing a beat. “And if we lose, it’ll be on you.”

You laughed despite yourself, ruffling her hair and glancing around the crowded hotel lobby. A few Barça players were milling about, faces blotchy and red, some clearly fresh from crying, others sunk deep into their hoods and hats. You wished you’d thought to throw your black hoodie in your bag. Something to hide behind. The lift was taking forever, and the 15 flights of stairs were starting to look like a more appealing option with every passing second.

“C’mon.” Bella huffed, tugging at your hand as she spotted the lift doors finally open.

You followed her reluctantly. And then wished you hadn’t.

Because standing inside the lift were none other than Alexia Putellas, Claudia Pina, and Patri Guijarro. You froze. All three of them glanced up, their faces a mixture of exhaustion and polite wariness. You were very aware of how bright your red and white scarf was in that moment.

“We can wait for the next one …”

“Ugh, no! We’ve been waiting forever, and I need a wee!” Bella announced to the world, already stomping into the lift and pulling you with her.

“Okay, okay, but be quiet,” you mumbled awkwardly, offering a small apologetic smile to the three Barça players as you shuffled into the corner.

It couldn’t have been more than a few moments, a couple of awkward heartbeats, but it felt like a lifetime in that tiny space. The silence was heavy, broken only by the hum of the lift.

“Psst,” Bella stage-whispered, poking your thigh.

You winced. Nothing good ever came from a Bella stage-whisper.

“Yeah?” you replied cautiously, silently praying to whichever Deity might be listening that it wasn’t going to be an awkward question.

“Why are they sad?” she asked, pointing a very unsubtle finger toward the three footballers.

Christ on a bike.

You internally scrambled for an answer, desperately trying to come up with something that wouldn’t be wildly insulting to three of the best players in the world on what was, undoubtedly, one of the worst days they’d had in a while.

“Uh … bad day at the office,” you managed weakly.

“Oh,” Bella murmured, looking down at her trainers like she was contemplating the mysteries of the universe.

“That’s what you said when we lost to Brighton,” she added, still staring at her feet.

“Yeh, it was,” you muttered, smoothing down her hair and praying for the lift to move faster.

“And when we lost to Villa.”

“Yep,” you popped the ‘p,’ wishing the floor would open up and swallow you whole. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Pina’s lips twitch.

“And the first leg against Lyon … And Chelsea … And Real Madrid.”

“Okay, Bells, we don’t need a full play-by-play of the season, do we?”

“I’m just saying,” she sassed, rolling her eyes.

You could practically feel the tension start to shift. And then Bella, never one to leave a silence unfilled, took a deep breath.

“But then we won against Real Madrid!” she announced, grinning up at you.

“We did,” you agreed, cautiously eyeing which way this conversation might go.

“And Super Mario went ‘boom,’” Bella mimed an exaggerated kick, “and it went right over Misa’s hands, and we went ‘yey!’” She clapped once, mimicking the moment the equaliser hit the net.

You saw Pina and Patri exchange glances, a smile creeping onto their faces despite themselves.

“And then,” Bella continued, “we saw us lose to Lyon … boo Lyon.” She pulled a face.

You bit back a smirk. Even Alexia was watching now, one corner of her mouth twitching.

“But then we went to Stam-mord Bridge,” she stumbled over the words in her excitement, “and we saw Chelsea lose. And that was very funny.”

By now, even Alexia was smiling properly.

“That’s gonna be me one day,” Bella said solemnly, nodding with all the self-importance of a child making a sacred vow.

“Oh yeah?”

“Mhm. I’m gonna be just like Super Mario and score against Chelsea.”

“Mariona didn’t score against Chelsea.”

“I know,” Bella said with a sigh. “It was Aitana … and Pajor … and Pina … and Para-para-way-yo.”

“Paralluelo,” Patri corrected gently.

“Yes! Her.” Bella beamed. “She went zoom and boom and GOAL. And I’m gonna do dat too against Chelshit.”

“Bella!” you groaned, burying your face in your hands as laughter filled the lift.

“Well, that’s what you call them,” she shrugged.

You couldn’t even argue.

[mmichog]

ALL OVER ME | MOODBOARD: johnny mactavish

all from pinterest

[mmichog]

[mmichog]

from what I've seen about COD on tumblr, yeah that checks out

[mmichog]

Summary: Task Force 141 operates successfully without an omega, at least that’s what Price has been saying since its formation. Two alphas and two betas balance the pack just fine, and they have the numbers to prove it.

It works for a while, until the Omega Initiative is born and the 141 find themselves having to adjust to the sudden addition of an omega to their pack. Fresh out of an institute, you’re hardly fit for their secretive, dangerous world, or so Price thinks. 

As each member of the team gets closer to you, things begin to come to light, not only about you but about the decision to force you into their lives.

Maybe, just maybe, Price was wrong and the 141 does need an omega after all. 

Pairings: Poly 141 x reader, Price x Gaz, Ghost x Soap

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, NSFW content, explicit smut, fingering, oral (m and f receiving), knotting, biting, claiming, mating cycles, Alternate Universe, a/b/o typical classism and sexism, age differences, military inaccuracies, canon typical violence, blood, weapons, language, no use of Y/N, brief torture, hurt/comfort, let's be real this is so unrealistic but it's a/b/o you're not here for accuracy.

Chapters containing smut are marked with a *

This fic can also be found on my Ao3 -> HERE

I will no longer be using a taglist for this fic, please follow THIS BLOG and turn on notifications

**This fic is currently in progress**

NAVIGATION PAGE

CRCB DIRECTORY

Part 1 - The Omega

Chapter 1 - The Introduction

Chapter 2 - Adjustments

Chapter 3 - Speak Their Language

Chapter 4 - You Can Be Useful

Chapter 5 - What I Want *

Part 2 - The Bond

Chapter 6 - One Step Closer *

Chapter 7 - Sweet Strawberry

Chapter 8 - The Thing About Ghost

Chapter 9 - Save Me

Chapter 10 - Treat Me Gently*

Part 3 - The First Heat

Chapter 11 - It's Coming

Chapter 12 - Fire In My Veins*

Chapter 13 - Piece Me Back Together*

Chapter 14 - The Aftermath*

Part 4 - The New Normal

Chapter 15: Bonnie*

Chapter 16: Big Brown Eyes *

Chapter 17: Alone

Chapter 18: Don't Let Me Go

Chapter 19: Daddy Issues

Chapter 20: The New Normal *

Chapter 21: Crime and Punishment *

Chapter 22: I Won't Be Gentle

Part 5 - A Pack of Five

Chapter 23: Regrets

Chapter 24: The Last First Time *

Chapter 25: Animals *

Chapter 26: Fuck *

Chapter 27: Drown In It *

Chapter 28: Two Is Company, Three Is A Party *

Chapter 29: There's Something Wrong With My Omega

Part 6 - The Tragedy

Chapter 30: Butterfly's Wings

Chapter 31: Forced Proximity

Chapter 32: The Tragedy

Chapter 33: Ghosts of the Past

Chapter 34: The Whole Truth

Part 7 - The Aftermath

Chapter 35: Threads

Chapter 36: To The Sea

Chapter 37: The Silence

Chapter 38: Shattered

Chapter 39: Life

Part 8 - The Next Chapter

Chapter 40: Where Do We Go From Here

Chapter 41: Revenge

Chapter 42: Comfort and Joy

Chapter 43: Lies

Chapter 44: Little Shit

Chapter 45: Heat of the Moment *

Chapter 46: My Girl *

Chapter 47: The Reunion

Chapter 48: Wild Times *

Chapter 49: Reforming Bonds *

Chapter 50: Flashback *

Part 9 - Finding Home

Chapter 51: Back To The Start

Chapter 52: The Rucking Princess

Title card made by the beautiful @141wh0re

Chapter 53: Meeting the Family

Chapter 54: The Farm

[mmichog]

𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which you coach her game and quiet her mind

You met Paige Bueckers on a Tuesday afternoon in late September, your sophomore year at Hopkins.

It’s open gym. You aren’t technically supposed to be in there—you’ve already finished your weight training hour and your basketball season doesn’t start until winter—but the hum of a bouncing ball is too rhythmic to ignore. There’s a familiar comfort to the hollow echo of sneakers and grit on hardwood, something that calls you in like a whisper.

You open the gym door quietly, backpack still slung over one shoulder, and that’s when you see her.

Blonde ponytail swaying. Wide stance. Shot pocket high. Paige freaking Bueckers.

You’d heard of her, of course. Everyone at Hopkins had. Varsity freshman starter. Handles like a string puppet master. Shot like a dream. Girl had already been ranked nationally, and people couldn’t stop talking about her like she was some prodigy out of a sports movie. You thought it was all hype.

Then you saw her move.

And the thing was—she wasn’t just good. She was smooth. Every step calculated, but casual. Every pivot like muscle memory. She dribbled like the ball owed her rent.

She doesn’t notice you at first. Just keeps shooting from mid-range, the ball sailing through net with that soft, cotton-candy swish. Over and over and over.

You step in farther.

She stops, finally turning her head slightly, eyebrows raised. “You lost?”

You blink. “No. Just… didn’t know anyone else was in here.”

She nods once, grabbing her rebound. “You hoop?”

You shrug. “Yeah. But I train more than I play now. Strength and conditioning stuff. I work with Coach Cosgriff sometimes.”

Paige bounces the ball slowly under one hand, studying you with that squint she always seems to wear. “So you're, like, a trainer-trainer?”

You laugh once. “A sophomore trainer. I’m certified in watching YouTube videos and correcting people’s forms at the gym.”

She smirks. “Sounds legit.”

“Totally. Olympic-level.”

There’s a pause. You think she’s gonna go back to shooting, but instead she spins the ball toward you with a flick of her wrist. You catch it without thinking.

“Rebound for me?” she asks.

That’s how it starts.

You don’t say much that first week. You mostly pass the ball back to her and correct her foot placement when she does too many fade aways in a row. She doesn’t seem to mind your notes. In fact, she listens. Eyes narrow, brows drawn together. She nods when you speak. Adjusts. Tries again.

By week three, you’re staying after school just to watch her shoot.

By week five, she’s asking you to run drills with her. “I need someone who won’t go easy on me,” she says. “You look like you play defense like a demon.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You calling me aggressive?”

She grins. “I’m calling you annoying. Like a mosquito.”

You end up training together every week after that.

It’s past 6:30 PM, and the gym lights are humming like they’re tired of you both. You’ve run suicides, jump-rope footwork ladders, and back-to-back spot shooting. She’s collapsed on the baseline with a towel over her face.

“You trying to kill me?” she mumbles.

You grin, stretching near her. “You wanna be the best or nah?”

She lifts the towel just enough to peek at you. “I was the best like three years ago.”

“Complacency,” you shoot back, rolling your eyes. “That’s the first sign of career death.”

She snorts. “You sound like a Nike ad.”

“I sound like someone who’s keeping your ass in shape.”

“Yeah,” she mutters, tossing the towel aside. “You do.”

There’s something unspoken in the air. The gym is empty. Just your water bottles clinking, the soft squeak of shoes as you shift. She looks at you a beat too long.

“You ever think about going into this for real?” she asks suddenly. “Training people?”

“I already am,” you say. “I’m applying to kinesiology programs. Sports science. I wanna do this for a living. Maybe NBA. Or… WNBA.”

“You’d be good at it,” she says, and there’s no teasing in her voice.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You make people better without making them feel like shit. That’s rare.”

You blink. She’s never said something like that before—not with that tone. And something flickers in her eyes like she didn’t mean to say it aloud.

“I’d want you to keep working with me,” she adds quietly. “If I go to UConn. Or wherever.”

“You planning on bringing me with you?” you joke, nudging her shoe with yours.

She doesn’t joke back.

“Yeah,” she says simply.

The dorms are stuffy and the air smells like ramen and underachieving. You moved in early because Paige wanted to start pre-season training before official practices began. You aren’t on the team. You aren’t on staff—yet. But Paige made some calls. And they made an exception.

You’re the one in her corner before the season even starts.

You run her drills. Chart her shot percentages. Track her fatigue, time her sprints, log every mile she runs.

But you also learn her.

The way she hums under her breath when she’s shooting threes. The way she swears under her breath when she’s not getting it right. The way she pulls at the hem of her shorts when she’s overthinking.

The way she looks at you when she thinks you’re not looking.

You see it more now. The lingering. The heat behind her glances.

And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t look too.

You’re lying on your back in her dorm room after a long night of training, the air between you quiet but charged.

“You ever think this… all of it… happened too fast?” Paige asks softly, turning her head toward you.

You meet her eyes. “Basketball or…?”

She doesn’t answer for a second. “Everything.”

You inhale slowly. “No. I think some things happen when they’re supposed to.”

She smiles faintly, shifting closer.

“And what if this—us—is one of those things?”

You glance down between you. Your hands are almost touching.

You don’t pull away.

Neither does she.

“Then I guess we’re right on time.”

It’s weird how easily your dynamic translated to college. She still listens to you. She still trusts your eyes more than anyone else’s.

“Step on your left harder after the spin,” you tell her during an individual session. “You’re floating too long. You’re not getting enough power.”

She nods and tries again. Nails it. Of course.

Afterward, she walks with you back to your apartment, as she’s been doing for weeks now.

"You coming to the scrimmage Saturday?" she asks, kicking a pebble down the sidewalk.

"Obviously. I'll be sitting next to Coach. Telling him what he's doing wrong."

She laughs and bumps her shoulder into yours. "You're cocky."

"I'm right."

“You’re something,” she mutters.

You don’t ask what she means. You don’t need to.

But you can feel it growing. The way she lingers when she talks to you. The way she watches you when you speak with someone else. The way she listens too closely. Stands too close.

And then it happens.

It’s after a game—a blowout win. You’re the last two in the practice gym, her icing her knee, you jotting down some movement notes in your tablet.

She asks, “Do you ever think about us?”

You stop mid-type.

“Us?” you repeat.

“Yeah. You and me. Not just trainer-player.”

You blink. Slowly. “All the time.”

She’s quiet, like that answer knocked the wind out of her. “So what do we do?”

You swallow. “We try.”

She smiles, soft and quiet. “Cool. So… kiss me?”

You walk over, heart thudding like you’re about to play in front of a sold-out crowd. But this moment—this kiss—is private. Gentle. A quiet victory.

Dating Paige Bueckers is exactly what you expected and nothing like you imagined.

She’s a goof. Always humming Drake songs and using you as a weighted vest when you’re trying to do push-ups.

But she’s also laser-focused, and sometimes that means 3AM texts. My jumper feels off, help. So you drag yourself to the gym with bedhead and bad breath, and she lights up like the scoreboard when she sees you.

The chemistry you have—on and off court—is unmatched.

“Let’s try that pin-down cut again,” you say during a workout. “But sell it harder this time.”

She wipes sweat from her brow. “Why don’t you just play defense on me? That’ll make it real.”

So you do. And she doesn’t get past you the first three tries. Fourth try, she fakes right and spins left—you’re gone.

“God, I love when you push me like that,” she says, out of breath, laughing.

You grin. “Yeah?”

She walks toward you, playful. “Yeah.”

Paige kisses you there, right in the middle of the gym floor, hands on your hips like you're her anchor.

And you are.

You always have been.

There are tough days. Days she doubts herself. When the pressure builds and she doesn’t want to talk to anyone but you.

“I’m not playing like myself,” she says one night, curled on your couch.

You rub her thigh gently. “You’re in your head. You need to come back to your body. You need to play with joy.”

She looks at you, teary-eyed. “How do you always know?”

You shrug. “I’ve always known you, Paige.”

There’s a long pause. And then she says, “I think I want to do this forever.”

“Basketball?”

“You.”

It’s not flashy. There’s no grand gesture. No candlelit dinner. But it’s her. And it’s you. And it’s exactly enough.

It’s senior year now. She’s a legend. You’re her official trainer.

And people still call you Bueckers’ shadow, but now it comes with respect. Because they see it now. That you’ve helped shape her, sculpt her, kept her balanced.

On her senior night, she gives a speech.

She thanks her coaches. Her team. Her family.

And then, looking right at you, she says, “And to the person who’s been here since day one… my first pass, my best read, my forever one-on-one partner—thank you for never letting me forget who I am.”

You don’t cry.

Okay. You do.

But so does she.

Later that night, she pulls you into her room, shuts the door, and murmurs against your mouth, “You were always more than my trainer.”

You smile into the kiss. “I know.”

The moment Paige Bueckers’ name is called, the world erupts.

But she doesn’t.

She just looks at you.

Not the camera, not the stage—you. With that look you’ve seen a thousand times since high school. The one that says we did it.

You’re already standing when she launches into your arms, nearly knocking you back into the row of chairs behind you. Her arms wrap tight around your neck, her face pressed to your shoulder, whispering through the noise, “Don’t let go.”

You don’t.

Not when she pulls back, eyes glassy, hands still gripping your waist.

Not when she walks up to the stage with tears in her lashes and your name on her tongue.

And definitely not when the cameras catch her glancing at you before every answer.

The draft is a blur of bright lights, cheers, cameras, and interviews—but you stay close. Just off-screen. Just like always.

Until the media starts asking questions that aren’t about her game.

“Paige, congratulations on being the number one overall pick to the Dallas Wings! Can you tell us who you brought with you tonight?”

She glances sideways to where you're standing in her shadow. But you know her well enough to read the decision flicker behind her eyes.

She’s not going to hide you. Not anymore.

She turns back to the mic, confidence radiating from her like warm sun. “That’s my person. She’s been with me since high school. Trains me. Puts up with me. Challenges me. Loves me. So yeah—she’s a big part of why I’m here.”

The reporters buzz.

“Who is she to you?”

Paige smiles softly. “She’s everything.”

You nearly choke on your breath backstage.

Paige’s suit jacket is slung over a chair. Her shoes abandoned by the bed. Her Wings hat perched crooked on your head.

She’s on her knees in front of you, chin resting on your thigh, dress shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, her fingers lazily tracing circles on your knee.

“You really said all that on national television?” you murmur, smiling.

“I’ve wanted to say it since we were seventeen,” she replies. “Since that day in Hopkins when you rebounded for me until I cried.”

You slide your fingers through her hair. “You know what this means, right?”

“That I’m your number one overall pick, too?”

You grin. “That, and now the whole world’s gonna know you’re soft for me.”

She leans up and kisses you—slow, full of promise. “Let ’em.”

You lie back on the hotel bed as she climbs in beside you. Her fingers tangle with yours like muscle memory.

“I’m scared,” she whispers eventually.

“Of what?”

“The league. The pressure. Failing.”

You squeeze her hand. “You won’t fail. You’ll figure it out. You always do.”

She turns to face you, nose brushing yours. “Stay with me through all of it?”

You press a kiss to her forehead. “Always. I trained you for this, remember?”

She grins sleepily. “Guess I’m stuck with you then.”

“No,” you say quietly. “You chose me.”

Her silence says everything.

And for the first time that night—long after the cameras stopped flashing and the confetti settled—you both breathe.

The sun’s barely cracked the skyline of Dallas, golden haze stretching long across the parking lot when Paige turns to you, duffel bag slung over one shoulder and her practice jersey half-tucked into her waistband.

“You sure you want to come?”

You raise an eyebrow as you slide into the passenger seat of her car. “Seriously?”

She grins, brushing a hand over your thigh before starting the engine. “I mean, you’re not on staff.”

“Nope. Just the person who got you to number one.”

She leans over at a red light and kisses your cheek. “Damn right.”

The gym is humming with controlled chaos when you arrive—assistant coaches shouting instructions, music blasting, rookies trying not to trip over their own nerves. Paige is handed her gear and directed to the locker room, while you find your way to the bench along the sideline.

You set your bag down beside you, pull out your tablet, and cross your legs. The gym smells like polished hardwood and sweat and the faintest trace of new opportunity.

And there she is—Paige Bueckers—tying her shoes like it’s still high school in Hopkins, rolling her shoulders, bouncing a ball between her legs like she doesn’t know every camera in the room is aimed at her.

Your stylus hovers, and you begin.

Hips tight in lateral slide. Right knee still drifting inward on push-off.

She doesn’t look at you once, but she doesn’t need to. She knows you’re watching. Studying. Calculating.

You catch her third turnover in scrimmage. The coach yells something—timing issue—but you know better.

Drifting right early on corner curl. Jumping the pass. Tell her to settle feet before turn.

The practice stretches two hours. Drills. Scrimmage. More drills. Water break. Media arrives toward the end, clicking cameras, calling out names. Paige answers politely. You watch how her smile fades when she turns away.

When it finally ends, she doesn’t even glance at the locker room. She walks straight to you.

“Alright, hit me,” she says, dropping beside you on the bench, water bottle tucked under one arm, legs wide and hands clasped between her knees. Her jersey clings to her back with sweat. Her hair’s pulled into a tight bun, a few loose curls framing her flushed face.

You smirk. “You sure? I’ve got five pages already.”

“Jesus,” she mutters, leaning over to peek. “You still do bullet points?”

“I upgraded. Color-coded now.”

She groans. “Please tell me red still means ‘sucked.’”

“Red means ‘must address immediately.’ But yeah, you sucked on a few.”

She tosses her towel at you. You duck, laughing. Then you glance down at your screen.

“You rushed your footwork on the baseline pick. Every time. You’re cutting the corner too shallow, and it’s forcing your hips to stay closed when you rise.”

“I felt that,” she says, nodding. “Couldn’t get any lift.”

“Exactly. Also—your right knee’s collapsing again on your jump stop. You need to slow down your load. Breathe through it.”

“Got it.”

“Scrimmage—third possession, you jumped the passing lane too early on the weak side. You overcommitted on a read that wasn’t there. That’s a high school mistake, Bueckers.”

She groans again, flopping back against the bleachers. “Ughhh. Be nicer.”

You smile. “No.”

She nudges you with her shoulder. “Anything good?”

You glance at her, the way her eyes are shining despite the exhaustion. You nod.

“You read the defense perfectly on that skip pass to Crystal. Footwork was clean, timing was elite. Also—your fake hesitation in transition off that turnover? Disgusting.”

She grins. “Filthy?”

“Filthy,” you confirm.

There’s a pause, one of those quiet pockets that only exist with people who know every version of you.

Then Paige stands.

“Come on. Let’s fix my corner curl.”

Half the players are already gone, heading toward the locker room or training room or their cars. But Paige pulls you to the far basket like it’s still your high school gym at midnight.

You don’t even hesitate. You grab a ball and toss it to her.

“Start at the top. Walk me through your cut.”

She moves to the elbow, begins her motion slow.

“Too shallow,” you call.

She adjusts. Again. Again.

“Keep your center low. You’re rising too soon.”

She adjusts. Again. And again.

You step closer, placing your hands on her waist as she resets.

“Watch your hips. You’re twisting before your feet are planted.”

Her eyes flick to you. “You watching my hips or checking me out?”

You give her a look. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“You sure?” she smirks, stepping closer, her hands ghosting your sides.

You push her shoulder gently. “Back to work, Bueckers.”

She backs up, laughing.

Across the court, Coach Koclanes is still talking to staff when he glances over and sees the way Paige moves differently with you. The way she listens more intently. The rhythm of it. The ease.

He watches as she finishes her last curl, catches the ball you pass her, and sinks it from the wing—net barely moving.

You jog to grab the rebound. She resets.

And he’s already walking over to her by the time she sinks another shot.

“Paige,” he says, calm but direct.

She turns, wiping her forehead. “Coach.”

He glances across the court, then back at her.

“She yours?”

Paige follows his gaze to you, where you’re dribbling the ball lazily between your legs and checking your notes again.

She swallows.

“Yes, sir.”

Koclanes raises an eyebrow. “Trainer or girlfriend?”

“Both.”

He watches you again for a moment then nods slowly. “She’s sharp.”

Paige smiles. “She’s the reason I’m sharp.”

Koclanes studies her, arms crossed. “Alright. Just keep it professional when it counts.”

“She always does. I’m the reckless one.”

He smirks. “I figured.”

You're sprawled on the couch, tablet in your lap, and Paige is sitting on the floor between your knees, her back against the couch as you gently press into her shoulders.

“How bad was I?” she mumbles, half-asleep already.

“You weren’t bad,” you say. “You were just out of rhythm. New system. New teammates. New everything.”

She sighs. “It’s weird. Being the rookie again.”

You thread your fingers through her hair.

“You’ll adjust. You always do.”

She tilts her head to rest against your knee. “Coach asked about you.”

“Yeah?”

“Wanted to know if you were my trainer or my girlfriend.”

You grin. “What’d you say?”

“I said both.”

You pause. “And?”

“He said you’re sharp.”

You tap her forehead lightly. “Told you.”

She laughs softly.“Thanks for coming today.”

“I’ll be at every practice I can,” you promise. “Always.”

Paige reaches back, wrapping one hand around your ankle. “Feels like we never left the gym back home.”

You smile.

Because you know, deep down, that no matter how far Paige goes—WNBA stardom, championships, international fame—there will always be a corner of a court, a half-lit gym, where it’s just you and her.

The next time Paige asks if you’re coming to practice, you don’t answer. You just give her a look from across your shared bed, tablet already charging, stylus clipped to your hoodie collar. She laughs like she already knew.

"You're such a nerd," she teases, stretching as she slides out of bed.

"And you're late to everything but the gym," you shoot back, already packing snacks into her duffel.

Inside the Wings facility, it's déjà vu—but with a twist.

Paige is looser now. She’s smiling as she jogs out onto the court for warmups. Still focused, still razor-sharp, but her eyes find you through the bleachers like you're her true north.

You're already scribbling notes.

Dribble height off the left—still inconsistent. No dip off the hip before the pull.

She looks smoother today. Reads are quicker. She’s calling out switches and catching mismatches before they fully form. You know she’s watched the film. Your film.

And it shows.

She has a strong scrimmage. Ten assists. Fifteen points. The gym buzzes every time she touches the ball. Coaches watch her like she’s the answer to every late-game possession. But she still looks to you when she’s subbed out, even for just a moment.

A raised eyebrow from you is all it takes to remind her, slow your footwork, release higher, trust the screen.

She does. Nails her next three.

After practice ends, some of the players linger around the half-court line, chatting and stretching. But Paige’s sneakers squeak straight toward you.

She slides onto the bench beside you, water bottle cradled between her palms, jersey clinging to her collarbone with sweat.

“Well?”

You pass her the tablet. “You tell me.”

She scrolls. “Less red.”

You bump your knee against hers. “Because you actually did your hip mobility warm-up this time.”

“Don’t out me.”

You smirk. “I’ll keep your secrets if you keep hitting those high-release threes.”

She hands the tablet back, mock-serious. “Deal.”

You open your mouth to say something else, but someone clears their throat just behind you.

You turn and see him—Coach Chris Koclanes. Arms folded. Neutral face. Calculating eyes.

“Mind if I steal you a second?” he asks—not to Paige, but to you.

You blink, then glance at her. Paige just smiles and gives a subtle nod. You stand slowly, brushing your hands on your sweats as you follow him a few paces down the sideline.

He gestures toward the court. “That was a hell of a session for Bueckers.”

You nod. “She’s a rhythm player. Once she finds her pace, she’s lethal.”

“She credited you yesterday. Said you’ve been training her for years.”

“Since Hopkins.”

“She listens to you.”

You shrug, cautious. “We’ve built trust. I’ve been in her corner longer than most.”

Coach tilts his head, studying you. “You ever worked in a professional setting?”

“Not officially. Internships. Assistant roles. Mostly freelance analysis. Paige has been my primary focus.”

“I noticed.”

You’re silent.

Then he says it, casually—like it’s not a thing that could change your entire trajectory.

“I’ve got a spot open. Player development. One-on-one focus. I want you on staff—assigned directly to Paige.”

You freeze.

“Wait... what?”

He doesn’t waver. “You’ve clearly studied the game. You’ve got rapport. She trusts you more than anyone I’ve seen her with. I want that. I want you working with her officially. You’d be listed as player development assistant, but your job’s simple. Keep her sharp.”

“I—I’d need to talk to her about it.”

“You can. But it’s her job now. Not college. Not freelance. You’ll be part of the system. You in or not?”

You hesitate for the first time in a long time.

You’ve always been by Paige’s side. Always in the shadow just outside the spotlight. But this… this would put you inside the machine.

And that scares you.

But then Paige jogs over, towel around her shoulders, hair a mess, and eyes locked on you.

“You okay?” she asks, sensing the weight of the moment.

You look at her.

At the girl you trained through injuries, through heartbreak, through the hardest years of her life.

At the woman she’s become.

You smile softly.

“Coach wants to hire me,” you say.

Her brows lift. “For real?”

“To train you. Officially.”

There’s a pause.

Then her hand slides into yours, quiet but steady.

“What are you waiting for?”

You show up fifteen minutes early.

Even though you’ve walked through these gym doors a dozen times with Paige, everything feels different now. Your name’s on the clipboard. Your badge is clipped to your lanyard. You’re not just the person she looks for in the crowd.

You’re staff.

Official.

You nod to Coach Koclanes as you pass him in the hallway. He grunts a greeting, mid-conversation with another staffer, but you catch the way he gives a tiny approving nod in your direction.

Paige’s locker is already open when you make it to the court. She’s sitting cross-legged in front of it, re-lacing her sneakers like she didn’t lace and unlace them five minutes ago just to get it right.

She doesn’t say anything. Just looks up and gives you the smallest smirk.

“You nervous?” she asks without looking up.

“Why would I be nervous?” you say, adjusting your tablet bag and trying to sound like your heart isn’t pacing like it’s game day.

“Because you look like you’re about to give a TED Talk instead of coaching me through curls and closeouts.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“That’s what I’m banking on.”

“Y/N?” Coach Koclanes’ voice calls from across the court.

You walk over. “Yes, Coach.”

“You’ll be shadowing the guards today. Track foot placement and timing—specifically the pick-and-pop sequences. If Bueckers misses any lift opportunities, I want it noted.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ll run her one-on-one this afternoon. After team breakdown.”

“Understood.”

He claps your shoulder once, short and firm. “Welcome aboard.”

You nod. “Glad to be here.”

Practice unfolds like muscle memory.

You stay on the sidelines during group drills—eyes sharp, clipboard scribbling fast, quiet enough not to distract but focused enough to clock the split-second decision Paige makes before her assist in a half-court set.

Hesitation dribble sets defender. Delay creates opening. Reinforce timing.

During defensive rotations, she switches too late once.

You make a note.

She knows.

On the next possession, she’s early.

By a beat.

You smirk down at your page.

Water break.

Paige jogs past you, towel around her neck. She slows just enough to pass a quiet, “How am I doing, Coach?”

You don’t look up. “Foot’s still sliding out on the stagger screen. Don’t let your heel lead.”

“Got it.”

She grins and disappears into the huddle.

You keep writing.

The court’s cleared of team chaos. Most of the players have filtered out, heading to the weight room or showers. Coaches flutter around, chatting about the next game plan.

You wait with two fresh basketballs and a short list of drills. Paige walks back onto the court, damp hair tucked into a fresh headband, sweat already drying on her skin.

She nods at your clipboard. “How bad is it?”

“Not bad. But I’m not here to tell you what’s good.”

“Of course not.”

You toss her the ball. “We’re going to fix the angle on your split step first. You’re hesitating mid-transition when you don’t need to.”

She shifts into position. “I only trust you to tell me that.”

You smile quietly. “Lucky me.”

The next thirty minutes are the closest you’ve felt to home since stepping into this facility.

You aren’t just watching her. You’re correcting, measuring, coaching her through every breath and pivot.

Her shoulders relax under your voice.

Your fingers brush her knee to adjust her positioning—not intimate, but familiar.

You step in behind her on a jab series drill, guiding her hips gently with your hands to show where her weight should be. She exhales through her nose, eyes laser-focused on the floor.

When she nails it three reps later, she grins over her shoulder at you.

“I forgot how it feels when it clicks.”

You nod. “That’s why we’re here.”

Another assistant watching nearby chuckles. “She listens to you better than anyone.”

You don’t answer.

You don’t have to.

You’re gathering your clipboard and packing up your notes when Coach Koclanes walks over again. Paige’s eyes flick toward you once, but she heads toward the weight room with a soft brush of her fingers across your arm.

It’s subtle.

No one else would notice.

But you feel it.

Coach stops in front of you, arms crossed. “That was a clean session.”

“She’s responding well to structure,” you say.

“No. She’s responding to you,” he replies. “That’s why I pushed to get you on staff.”

You nod. “I appreciate that, sir.”

He watches Paige across the gym, already laughing with teammates in the weight room.

“You keep this up, you’re not just gonna be her trainer. You’ll be a real asset to this team.”

You look at him. “I want to help them all. But she’s the one I know best.”

He nods once. “Then don’t let her down.”

You tighten your grip on the clipboard. “Never have.”

That night, Paige sits beside you on your apartment balcony, toes tucked under her, hoodie zipped halfway, her knees brushing yours.

"You were so locked in today," she says.

"So were you."

She leans over and places a kiss on your shoulder, resting her head on your arm. “You made today feel like home.”

You close your eyes for a second, listening to the hum of Dallas in the distance.

“You are home,” you whisper.

She doesn’t reply.

She just laces her fingers with yours and holds on.

You linger near the back wall, just behind the assistants’ bench setup as the players finish changing. Paige tapes her wrists in near silence, bouncing her knee the way she always does before big games. You know her tells like your own breath.

She looks up once and catches your eye.

You nod, once. A signal.

You're ready.

She blinks slowly and exhales. A signal back.

I know.

Paige Bueckers in crunch time is art. She’s calm chaos. She moves like music. The crowd chants her name before the buzzer even sounds.

You don’t celebrate yet. You just stand with the clipboard tucked to your chest, waiting for the team to return to the bench.

And then she jogs off the court, towel over her head, high-fiving teammates—and her eyes go straight to you.

No smile.

No show.

Just a look that says everything.

I needed you here.

You give a subtle nod, lips parting just slightly, and she closes her eyes for half a second like she’s sealing the moment.

There are reporters. There are lights. Paige answers questions about the debut, the crowd, the shots. One asks if she felt ready.

She pauses. “I was more than ready.”

“What helped you prepare the most for your first game?”

She tilts her head slightly. “Honestly? I’ve had someone in my corner for years. She’s always known what I need before I do.”

A subtle answer.

But you know who she means.

Another day, another practice and you and paige stay past practice to work on more one-on-one training. 

She’s standing at the elbow, hands on her hips, jersey damp with sweat. You’re holding the ball. Clipboard tucked under your arm. Your eyes narrow as you step forward.

“Okay. Three reps. Elbow pivot into the dribble-drop. Inside foot. One step. Pull.”

Paige nods. You pass her the ball. She moves—sharp, clean, quick—but her foot lands too flat. You don’t say anything, just tilt your head. She stops, pivots back toward you.

“Too slow?”

“Too flat.”

“Again?”

You toss the ball again. She resets. This time, the movement slices. Sharp plant. Quick pop. Perfect arc. Net barely stirs. You smile, but you don’t say anything. She already knows.

DiJonai Carrington is leaning against the wall near the exit, pretending to be texting. She's not. She’s watching.

She nudges Arike Ogunbowale, who’s walking by.

“Tell me that’s not a couple.”

Arike squints. “You mean Bueckers and iPad Girl?”

“Y/N,” DiJonai corrects.

“Yeah, I mean… they’re always together. I thought she was just training her.”

“Sure,” DiJonai says. “But you ever watch them?”

They both look again.

You’re walking in a small circle as Paige mirrors your movements, copying your footwork in silence, like dancers in slow sync. She laughs at something you say. You roll your eyes but reach out to adjust her elbow softly.

Arike raises an eyebrow. “That’s not just training.”

“Nope.”

You’ve got the court from 7 to 8 a.m. before scheduled practice begins. Paige shows up five minutes early—iced coffee in one hand, her mouth already chewing a bite of banana.

You’re in joggers and a Wings tee, tablet resting on a folding chair, cones lined up like a blueprint for something more serious than just “a workout.”

“You’re in a mood,” Paige says, setting down her drink.

“You’re inconsistent on your left side release. We’re fixing it today.”

She groans. “That’s a lefty problem.”

“It’s a you problem.”

She steps into her shoes and points. “Tell me what to do, Coach.”

You walk through it together.

Left foot plant. Shoulder twist. Off-hand steady. Ball into motion.

You call out commands. She adjusts immediately.

Thirty minutes in, she’s drenched. You toss her a towel and a water bottle.

“Better,” you admit.

“I’m gonna crash before real practice even starts,” she huffs.

You smirk. “You’ll thank me mid-season.”

Paige grins. “I always do.”

“Is it true?” Maddy Siegrist asks during stretching.

“What?” Ty Harris replies.

“That Paige and Y/N have been together since college.”

Ty shrugs. “They’ve known each other forever.”

“I thought it was just a trainer thing,” Maddy mutters.

Ty grins. “Look again.”

Later, during team cooldown, Paige finishes her reps and jogs straight to you. Doesn’t even grab a towel first.

You hand her one anyway.

She dabs her face and says, “Can we run that pick split tomorrow? The one we talked about?”

You nod. “I’ll draw it up tonight.”

She nudges you lightly with her hip. “Add a note that says ‘tell her she’s brilliant’.”

You roll your eyes. “Noted.”

The gym’s closed. The team had morning practice and mandatory lift. Most of the players have left for the day.

You’re not supposed to be here. Not technically. But Paige had asked. Just thirty minutes, she said. Just to walk through that new screen sequence you diagrammed.

So here you are.

You both are.

No cameras. No coaches. Just the echo of sneakers on hardwood and the sound of Paige’s soft exhale as she resets for the fifteenth time.

You're seated cross-legged on the court with your notes spread around you like a campfire circle. She’s walking herself through spacing patterns and foot placement, talking aloud so you can listen for her rhythm.

She misses a step. You catch it instantly.

“Too wide on your pivot,” you murmur.

She sighs. “I felt that.”

“You’re rushing the top foot.”

She stops. Tilts her head.

“You know what helps that?” she says.

You squint up at her. “What?”

She walks over slowly, takes your hand, and gently pulls you to your feet. “You.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You want me to demo it?”

“No,” she says, slipping her arms around your waist. “I want a break.”

You laugh quietly. “Oh, so now I’m a human timeout?”

“You’re my entire recovery system.”

Her fingers hook into the waistband of your joggers. Her forehead presses to yours. Her body still humming from the workout, but her expression soft, flushed in a different way.

You lean in. Her lips brush yours once—slow, careful, reverent.

Then again—deeper this time, her hand rising to the back of your neck. She kisses you like you’re the rhythm she’s trying to memorize.

You sigh against her mouth.

“Oh my god—”

Both your heads whip toward the doorway.

Maddy is frozen, Gatorade bottle in one hand, gym bag slung over her shoulder, eyes wide.

You and Paige instantly take a step apart—hands dropping, space returning.

Too late.

“I didn’t see anything,” Maddy says, blinking. “Except I very much did.”

Paige groans quietly. “Mad…”

Maddy grins—messy, teasing, thrilled. “So… I was right.”

You rub the back of your neck. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

“Too late. They’re all going to scream.”

Paige groans louder, dragging a hand down her face. “God.”

Maddy holds up her free hand like a scout’s oath. “I’ll be cool. But like… this is kinda iconic.”

She starts to back out the door, already pulling out her phone.

“Ver—no texts!” Paige calls.

“I can’t hear you,” she says, vanishing around the corner.

Paige is curled up beside you on the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, scrolling through the messages with an embarrassed smile.

“Maddy said she saw a spark fly across the court when we kissed,” she says.

“She’s being dramatic,” you mumble, stroking her leg.

“She also said we owe her wedding invites.”

You snort. “Tell her she’s not getting a plus one.”

Paige laughs softly, then sobers. “You okay with this?”

You glance down at her. “The team knowing?”

She nods.

You rest your hand over her heart. “Feels like they always did.”

She smiles again. Quieter. More secure.

“Yeah,” she says. “I think so too.”

The Wings take the game by six.

Paige finishes with 24 points and 9 assists, carving up the fourth quarter with her signature midrange feints and off-ball creativity. You watched it all from the second row behind the bench, scribbling down your notes in silence, even though you knew everything you needed to say could be told with just a look.

After the buzzer, she walks off the court with her arm draped over DiJonai’s shoulder—grinning, exhausted, and glowing in that way she only does when she’s earned it.

She doesn’t come straight to you like she normally would. She gives you a look—soft, quiet, later.

You nod. Clipboard tight in hand.

Because you both know what’s next.

She’s in front of the mic, jersey swapped for a Wings hoodie, hair damp, eyes focused. The media crowd is familiar now—reporters from local outlets, national sportswriters, and the occasional YouTube basketball guy with a small mic clipped to his collar.

She’s answered three questions already. All standard.

“What did you see on that final possession?” “How has your chemistry with Arike developed this early in the season?” “What’s been the biggest adjustment from college ball to the league?”

She’s smooth. Thoughtful. Never rehearsed, but always real.

And then it comes.

From a new face in the third row. Out-of-town badge. Small outlet, but a big voice.

“Paige—this one’s off-court. There’s been a lot of speculation online recently about your relationship with your player development assistant, Y/N L/N.”

You feel your stomach go tight, even from where you stand just off to the side.

“There are viral clips. Locker room comments. A lot of fans believe you two are more than just athlete and trainer. Do you have any response to that?”

The room doesn’t gasp—but it shifts. Everyone suddenly leans in.

And Paige?

She blinks. Once. Steadies herself. And answers.

Calm. Clear. Unapologetic.

“I think it’s interesting that when a male player trains with someone for years and builds trust with them, no one asks these questions.”

The room holds its breath.

“But when it’s two women, it’s suddenly public interest. People want a headline. A label. Something to screenshot.”

She pauses. Looks directly at the reporter. Not angry—just... resolute.

“Y/N has been by my side since I was fifteen. She's shaped how I play. How I think the game. Whether we’re running drills or sharing silence, she's never once wanted credit for what I’ve done.”

Paige turns her head slightly.

Just enough to catch you in her peripheral vision. She doesn’t smile. But her voice softens.

“So no, I don’t owe anyone a label. But I will say this. Whatever she is to me, it’s not just anything.”

Silence. Then cameras flash. Keys click. But no one says anything else.

You’re leaning against the cool concrete wall when she steps out.

She doesn’t speak right away. Just walks toward you, tugging her hoodie sleeves down like she’s trying to hide how tense her hands are.

You hand her a water bottle. “You handled that well.”

“I hated that,” she mutters.

You nod. “I know.”

She leans her shoulder into yours. “Was I too blunt?”

“No,” you say. “You were just... honest.”

Paige swallows, jaw tightening. “They’ll make it into something it’s not.”

“Let them try,” you say. “They still won’t know us.”

She looks at you now. Really looks.

“Do you wish I’d said more?”

You shake your head.

“You said exactly enough.”

Dallas Wings vs. Connecticut Sun

The crowd is loud before the game even starts.

It's not UConn-blue anymore — this arena bleeds orange tonight. Still, there are kids in Bueckers jerseys lining the front rows. Signs that say "Hopkins to Storrs to the League". A smattering of navy Wings hats in the crowd.

You keep your head down as you walk out of the tunnel with the coaching staff. No clipboard today — not your usual one. Today it’s a tablet. Branded Wings quarter-zip. You’re seated next to the coaches. Front row. You’re not just behind the bench anymore. You’re in it.

“It’s a full-circle night for Paige Bueckers — back in Connecticut, where she built her legend at UConn. But let’s talk about something fans might not know…”

“You mean Y/N L/N?”

“Exactly. She’s seated right there on the bench now. Officially added to the Wings’ player development staff this season, but unofficially, she's been Bueckers’ personal trainer and basketball mind since Hopkins High School.”

“I’ve seen it up close. She has one of the sharpest eyes for the game I’ve ever encountered. Doesn’t just do physical development — she reads the floor like a coach with fifteen years in.”

“And you’ll notice it tonight — every timeout, every free throw, every adjustment, Paige checks in with her. Watch for it.”

Timeout. Wings down by 5.

The team gathers. Coach Koclanes talks to the core five. But Paige doesn’t go to him first.

She walks straight to you.

“Every time I fight over the screen, they’re slipping the weak side,” she says, breath quick but eyes locked on yours.

You nod, tapping a graphic on your tablet. “They’re baiting you. Your stunt’s coming too early. Let them close the lane, then rotate.”

“Got it.”

“On offense, they’re loading strong side on you. Reverse it. Skip it before the trap comes.”

“Copy.”

She claps your shoulder once and jogs back to the huddle.

Behind you, one of the coaches mutters, “It’s scary how fast she processes.”

You smile. “She’s just wired that way.”

The arena quiets slightly as Connecticut sets up at the line.

You see Paige backpedal toward your end of the bench. The ref glances at her, but she makes it quick.

“They’re stacking corner help every time we swing,” she says.

You lean forward. “Because you’re not cutting sharp enough off the split. Give the help something to respect.”

She nods, jaw set. “Backdoor?”

You whisper, “Only if Arike clears. They’re watching her eyes.”

Paige jogs back on-court, whispering something to Arike as the free throw bounces off the rim.

The very next play — skip pass. Fake drive. Backdoor cut. Paige lays it in.

Your stylus marks the play with a bright green tag.

“And there it is. Every time she glances at the sideline, it’s Y/N she’s looking for.”

“And you know what’s incredible? They’re not even speaking full sentences anymore. It’s absolutely fluid. That’s chemistry you build over years.”

“There are players who have court vision, and then there are those with a court language. Bueckers and L/N speak their own.”

It’s close. Wings up by 2. Sun with the ball.

Timeout.

Everyone’s shouting. The crowd is on their feet.

But Paige walks directly to you.

“What do I do?” she asks, fast, fierce.

You point at the digital clipboard. “Let her take baseline. You don’t need the steal. You need the stop.”

She nods. “You sure?”

“Always.”

She gets the stop.

The Wings win.

And as the clock winds down and the buzzer sounds, Paige doesn’t jump. Doesn’t throw her arms up. Doesn’t scan the crowd.

She turns.

And she finds you.

She walks straight to you and pulls you in with one hand behind your neck, pressing her forehead against yours again—this time longer. This time with the world watching.

The locker room is buzzing with celebration.

Not wild. Not champagne-and-speakers. Just a grounded, satisfied kind of joy. The kind that comes when you win with poise. When strategy trumps talent. When Paige Bueckers gets the stop that seals the game in the city where she once built her name.

You’re standing off to the side, tablet in hand, quietly reviewing clips when you hear her voice behind you.

“Hey.”

You turn. She’s fresh out of the postgame cooldown, hair tied back again, towel looped around her neck. Her cheeks are still pink from the adrenaline.

“That cut worked,” she says, low so only you hear.

You nod. “Knew it would.”

“I’ll say it in every language if I have to,” she adds, stepping a little closer. “But thank you.”

You smile, voice soft. “You already say it in mine.”

She holds your gaze like she wants to say something else—but then a media assistant calls out, “Bueckers — press in two!”

She winks once. “Meet you after.”

The postgame presser is at full capacity. More media than usual. Because this one? This wasn’t just a win. This was a return.

Paige walks in wearing her warm-up jacket zipped to her collarbone, no jewelry, no flash. Just locked in. She slides into the chair beside Coach Koclanes, a bottle of water in front of her.

First few questions are standard.

“What did it feel like playing back in Connecticut?” “Did you hear the crowd reaction when you checked in?” “What were you seeing on that final defensive play?” “How do you feel still being undefeated at Mohegan Sun?”

She answers each calmly. Firmly. Head high. Shoulders square.

From a reporter in the second row—

“Paige, we saw a lot of sideline communication between you and your player development assistant, Y/N L/N. This isn’t the first time, but it was definitely the most visible. Can you speak to that relationship and how it affects your in-game decisions?”

A pause. The room quiets. Coach shifts slightly in his seat but says nothing.

Paige exhales once through her nose — not annoyed. Just... thoughtful.

Then she looks directly at the reporter and begins.

“Y/N isn’t just a development assistant. She’s my basketball brain outside my body.”

A few eyebrows lift. Cameras click.

“She knows my tendencies, my triggers, my adjustments. We’ve worked together since high school. Every version of my game — from Minnesota to UConn to the league — she’s helped shape.”

Another pause. The air is listening harder now.

“So yeah, we talk every timeout. Every free throw. Every off-ball set. It’s not just strategy. It’s trust.”

Her voice softens slightly.

“I trust her eyes more than film. More than instinct. She sees the angles I don’t.”

Someone clears their throat. Another reporter chimes in.

“There’s been public speculation that your connection goes beyond coaching. Are you prepared to comment on that?”

Paige tilts her head just slightly — and then gives the smallest smile you’ve seen all day.

“I’m prepared to say that what we have is ours. And whatever anyone thinks they see... I hope they understand it’s built on years of work, not just a few looks during timeouts.”

She shrugs once.

“If it looks like more, maybe that’s because it is. But it’s not for you. It’s for us.”

Silence.

And then, one lone voice, “Well said.”

You’re waiting just past the press hallway, tablet shut down, credential badge dangling loosely from your neck. Paige rounds the corner still in her team gear, phone buzzing in her hand, mouth curled into a small, tired smile.

She walks up slowly, voice low.

“You hear that?”

You nod. “Every word.”

“Too much?”

You shake your head.

“It was perfect.”

She steps in, arms sliding around your waist, and rests her forehead lightly against yours — again, the way she always does when the world outside is loud and this little pocket of quiet is the only thing real.

You whisper, “They’ll keep asking.”

Paige whispers back, “Let ’em. We’ll keep answering our way.”

[mmichog]

me reading at 3am knowing damn well I've got school tomorrow:

[mmichog]

Not Subtle

pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

word count: 1.1k

warnings: none

synopsis: Paige caught being around u a little too much by fans from Dijonai’s live

anon req

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

“Okay, I’m going Live. Y’all are being funny and I feel like sharing the chaos.”

Nai props her phone up against a water bottle and hits the button, adjusting the angle until it catches a wide view of her kitchen and living room. There’s a half-eaten pizza on the counter, music playing low, and half the team either sitting on the couch or floating around the kitchen grabbing snacks.

“You know it’s a real off-day when nobody has real pants on,” Nai says, lifting her camera to scan the room.

“Speak for yourself,” Maddy says from the couch, raising a bag of pretzels like a toast. “These are my fancy sweats.”

“Okay, Target Couture,” Arike fires back, not looking up from her phone.

Nai zooms in on Arike’s face, then swings the camera around as Lou walks into the frame, sipping from a Solo cup.

“Lou, the people want to know — how many times has Arike beat you in Uno today?”

“Zero,” Lou says confidently. “She hasn’t touched a card since last time I reversed her into a draw four.”

“Don’t make me get the deck,” Arike warns, grinning.

Meanwhile, the comments are rolling in — lots of heart emojis, fans asking for room tours, people begging Nai to prank someone. But a new wave of comments starts trickling in.

@courtvisionbuckets: ummm not paige following HER around in the back 😭

@softbueckerszn: y’all see that?? she hasn’t moved more than 2 ft from that girl

@wingsarewinning: she’s literally trailing her like a shadow

@paigeandwhoshe: the grip she has is insane 💀

@sneakybutnotreally: i swear every time Nai turns the camera paige is just… right there

Nai’s mid-convo with Maddy when she pauses and looks down at the flood of comments.

“What are y’all talking ab—”

She flips her camera, looks toward the kitchen, and catches it for herself: Paige, casually leaning on the counter beside you, your shoulder brushing hers every few seconds as you both look at something on your phone.

A moment later, you move to throw away a napkin.

Paige follows.

You open the fridge. Paige grabs a water behind you like she’s helping.

You laugh at something she says. She grins down at you like it’s the only thing she needed to hear all night.

Nai blinks. “Hold on—wait a minute.”

She zooms slightly.

“Was Paige just—wait—has she been doing that this whole time?”

“Doing what?” Lou asks from the couch, craning her neck to see what Nai’s talking about.

Nai glances over. “She’s been tracking Y/n like a homing device.”

Arike looks up. “Oh yeah, she’s deep in it. Been doing that since y’all walked in.”

“Really?” you say from the kitchen, clueless but now mildly suspicious.

Paige just shrugs, sipping her water like nothing’s up. “I’m literally just existing.”

Maddy snorts. “Nah, you’re existing at a 1-inch radius.”

“You mad?” Paige fires back, smirking.

“Not mad,” Maddy says, “just impressed. I didn’t know you could orbit someone indoors.”

The Live comments are losing it.

@lightwork4her: this is PEAK golden retriever behavior

@okaywife: why is paige standing like she’s ready to defend her in a team huddle

@softsoftsoft: every time y/n moves, paige adjusts like she’s GPS synced

@naiwiththeassist: nai plsss go sit with them

Nai turns the camera to herself. “They want me to go sit with y’all and stir the pot.”

Arike, without looking up: “Do it.”

Maddy: “Absolutely do it.”

Lou :“Ask if they want matching bracelets.”

“I hate y’all,” Paige mumbles under her breath, cheeks a little red now.

You shake your head, amused. “You’re not exactly being subtle.”

“I’m not trying to be,” she says easily, like it’s a fact.

You freeze for a half second, surprised at how casually she says it — but your small smile gives you away. And Nai definitely catches that.

“Ohhh,” Nai says like she’s narrating a documentary. “‘I’m not trying to be.’ Okay, player.”

Then she grabs her phone and marches toward the two of you.

“We’re going live from the scene .”

Paige groans, still leaning against the counter.

“Say hi to the internet,” Nai tells you both, flipping the camera to frame you and Paige perfectly — her shoulder near yours, your bodies angled just close enough that anyone watching can feel the tension.

You give a small wave. Paige doesn’t move at first.

“Too cool to say hi?” Nai teases.

Paige finally looks into the camera, her expression relaxed. “Hey.”

That’s it.

But it’s enough.

@noliejustvibes: she said that like it was private

@notmecrying: THIS ISN’T EVEN A HARD LAUNCH THIS IS A WHOLE COMMERCIAL

@pbgonnamarryher: my whole chest hurts from that one word

@thebackgroundtellsall: y/n didn’t even flinch. like this is normal???

“You know what,” Nai says, pulling a barstool closer to sit next to you both, “I feel like y’all just soft-launched a relationship on my Live and now I’m complicit.”

You laugh. Paige shakes her head but doesn’t deny it.

Lou calls from the couch: “Get them matching hoodies next.”

“I’m begging y’all to stop,” Paige mutters, but she doesn’t move away from you. In fact, her hand grazes the back of your chair like she forgot it was being watched.

She didn’t.

Arike’s voice cuts through the room: “I give it three weeks before y’all get caught courtside at a Mavs game sharing popcorn.”

Nai leans into the camera. “Y’all heard it here first.”

The chat explodes.

And Paige?

She just bumps your shoulder and says under her breath, “Might be worth the popcorn.”

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶

author’s note: my bad for the late post anon😔 i forgot to post it lmao lowk shitty but i hope u guys enjoyed it! thanks for reading!!