stylishpaige

[stylishpaige]

PERFECT ADDICTION - [WNBA PAIGE

BUECKERS X FEM! oc]

Synopsis. In the heat of a WNBA season, Hannah Grace is assigned to cover the Dallas Wings. The last thing she expects is for Paige Buckers to become her biggest problem.

Content Warnings: Slow-burn romance, sports setting, emotional tension, some mature themes, implied/explicit (glp) with Paige, consensual adult content, brief mentions of injury/recovery, occasional angst, personal boundaries, light language.

HANNAH HAD exactly forty-three minutes until Paige was supposed to pick her up. She'd changed outfits three times, smudged her eyeliner twice, and was currently pacing her bedroom barefoot in a silk robe, holding her phone to her ear like it was a lifeline.

"Maya, I'm spiraling."

On the other end of the line, Maya let out a loud, dramatic sigh. "Oh my Gosh, finally. I've been waiting for this meltdown since week one."

"This isn't funny."

"It's hilarious. You're in love."

"I am not in love."

"Sure. You're just standing half-naked in your bedroom, panicking because a tall, blue-eyed basketball goddess kissed you last night and asked you out on a real date."

"I should cancel," Hannah blurted, sitting up again. "I should. It's too soon. It's reckless. We work together. I could lose credibility. What if people find out?"

"Okay, pause," Maya said. "First of all, you already kissed her. Second, you looked her in the eyes last night and said one date. If you bail now, she's gonna think you're playing games."

"I'm not playing games."

"I know that. But Paige doesn't."

"I hate you."

"You love me. Now breathe and tell me what you're wearing."

"I don't know. Everything looks like I'm trying too hard. Or not enough. Or like I'm about to interview her for post-game."

"Alright," Maya said, switching into crisis-mode calm. "Reset. This isn't a press conference. This is a date. With a girl who's clearly obsessed with you and probably practiced what she was gonna say in the mirror ten times before showing up at the gym."

Hannah cracked a reluctant smile. "She really did just... show up."

"Exactly. So now you show up, too."

Hannah stood, walked over to her closet, and pulled out the dress — the one she'd nearly forgotten she owned. She held it up against herself in the mirror, heart thudding.

It was white — off-the-shoulder with sheer long sleeves that hugged her arms like second skin. The fabric was ruched from bodice to hem, soft and structured at the same time, catching the light with tiny rhinestone details scattered across the dress like dew. It cinched her waist and skimmed her hips perfectly. Elegant but hot. Simple but unforgettable.

She slipped it on, smoothed the fabric down, and stepped into a pair of silver heels. Her makeup was soft, glowing. Hair down in gentle waves, falling over one shoulder.

She stared at her reflection.

Not too professional. Not too done-up. Just... Hannah.

Her phone buzzed. A notification from Instagram

@paigebueckers ✔️ [outside]

Her breath caught.

Maya's voice came through again, muffled through the speaker. "She there?"

"Yeah."

A pause.

"Hannah."

"...Yeah?"

"Go."

So she did. Hannah stepped out onto the front steps, clutching her phone in one hand and her tiny silver clutch in the other, heart hammering like she was walking into a national press conference with no notes.

Then she saw her.

Paige was leaning against her car a black SUV, dressed in crisp white pants and a sleeveless black Nahmias jersey with the number 24 stitched across the front. Her hair was slicked back, loafers on, arms toned and effortless. Unfairly good-looking.

But it wasn't the outfit that made Hannah freeze on the top step.

It was the way Paige looked at her.

Like she'd been sucker punched by the sight. Her smile dropped for half a second, replaced by something wordless, open, and stunned. She straightened off the car like her body had moved before her brain could catch up.

"...Damn," Paige breathed.

Hannah laughed, low and breathy, heat creeping up her neck.

"You look..." Paige trailed off. "Nah, I don't even got the words. You're just—yeah. You're it."

"You clean up okay too," Hannah said, trying to stay cool as she walked toward her and failing, just a little.

Paige opened the passenger door for her without a word, like it was muscle memory. Hannah slid in, careful with her dress, catching the subtle scent of Paige's cologne — fresh, woodsy, and way too distracting.

By the time Paige rounded the front of the car and got in, Hannah had just barely collected herself.

Seatbelts clicked.

The silence was thick. But not awkward. Just... charged. Like the night had already shifted into something neither of them could undo.

Paige glanced over as she started the engine, tongue pressed to the inside of her cheek like she was fighting a grin.

"What?"

Paige gave a small shake of her head. "Nothin'. Just... you look like that and expect me to drive like a normal person?"

Hannah smirked, smoothing the hem of her dress over her thighs. "Try your best. I like living."

Paige chuckled under her breath, easing them into the street. "No promises."

They drove in comfortable silence for a moment — windows cracked just enough to let the warm Texas air drift in, music low. Hannah let herself glance over again, taking in Paige's profile — the clean lines of her jaw, the calm grip she had on the wheel, the little groove between her brows like she was focusing too hard on nothing.

She looked... composed. But under it, there was energy. Like she was holding back.

"So," Hannah said, voice light. "You gonna tell me where we're going, or are we just driving in circles 'til I guess?"

Paige smiled, eyes flicking over to her. "You'll see."

"Should I be nervous?"

"A little bit."

Hannah raised a brow. "That's not reassuring."

"You'll like it," Paige said, more certain this time. "Promise."

Hannah didn't press. She just leaned back, let the city pass by the windows, and let herself feel it. The hum in the air, the way Paige's pinky kept brushing the console like she was thinking about reaching for her hand but didn't know if it was too soon.

And when Paige finally pulled off into a tucked-away spot. A low-lit restaurant with fairy lights wrapped around every railing and the soft sound of live jazz spilling out through the door.

Hannah blinked.

"You picked this?"

Paige looked at her, suddenly shy. "Too much?"

"No," Hannah said, quietly. "It's... perfect."

They sat for a moment longer, just looking at each other.

Then Paige smiled.

"Ready?"

Hannah nodded. "Yeah."

And when Paige rounded the car again to open her door, hand out, waiting. Hannah didn't hesitate.

She took it.

Their fingers laced without thinking. Natural. Like they'd done it a hundred times already.

Inside, the restaurant was even more stunning than it looked from the street. Intimate lighting, soft gold tones, scattered tables tucked into corners like secrets. The air smelled like rosemary and something slow-cooked. A jazz trio played in the back, subtle enough to let conversation carry.

The hostess smiled when she saw them.

"Reservation under Bueckers?" Paige said, her voice a little lower than usual — like even she was trying to match the quiet elegance of the place.

"Right this way."

They followed her through the space, and Hannah couldn't help noticing how every head seemed to turn. Some recognized Paige. Some just saw them. Two women walking in like something out of a movie, holding hands in evening light.

The table was small and tucked into the back, dimly lit by a hanging bulb and a single candle. Paige pulled out Hannah's chair for her, which made her blink.

"You're full of surprises tonight."

Paige shrugged, grinning as she sat down. "Told you I'd try."

They ordered wine. Paige letting Hannah choose and pretending to know what any of the words meant — then settled into a rhythm. The conversation came easy, like it always did. Basketball. Music. Anything they could think of. The food eventually came, and it was good — but Paige barely touched hers. She was too busy watching Hannah talk.

At one point, Hannah caught her. "You're staring."

"Can't help it."

Hannah rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. "What happened to being nervous and spilling drinks?"

Paige held up her glass. "Still could happen. I'm sweating under this jersey."

Hannah laughed again, but softer this time. "You're doing fine."

There was a beat. Then another.

Paige leaned forward, elbows resting on the table now, voice a little lower.

"So what about you?" she asked after a moment. "Like... what was growing up like for you? Any siblings?"

Hannah nodded, her voice quiet. "Yeah. Two younger brothers on my mom's side. And a sister on my dad's."

"Oh damn," Paige said, sitting up a little. "Older or younger?"

"Younger," Hannah said. "I don't really know her though. Never even met her. I'm not really close with my dad."

Paige didn't rush to respond. She just nodded slowly, her eyes steady, like she was giving Hannah space to share if she wanted to — and leaving room if she didn't.

"You ever want to meet her?" she asked gently.

Hannah shrugged, her gaze drifting toward the candle flickering between them. "Sometimes. But it's weird. Feels like... I'm a stranger to a whole side of my own life. 'Cause my parents aren't close. And neither am I. Not really close with either of them."

There was a pause. Then Paige's voice, quiet but certain.

"That doesn't make you any less," she said. "Like... not having that picture-perfect family? It doesn't mean you don't deserve love. Or stability. Or people that actually show up for you."

Hannah's eyes flicked to her. She didn't say much. Just a soft, "Yeah."

Then, quieter: "What about you? What was growing up like for you?"

Paige exhaled slowly, leaning back in her chair. "Honestly? It was good. I mean, not perfect, but good. My mom... she's solid. Always kept me grounded, always showed up."

She paused. "My dad and I? It's complicated. After my parents split, I lived with him for a while. It was... different. He's a good guy, but it was a big change — new house, new school, new rules. I kinda had to figure things out on my own a lot."

She shrugged, like it was just something she'd learned to carry.

"My little brother Drew? That's my guy. And Lauren — she's like... my mini me for real."

Hannah smiled at that. "That's nice."

"Yeah," Paige said. Then, after a second, "I don't take it for granted."

Their eyes met across the table again. There was something quiet between them — not heavy, not uncomfortable. Just real. Like two people slowly letting the other in, layer by layer.

"You want dessert?" Paige asked suddenly, breaking the tension with a crooked smile.

Hannah laughed. "You trying to keep me here longer?"

"I mean," Paige said, leaning back with a grin, "if the shoe fits..."

She didn't say it, but Hannah felt it. Paige wasn't rushing the night. She was savoring it.

They did order dessert. Split something rich and chocolatey that neither of them could finish but both kept picking at anyway. The conversation never dipped. They didn't force it. Just moved through stories, memories, little confessions that didn't feel so heavy when shared in the soft glow of string lights and quiet jazz in the background.

A couple of fans noticed them on the way out, two teenage girls in Wings jerseys who whispered to each other before one finally worked up the courage to ask for a photo. Paige didn't hesitate. She grinned, threw up a peace sign, made small talk like it was second nature. Hannah stood politely beside her, hands clasped in front of her purse, and Paige caught the flicker of nerves in her eyes.

So she reached for her hand.

It was casual. Gentle. Just a brush of fingers. But it was enough.

They drove back in quiet, a different kind this time. Not awkward or uncertain. Just... full. Comfortable. The kind that settles over two people who don't want the night to end but also don't need to say it out loud.

When they pulled up to Hannah's place, Paige cut the engine and got out without a word. Walked her to her door like she had every intention of staying there until Hannah was safely inside. Like it was instinct.

At the top of the steps, they paused.

The cool night air wrapping around them like a quiet invitation neither wanted to rush.

Hannah looked up at Paige, her voice soft but steady. "Thank you. For tonight. For... all of it. I had a good time"

Paige smiled, a little shy now, the confident edge softened by something tender. "I'm glad you came."

Hannah hesitated, then took a small step closer. "Me too."

Hannah's eyes flickered down for a second, then back up to Paige's.

Without quite thinking, she reached up and brushed a light, lingering kiss against Paige's cheek — soft, almost a question.

Paige's breath hitched, eyes widening just a little.

Before either could pull away, Paige turned her head just enough to meet Hannah's lips with her own — a small, careful kiss, gentle but undeniable.

They stayed like that for a heartbeat, letting the world fall away.

When they finally parted, Paige smiled, a little breathless.

"Goodnight, Hannah."

"Goodnight, Paige."

And with one last glance, Paige stepped back down the steps, leaving Hannah standing there, heart fluttering, already craving the next time.

[stylishpaige]

PERFECT ADDICTION - [WNBA PAIGE

BUECKERS X FEM! oc]

Synopsis. In the heat of a WNBA season, Hannah Grace is assigned to cover the Dallas Wings. The last thing she expects is for Paige Buckers to become her biggest problem.

Content Warnings: Slow-burn romance, sports setting, emotional tension, some mature themes, implied/explicit (glp) with Paige, consensual adult content, brief mentions of injury/recovery, occasional angst, personal boundaries, light language.

THE GYM hadn't felt the same without her. Not that Hannah would admit that out loud — not to anyone, not even to herself, most days. But the silence between drills had been heavier. The rhythm of practice — the subtle, electric tension that usually ran through the court like a live wire — had gone flat.

Paige wasn't there. And everyone felt it. She hadn't been back since that night. Since the game. Since the concussion. The moment in the training room that changed everything.

The night Hannah let something crack in her voice, kissed Paige's forehead, and then walked away before either of them could say more. Because that's what Hannah did. She stayed composed.

It had been twelve days. Twelve long practices.

Twelve chances for Hannah to pretend she wasn't listening for footsteps that never came. She kept her eyes on drills, her tablet, the scouting notes, anything but the door.

The Wings were still the Wings. The team kept grinding. But without Paige's voice calling switches on defense, without her steady command of the offense, practice felt like it was missing its spine. There were glances. Tension.

But the worse part? so did the rest of the damn world. Because the second Hannah stormed across that court, voice sharp, face cracked wide open, yelling at the coach like she was ready to throw hands — every camera in the arena caught it. And within an hour, it was everywhere.

"WINGS MEDIA QUEEN GOES OFF ON COACH AFTER STAR PLAYER GOES DOWN"

"HANNAH GRACE STOPS THE GAME FOR BUECKERS"

"THE COMPOSURE CRACKED — AND DAMN, DID IT LOOK GOOD."

She trended for 72 hours straight.

Twitter threads. TikTok edits. YouTube thumbnails. It was all there — her face, her voice, her emotion. And for the first time in her career, she was the story.

Not her professionalism. Not her work ethic. Her feelings. And all of it — every flash of it — had been for Paige.

So she did what she always did.

Recenter. Refocus. Lock it down. Seventeen days of pretending. Of stat sheets and film notes. Of telling herself the pulse in her chest was just adrenaline. It held.

But it lingered.

In the pause after a missed shot.

In the echo of the gym after everyone else left. In the way her eyes kept drifting to that bench — Paige's bench — the one that had stayed empty since that night.

—

By the time practice ended that night, the building had mostly cleared.

Staff was gone. Players showered and out.

Only the faint hum of the lights remained.

Hannah stayed later than usual. Told herself she had reports to finish, notes to write. But she hadn't opened her laptop in ten minutes.

She was halfway down the hallway when she heard it — sneakers on hardwood.

Her chest tightened. She turned slowly.

The lights were still on in the gym.

And through the glass — she saw her.

Paige.

Standing alone at center court, shadows curling around her like stage lights. Hair tied back, sweat clinging to her temple. Moving slow, careful. Relearning her own rhythm.

She wore a black Nike sports bra, light blue shorts hanging low on her hips. Her skin glistened under the lights, each muscle line drawn in with precision. Shoulders cut, legs steady, arms flexing with every shot. She looked like someone still chasing something, but not ready to stop.

It hit Hannah all at once.

The relief. The heat. The ache she'd been avoiding.

She pushed open the gym door. It echoed.

Paige turned immediately, wiping sweat off her forehead. When she saw her, a grin pulled at her lips.

"Knew you'd still be here," Paige called out.

Hannah didn't move from the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable — but her heart had picked up speed. "What are you doing here Paige?."

Paige rested the ball on her hip. "Felt like shootin'."

Hannah's eyes narrowed. "You know you're not cleared for this right?"

Paige bounced the ball once, her smile tugging wider. "And you're not cleared to be out here in heels at ten o'clock, but here we are."

"I had things to finish."

"You had reasons to stay," Paige said, eyes steady. "So did I."

Hannah blinked, her posture stiffening just slightly — but she didn't argue. She couldn't.

Paige let the ball roll away and started walking toward her.

"I owe you," she said finally, stopping a few feet away.

Hannah raised an eyebrow. "For breaking protocol?"

"For everything." Paige paused, her voice dipping low. "For leavin' the way I did. I hate how I left that."

"You had a concussion," Hannah said quietly. "You needed to rest."

"I needed you," Paige said, her eyes locked on hers now. "And now that I can stand on my own two feet again, I wanna make up for it."

"No."

The word was sharp. Final. Hannah didn't raise her voice, but it landed with weight — like a door closing.

Paige didn't flinch. She just stayed there, a few feet away, hands loose at her sides, sweat still drying on her skin. "No to what?"

"No to whatever this is turning into," Hannah said, composed, every syllable perfectly measured. "You don't need to make anything up to me. You got hurt. You're better now. That's all."

"That's not all," Paige said, not backing down. "You know it's not."

Hannah's jaw tightened. "Paige—"

"I think about it every night," Paige said suddenly, voice low and quick, like she was afraid if she didn't say it now, she'd never say it right. "That moment in the training room. The way you looked at me. The way your voice broke. You don't talk like that. You don't let people see that."

She took a step closer. Hannah didn't move.

"I saw you," Paige said again. "And it messed me up. In the best way."

"You were concussed," Hannah replied, her voice brittle. "You didn't know what you were seeing."

"I do now."

Silence.

The air between them stretched thin — too many things left unsaid floating in it.

Then Paige stepped back, reached behind her, and grabbed a second ball from the rack. She spun it once on her palm.

"Alright," she said. "Then don't talk to me. Just shoot."

Hannah blinked. "What?"

"You heard me. You're always watchin' us from the sideline. Let's see what you got."

"I'm not in the mood for games."

"It's not a game," Paige said. "It's basketball."

"I'm in heels."

"I noticed." Paige smirked, taking a step closer. "Cute ones, too."

Before Hannah could fire back, Paige moved—fast and easy, scooping her into her arms like she weighed nothing.

"Paige!" Hannah gasped, gripping her shoulders. "Put me down—"

"Nope," Paige said with a laugh. "You got your arms crossed like you're not gonna enjoy this."

"I'm in a skirt."

"Yeah," Paige grinned. "I got eyes. You look good. I'll be respectful."

She carried Hannah to the bench like it was instinct, then crouched in front of her and started unbuckling her heels.

"Paige—"

"Shhh," she murmured. "Lemme do this right."

From her gym bag, she grabbed a pair of her own sneakers — still warm — and slipped them onto Hannah's feet. They were a little big. A little ridiculous. But they fit better than they should have.

"There." Paige tied the laces. "Now you're game-ready."

She looked up, eyes soft but sure. "One-on-one. No cameras. Just you and me."

Hannah stared at her for a long moment. Something flickered behind her eyes. Not resistance exactly, but hesitation. Like she wasn't sure if she was about to make a mistake or something impossible.

"Fine," she said at last.

"Bet," Paige grinned, standing and offering a hand.

Hannah just raised an eyebrow, ignored it, and walked herself to the three-point line.

"So what now?"

Paige followed, catching up easily. "Now I teach you how to shoot."

"I know how to shoot."

"Then show me."

Hannah hesitated, lifted the ball, elbows wide and stiff. She launched it — too flat. It clanged off the backboard and dropped like a dead thing.

Paige caught the rebound one-handed, grinning. "That was your jumper?"

"I wasn't trying."

"Yeah, no kidding."

Before Hannah could clap back, Paige stepped behind her close, but not touching. Her voice dropped, more playful now. "Can I fix your form?"

Hannah tensed... then nodded once.

"Relax your shoulders."

She did — barely.

"Keep your elbow in." Paige reached around, lightly adjusting her arm. Her fingers brushed skin — warm and grounding.

"You're tense," Paige murmured near her ear.

"I wonder why," Hannah muttered.

Paige smiled. "'Cause I'm behind you? Or 'cause you're tryna pretend you don't like it?"

Hannah said nothing. But she didn't move away either.

She took a breath, aimed again, and let it fly.

Too high. Off the backboard. Wide.

Paige caught it. "Okay," she said, smirking. "We'll call that your warm-up."

She dribbled once, tossed the ball back to her. "Again."

Hannah caught it, brows knitting. "You trying to embarrass me?"

Paige stepped beside her, close again. "Nah. I'm tryna keep you here a little longer."

Their eyes locked.

For a second, neither of them moved.

Then Paige's voice softened. "I missed you."

Her voice barely above a whisper: "Don't make this harder."

"I'm not," Paige said gently. "I'm just tellin' the truth."

Hannah held her breath... then raised the ball again.

This time, her form was better. Smoother. Paige watched her shoot — the arc wasn't perfect, but it hit backboard, kissed the rim... and dropped in.

"See?" Paige said. "Progress."

"Barely."

"One more. You got it."

Hannah narrowed her eyes.

Swish.

Paige's eyebrows shot up. "Let's gooo!"

Hannah gave a small shrug, like it was nothing — but she didn't hide the flicker of satisfaction in her eyes.

"So this was your plan?" she asked, arching a brow. "Sneak into the gym, get me in sneakers, trick me into laughing, and suddenly all is forgiven?

Paige shrugged, that grin soft but cocky. "Nah. Just part one."

"And part two?"

Paige let out a breath, hand coming up to rub the back of her neck like she was steadying herself. When her eyes lifted again, they were clear. Serious. Steady.

"Let me take you out."

"Paige—"

"One date," she said quickly, stepping in closer. "Just one."

Her voice wasn't teasing now. It was open. Real.

"We sit down somewhere quiet. You order something fancy, and I pretend I've got it together. I probably spill my drink 'cause I'm nervous. You laugh once, maybe twice if I'm lucky. And if, by the end, you don't want anything more..."

She hesitated.

"I'll walk away."

Hannah's breath caught, but Paige wasn't finished. She stepped even closer, eyes searching hers.

"I know it's not simple. Your job. My job. The cameras. All of it."

Her voice dropped lower — softer. "But I'm not trying to fix all that tonight. I'm just thinkin' about you."

A pause. Just long enough.

"The way I feel around you?" Paige said. "I don't feel that anywhere else. And I don't wanna pretend I do."

Hannah looked at her. Really looked.  And something flickered in her expression. Worry. Longing?.

"This could get really messy," she said quietly.

Paige nodded, voice just above a whisper.

"I know," she said. "But I'm not askin' for messy. I'm askin' for a chance."

She swallowed, eyes dropping for a second before lifting again — softer this time.

"Please."

There was a long beat of silence. Then finally, Hannah exhaled.

"One date."

Paige blinked. "Wait—what? "

"You heard me."

A beat. Then Paige lit up, all teeth, eyes wide, barely able to contain it. "Deadass?"

"Don't get cocky," Hannah warned.

Too late.

Paige let out a laugh and before Hannah could brace herself, Paige grabbed her by the waist and lifted her clean off the ground, spinning her in one dizzy circle like they were in the middle of a rom-com and not the middle of a dark, empty gym.

"Paige—!"

"I'm sorry, I can't help it," she said, laughing into her neck as she set her down. "You said yes. You actually said yes."

Hannah was breathless. Half-laughing, half-flustered. "Okay, okay. You're still technically concussed."

Paige didn't let go.

They were still close — too close — her hands still resting at Hannah's waist, thumbs brushing just under the hem of her shirt. The air between them pulsed.

Hannah's breath slowed.

Paige's smile softened, the energy shifting.

"Thank you."

She looked down at her, eyes searching. not pushing, just waiting.

Hannah didn't answer right away. Didn't have to. She just leaned in.

And that was all Paige needed.

She kissed her gently, like she'd been holding it back for weeks — soft and slow, both hands rising to cradle Hannah's face like she couldn't believe this was real. Hannah kissed her back, arms looping around Paige's neck, pulling her closer.

Their lips moved like they were made for each other — like they'd done this in another life and were just remembering how. Paige kissed with quiet confidence, slow and intentional, and when her tongue grazed against Hannah's, it sent butterflies bursting in her stomach so fast she almost lost her breath.

It was warm. Addictive. Everything Hannah hadn't let herself want. Until now.

When they finally broke apart, breath tangled, foreheads pressed together, Paige whispered, grinning through it.

"Told you. Just needed one shot."

[stylishpaige]

PERFECT ADDICTION - [WNBA PAIGE

BUECKERS X FEM! oc]

Synopsis. In the heat of a WNBA season, Hannah Grace is assigned to cover the Dallas Wings. The last thing she expects is for Paige Buckers to become her biggest problem.

Content Warnings: Slow-burn romance, sports setting, emotional tension, some mature themes, implied/explicit (glp) with Paige, consensual adult content, brief mentions of injury/recovery, occasional angst, personal boundaries, light language.

GAME DAY. The hum of the arena on game day was different — louder, messier, electric in a way nothing else was. Hannah heard it the second she stepped through the tunnel. Music pounding from overhead, sneakers squeaking across hardwood, fans buzzing in jerseys and face paint, foam fingers and funnel cakes in hand.

She moved through the chaos like she always did — untouched. Floating above it all in something that looked easy, but wasn't.

Tonight's look was sharp but soft. A fitted ivory long-sleeve top, smooth and sculpted like second skin, hugged her torso. It was tucked perfectly into a pair of high-waisted, wide-leg black trousers — soft, structured, and commanding with their dramatic silhouette and matte gold button detailing near the waist. Every step made the fabric sway, fluid and intentional.

Her heels? Black stilettos.

But the real statement was her hair , swept into a voluminous updo, loose curls pinned in back, two perfectly imperfect tendrils falling near her cheekbones. The kind of styling that whispered elegance, not effort. Paired with subtle gold hoops and a single dainty chain.

The game tipped at 7:05.

The first quarter looked promising — Li knocked down two clean threes and picked off a lazy pass. Aziaha was locking up the perimeter, moving like she was three seconds ahead of everybody else. Teaira was setting bone-rattling screens, barking out rotations and owning the paint.

But it didn't last.

By the third quarter, it was unraveling. Sloppy turnovers. Missed reads. Weak help-side defense. The lead didn't just shrink. It vanished.

And Paige?

She was everywhere. Calling switches. Talking loud. Pushing the tempo, taking hits, hustling for loose balls. Until halfway through the second quarter when she cut baseline, planted too hard — and got clipped mid-air.

Her body spun mid-fall.

Then hit.

Hard.

The thud echoed. Her head bounced against the floor once, then still. The front row flinched. No whistle. Not even a damn foul. Paige sat up slow, dazed, blinking like the lights were too bright. One hand went straight to her temple.

And the game kept going. Hannah was on the court before she even realized her heels were moving.

"Sub her out," she snapped to the assistant coach, tone low, tight, and lethal.

He blinked, confused. "What?"

"She can barely stand. Get her out."

"She's getting up—"

"She hasn't moved in thirty seconds"

Her voice didn't rise. It didn't need to.

The sharpness in it turned heads. People listened.

The ref finally blew the whistle. Trainers jogged out. Paige stayed seated, eyes unfocused, still clutching her head. And Hannah stood there in four-inch heels, arms folded, watching like the world had gone mad.

This wasn't about work anymore.

Not even close.

—

Halftime was a blur.

No postgame clips. Just Hannah moving like a storm down the corridor until she found the training room. She didn't knock. Just opened the door and walked in.

Paige sat at the edge of the table, legs dangling, shoulders slumped. There was an ice pack pressed to the side of her head. Her bun had come undone, strands stuck to her face. Her skin looked pale under the overhead light, flushed around the neck. She looked... small. Human.

She looked up like she knew. Like maybe she'd known Hannah was coming the whole time.

"You here to yell at me too?" Paige mumbled, voice scratchy.

Hannah leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Should I?"

Paige shrugged, grimacing. "They already benched me. Ain't nothin' left to yell about."

Silence.

Just the quiet hum of fluorescent lights and the soft drip of melted ice onto paper towels.

"What happened?" Hannah asked finally.

Paige glanced at her. "Tried to go baseline. Got clipped. Landed stupid."

"You planted off your inside foot."

"I know." She winced, then chuckled dryly. "Kinda hard to hide a concussion, huh?"

"That's not funny."

"I wasn't tryna be."

Another silence. This one longer.

Hannah crossed the room like it was second nature, took the ice from Paige's hand without asking, and pressed it back gently. Their fingers brushed — warm. Too warm. Neither of them said a word.

"Let me see."

Paige blinked up at her, hesitant for a second, like she wasn't used to someone asking without it being a checklist or protocol. She didn't argue. Just tilted her head slightly, eyes half-lidded, jaw tight.

Hannah leaned in, examining the side of her temple. A faint red mark, already blooming under the skin. Her hair was sticking to the sweat along her forehead. She was pale, but not ghostly. And she wasn't slurring yet. But the adrenaline was probably masking more than either of them could see.

"You nauseous?" Hannah asked softly.

"A little," Paige admitted. "More dizzy than anything."

"You shouldn't be sitting up."

"Trainers made me. Said it keeps me alert." She tried a smirk. "You agree with that?"

"No," Hannah said bluntly.

Paige's smile faded, but her eyes never left Hannah's.

"You're mad."

"I'm not mad," Hannah said, adjusting the towel on Paige's lap. "I'm furious."

"At me?"

"At everyone."

Silence again. The kind that filled every inch of space between them.

Paige exhaled through her nose, slow. "Wasn't tryna scare you."

"You did anyway."

A beat.

"I saw you walk out on the court," Paige murmured. "Didn't think you would."

"You were lying on the floor."

"So?"

"So what else was I supposed to do?"

Paige looked at her. "You didn't have to come."

"I didn't," Hannah admitted. "But I did."

They just looked at each other.

The space between them shrinking, even without either one moving.

And then Paige said it, low. "I saw the video."

She scratched her knee, head tilted down. "The one with me and Azzi. Right after my game. We—"

"Wait—wait." Hannah blinked. "Is that what this is about? Paige, is that why you hit your head?"

Paige gave a half-shrug, eyes still low. "Yeah. Maybe. I dunno. I wasn't thinkin' straight."

Hannah's voice softened. "Paige, whatever you and Azzi had... that's none of my business."

"It is, though," Paige said, looking up now. "What you saw... that was history. Me and Azzi—we been on and off since high school. Thought we could make it work again, but we couldn't. We ended it shorty after."

She exhaled, steady but tired. "Nothings there anymore. Just timing that looked bad."

She paused, words catching, then pressing forward.

She looked up again, slower this time. "I just... didn't wanna lose you before I even got the chance to be real with you."

Hannah's breath hitched, chest tightening like a fist had grabbed it. Paige's words cut through the careful walls she'd spent so long building. She wanted to say something, anything, push Paige away before she got too close—more than she already had these last few days. But the truth caught in her throat, tangled and heavy, making her silent.

"You'll never lose me, Paige" she said, quiet but certain. "Not like that."

Paige's breath caught.

Before she could speak, Hannah leaned in and kissed her forehead—soft, steady, like it was a promise.

Then she pulled back, met her eyes one more time. "You need to rest," she whispered. "For real this time."

Paige blinked, stunned, lips parted but no words coming out.

And just like that, Hannah stood and walked out of the room, leaving behind her perfume, her calm, her care—and Paige, sitting there with her heart wide open.

[stylishpaige]

PERFECT ADDICTION - [WNBA PAIGE

BUECKERS X FEM! oc]

Synopsis. In the heat of a WNBA season, Hannah Grace is assigned to cover the Dallas Wings. The last thing she expects is for Paige Buckers to become her biggest problem.

Content Warnings: Slow-burn romance, sports setting, emotional tension, some mature themes, implied/explicit (glp) with Paige, consensual adult content, brief mentions of injury/recovery, occasional angst, personal boundaries, light language.

THE PRACTICE facility was already pulsing by 9:00 a.m. Final prep before game day. Coaches shouting, sneakers squeaking, whistles slicing through the heat like knives. And, once again, Hannah Grace sat exactly where she had the morning before — tablet balanced on one knee, hair pulled into a smooth ponytail, navy button-down tucked into tailored cream trousers. Today, she wore no jewelry except her watch, and the only pop of color came from her gloss. A deep plum that matched nothing but still looked deliberate.

She didn't speak unless asked. Didn't look away from the court unless it was to adjust a note or tilt her sunglasses higher. But everyone knew she was watching. Hard. Players moved sharper when she was in the gym. Coaches second-guessed their phrasing. Even the media interns lowered their voices when they walked past her row.

She didn't smile. Not once.

Even when Paige walked in — a little late, again — hair damp from a quick rinse, tank top clinging to her frame, sweat already forming at the base of her neck.

Their eyes met. For a fraction of a second.

But Hannah didn't acknowledge her.

She just shifted her weight, clicked her pen once, and said to Coach Chris, "Your forwards are closing too early on the switch. It's creating gaps up the middle." He nodded like he'd been waiting for her to say it.

"She's right," one of the assistants murmured behind him. "We need to clean that up before tomorrow."

Hannah watched the play reset.

Paige was guarding high on the wing now, fighting through a stagger screen. Her body was tight, controlled. She  always was the day before a game. Focused in a way that bordered on obsessive. But Hannah noticed the way her eyes drifted toward the sideline in between whistles.

Not once. Not twice.

Enough.

Still, Hannah didn't react. Not at that. Not at all.

Until the door opened behind her.

She didn't turn. Not right away. But she heard it. The sharp click of hard soles on polished wood, the low voice calling her name.

"Hannah? "

She froze.

Because she knew that voice.

She didn't have to guess who it was. She hadn't heard that voice in over a year and yet somehow it still landed like it always had: too loud, too familiar, like it belonged in a version of her life she'd buried.

Hannah stood slowly, a calm settling over her that didn't quite reach her chest.

"Amanda," she said flatly, turning around with that signature, practiced grace. Like nothing could touch her.

Amanda Ho.

Her ex-situationship — the one that got too serious way too fast, too intense to be casual but never real enough to be claimed. High school mess. The girl who taught her what betrayal felt like in silence. Who manipulated her with softness, then spun it like Hannah was the problem.

The worst kind of ending. no label, no closure, but all the damage.

Amanda looked almost exactly the same. Oversized gym tee, black joggers, hair down, Wings badge clipped to her hip. Apparently, she worked outreach now — youth development partner, some affiliate program. Hannah had known she was in Dallas. What she hadn't expected was this.

"I saw your name on the slate," Amanda said, voice light and fake. "Didn't think you'd actually be back in this world again. Thought you were done with basketball people."

"What are you doing here?" Hannah asked under her breath.

Amanda just smiled. "Came to see you."

Amanda stepped forward, like the tension between them was some kind of inside joke.

"I messaged you," she said quietly. "You ignored me."

"You think just 'cause you're around a W team now, you're above answering people?"

"You're making a scene."

"You made one the second you blocked me"

Across the court, an assistant coach noticed the shift. Paige did, too. Hannah saw her pause mid-drill, eyes narrowing.

"Lower your voice," Hannah said tightly.

Amanda smiled like she wanted a reaction. "Look at you. Still trying to control the room, huh?"

And then she reached. Not for Hannah's hand. For her wrist. Firm. Like she had a right.

The hallway door swung closed behind them. The sound of practice dimmed, replaced by that too-familiar silence. Hannah's pulse spiked.

"Let go of me."

"You act like I'm some stranger."

"You are."

Amanda's grip tightened. "You think you can just walk away and erase everything?"

Hannah's tablet slipped from her arm and hit the floor. hard. Her heels scraped back a step.

But Amanda didn't let go.

And that's when she heard it — a voice behind them.

"Yo."

Amanda turned.

Paige stood a few feet away. She wasn't smiling.

"You needa get your hand off her," Paige said, voice low.

Amanda squared up, fake calm. "This is between me and her."

Paige stepped forward once. Just enough. "Nah. Not anymore."

Amanda tilted her head. "You her girl or somethin'?"

"You wanna find out?"

Amanda let out a small laugh. Too forced, too late.

Paige didn't laugh back.

"I don't know who you are. Don't care. But touch her like that again," she said, voice low, steady, "and you won't even make it past the tunnel."

Something about the way she said it. Not loud, not dramatic, just final. It made Hannah feel something she didn't have a name for. And it made Amanda step back.

For once, she didn't argue. She looked at Hannah one last time. Then turned and walked off.

Silence filled the hallway.

Paige bent down, picked up Hannah's tablet, flipped it once in her hand. "Didn't crack."

Hannah let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "Thanks."

Paige handed the tablet back. "You alright?"

"I'm fine," Hannah said. Too fast.

Paige gave her a look. "That didn't look like fine."

"It was nothing," Hannah clipped. "Just someone who doesn't know how to stay gone."

Paige studied her for a beat. "You want me to get Coach? Or security?"

"No." Hannah shook her head. "I don't need backup."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

Hannah blinked. "I can handle her."

"I know you can," Paige said, backing up a step. "Still ain't lettin' anyone put hands on you."

And then — a pause.

"Can I walk you back in?" Paige asked.

Hannah shook her head. "No. I'm okay."

But Paige didn't move.

She just stood there a little longer, like she didn't quite trust Amanda wouldn't double back.

"Alright, well, I'll be inside if you change your mind."

And with that, she turned and left.

And even though Hannah said she didn't need the help, even though she was calm, collected, perfectly composed — part of her was glad Paige had come.

Because the silence after Amanda left wasn't empty.

It was safe.

And for the first time in a long time... that mattered.

[stylishpaige]

PERFECT ADDICTION - [WNBA PAIGE

BUECKERS X FEM! oc]

Synopsis. In the heat of a WNBA season, Hannah Grace is assigned to cover the Dallas Wings. The last thing she expects is for Paige Buckers to become her biggest problem.

Content Warnings: Slow-burn romance, sports setting, emotional tension, some mature themes, implied/explicit (glp) with Paige, consensual adult content, brief mentions of injury/recovery, occasional angst, personal boundaries, light language.

HANNAH GRACE did not want to be here. Her outfit was last-minute. Something simple — a black blazer pulled tight at the waist with crystal buttons and a flared white skirt that skimmed mid-thigh. Her hair was down, blown out straight with a single tucked curl behind her ear. No gloss tonight. Just a clean lip, barely-there liner, and her usual composure.

She hadn't planned on attending the Wings team dinner.

In fact, she'd declined the invite  politely. Told them she was busy. Which, technically, she was. deadlines, edits, two unread emails from a national podcast that wanted her to guest.

But then came the follow-up email. From Coach Chris. Something about "valuing her insight from yesterday's practice" and how "her presence would be a great example of cross-departmental collaboration and togetherness" She could practically hear the fake corporate enthusiasm behind every word.

So now, she was walking into a modern little steakhouse in downtown Arlington, shoulders pulled back like she belonged, even though she wasn't dressed in team gear or sneakers and wasn't entirely sure if she was supposed to be here for dinner or analysis.

The private room was already buzzing when she entered. Long tables, players in sweats and jeans, a few dressed up. JJ in a silky set. Aziaha with a gold chain and backwards hat.

And then there was Paige.

Leaning back in her chair, white cable knit cardigan stretched across her chest, forearms resting on the table, rings flashing under the lights. Her hair was pulled into a low bun, loose in the front. She looked effortless. Way too cool to be sitting three seats away from the coaching staff.

She looked up the moment Hannah walked in.

Of course she did.

Hannah caught the glance. Didn't acknowledge it.

"Miss Grace," Curt Miller greeted, rising halfway. "Glad you made it."

"Couldn't say no twice," Hannah replied smoothly, taking the seat they'd clearly saved for her — end of the table, beside one of the analytics guys and across from Aziaha. A little too close to Paige.

"She's here," Aziaha whispered under her breath, playful. Paige just smirked, shaking her head like don't start.

Dinner unfolded in waves. Starters, drinks, passing plates. Conversation floated around her. Rookies trying to impress, veterans trading stories. Hannah contributed when asked insight on social media angles, the impact of post-game presence, small notes about how to stay camera-ready in high-pressure moments.

She kept it neutral. Professional. Smooth.

But Paige? Paige kept looking.

Not constantly. Not obviously. But enough.

Whenever Hannah said something sharp, Paige smirked. When Hannah laughed at something JJ said, Paige watched. And when Paige offered a sarcastic jab that made the table erupt, her eyes darted to Hannah for a reaction.

Hannah didn't give her one.

Except for one moment — halfway through the meal, when someone asked about media training and Coach Miller looked right at Hannah.

"You've been a huge help this week," Coach said. "We're lucky to have you."

There was a beat of agreement around the table.

And then Paige, soft but clear. "Yeah. You really be seein' everything."

Hannah glanced at her. Just a glance.

"Comes with the job," she said coolly.

Paige tilted her head. "Nah, you were callin' out stuff nobody noticed. Little things."

"I notice details."

"You definitely do."

The table moved on. But they both stayed there for a second longer.

—

After dessert, people started leaving in waves. A few headed to their cars. Others talked about an after spot. Coaches gave hugs. JJ high-fived everyone on her way out the door.

Hannah stayed behind to thank the restaurant staff, gathering her bag, checking her phone for the ride share she'd already called.

She didn't realize Paige had waited until she turned around and..

"You really weren't gonna come tonight?" Paige asked from the edge of the bar, where she'd been nursing a coke.

"I didn't think it was necessary," Hannah said.

Paige leaned her shoulder against the wall, casual. "Didn't wanna see me, huh?"

Hannah blinked. "This isn't about you."

Paige grinned. "You sure?"

"Yes."

"You been dodgin' me all week."

"I've been working."

"I followed you," Paige said, like that explained everything. "That was me tryna talk."

"You have a girlfriend," Hannah said flatly.

That landed.

Paige's jaw flexed, just slightly. "That what this is?"

"No. This is me reminding you that some lines don't get crossed."

"We broke up," Paige said. "Couple days ago."

Hannah said nothing. Not at first. Just studied her face — the quiet way Paige said it. Not like it was an excuse. Just a fact.

"You didn't seem broken up in that video I saw," Hannah said, voice cool but distant now. "Holding hands after a game?"

Paige's brows lifted faintly. "You were watchin' fan videos of me?"

"I was doing my research."

"You always dig this deep on people you're not interested in?"

"I'm not interested," Hannah said quickly.

"You sure?"

Hannah didn't move. But her silence said something else.

Paige's voice dropped just slightly. "Look... I get it. You're professional. Got your whole image thing goin'. I respect that."

She paused.

"But you can be all that and still be curious."

Hannah's lips parted like she might say something sharp. But the words didn't come.

"I ain't tryna mess with your brand," she said softly. "Just sayin'... if you ever stop actin' like you don't see me? I'll still be here."

And with that, just that — she stepped back, gave a slight nod, and walked out with the last group of players, leaving Hannah standing there, heels firm, bag in hand, pulse somewhere it shouldn't be.

She just... stood there.

Annoyed.

Not because Paige had said too much.

But because she hadn't said enough.

And still — she was somehow the only thing Hannah could think about.

[stylishpaige]

PERFECT ADDICTION - [WNBA PAIGE

BUECKERS X FEM! oc]

Synopsis. In the heat of a WNBA season, Hannah Grace is assigned to cover the Dallas Wings. The last thing she expects is for Paige Buckers to become her biggest problem.

Content Warnings: Slow-burn romance, sports setting, emotional tension, some mature themes, implied/explicit (glp) with Paige, consensual adult content, brief mentions of injury/recovery, occasional angst, personal boundaries, light language.

THE NEXT morning, the gym was already alive when Hannah Grace stepped through the side entrance — same time, same heels, same composure. Except today, she didn't come with a mic or a press badge clipped to her blazer. No post-practice interviews. No one-on-ones. Just her tablet, her sharp eye, and a very clear understanding that she was here to observe.

Her role today wasn't about headlines or player quotes — it was quiet support. A suggestion from the front office, actually. Coach chris and PR had asked if she'd be willing to sit in on practice, offer some media-related insights. Non-invasive. Just feedback on presence, communication, on-camera comfort. Help the players build their brand the right way. Nothing dramatic.

It wasn't her usual lane. But she was too composed to decline. And too curious not to accept. So she took her seat — not courtside, not media row — but at a small table tucked into the corner baseline. Enough space to see everything without being in the way. Neutral, but not invisible.

Her outfit today? A butter-yellow sundress with a tiny gold starfish stitched into the front like a secret. The fabric moved just slightly when she crossed her legs. Nude heels again. Hair pulled up into a ponytail that curved at the ends like a ribbon. Lip gloss soft. Glasses low. Her tablet sat balanced on one knee while the untouched iced coffee started to sweat beside her.

The gym floor gleamed. Coaches barked. Players ran drills. It was chaos.And Hannah? She watched with quiet precision. Noting footwork. Tempo. Who called their switches. Who forgot their backside help. She didn't just see plays — she saw patterns. And she recorded them the way only she could — clean, direct, controlled.

"Number thirty-two, call out your screen louder," she muttered, eyes flicking from the court to her screen.

"Facts," Coach Chris said under her breath nearby, scribbling on her own clipboard. "She's been quiet on every cross switch today."

"She hesitates," Hannah replied, tone even. "You should run her through five-on-fives with a vocal cue requirement. Or bench her until she figures it out."

Coach Chris turned to raise an eyebrow. "You want the clipboard?"

"I'd take it," Hannah said. "But I don't yell in heels."

The coach let out a breath that might've been a laugh. A few players noticed her now, mostly rookies. They glanced her way cautiously, curious. Hannah didn't wave. Didn't speak. She just offered the tiniest nod when one of them nailed a corner-three mid-transition. Encouragement, professional-grade.

And then, the shift. Hannah didn't need to look to know who'd walked in. She felt it first. That tilt in the gym's attention. The way energy paused for half a second.

Of course she's late, Hannah thought.

Paige had arrived.

She jogged in like she'd been here the whole time — hair tied messily, ends slipping loose. Black tank top. Black shorts. Tape on her wrist. A slight puff to her cheek like she hadn't slept great. She didn't say much. Just grabbed a towel off the bench, nodded at the trainer, and slid right into the drill line.

Hannah didn't look at her.

Probably still holding hands in tunnels or giggling in postgame TikToks.

(Okay. Maybe the internet had rotted her a little. But still.)

She focused back on the court. Back on the players. Back on the job.

But in the corner of her eye, she saw Paige go through the defensive footwork drill like she was trying to win something no one else could see. Her form was sharp. Intentional. But Hannah caught it — the slight hesitation on the right plant. The adjustment on the lateral slide. Most people wouldn't notice.

Hannah noticed everything.

She made a quiet note in her tablet:

"#5 — guarding on instinct. Likely overcompensating for recent strain. Check hip/load distribution."

And still — Paige moved with the kind of presence that felt... gravitational. Like she wasn't even trying to draw attention but still sucked the focus toward her anyway.

And then she looked over.

Right at Hannah.

Didn't smile. Didn't wink. Just looked direct, slow, and way too familiar for someone who had Azzi fingers wrapped around hers three nights ago.

Hannah looked back. For half a second.

Then turned to Coach Chris.

"Run it again. But force them to switch matchups every third pass," she said coolly.

Paige must've taken that as an invitation.

At the next water break, Hannah didn't even hear her coming.

"You always coach from the sideline like that?" Paige asked, voice easy, towel slung over her shoulder. "Or just when I'm out here?"

Hannah didn't react. "I give notes where they're needed."

Paige smirked. "So... me."

"You said it. Not me." Hannah's eyes stayed on her tablet, fingers moving like she hadn't just been approached by the most discussed player on the internet right now. "Feet were off on your last switch. Plant's off-balance."

"You watching my feet now?" Paige leaned down a little, just enough to get in her eyeline. "That's kinda intimate."

Hannah blinked up at her slowly. "I watch everything. That's the job."

"Yeah? And what'd you see?"

Hannah paused.

"I saw a player overcorrecting," she said smoothly. "Probably didn't sleep well. Probably distracted."

Paige straightened up, slow, like Hannah had just hit a nerve and she didn't want to admit it.

Hannah finally looked at her. Really looked. "Are you always this persistent?"

"I mean..." Paige shrugged. "Not usually. I don't chase people. Kinda new for me."

"Well," Hannah said, crossing her legs and raising an eyebrow, "maybe stick to what you're good at."

Paige let out a soft laugh. "Damn. You tryna humble me or flirt with me? 'Cause it's feelin' a little like both."

"I don't flirt with athletes," Hannah said, dry. "I cover them."

"Cool," Paige said. "Guess I'll keep playin' then. Give you something to cover."

That earned her a look. Just a flick of Hannah's eyes, unreadable behind her glasses.

"Oh," Paige added after a second. "There's a team dinner Saturday. You should pull up."

"I wasn't invited."

"I'm invitin' you now," Paige said, tugging at the corner of her towel. "Promise it's not a trap."

"No," Hannah said without looking up.

Paige tilted her head, grin tugging at the side of her mouth. "That your version of a maybe?"

"It's my version of leave me alone while I'm working," Hannah replied.

"Right," Paige said, backing away slowly. "Copy that. I'll just—go be distracted on the court again. Hope my plant foot survives."

She started to turn, but paused halfway, glancing over her shoulder.

"You look good, by the way," Paige added casually. "Didn't say that last time."

Hannah didn't respond. Just tapped something into her tablet with perfect posture, perfect timing, like she hadn't heard a thing.

But Paige smiled anyway — because she knew damn well she had.

[stylishpaige]

PAIGE BUECKERS - MASTERLIST

IMAGINES:

Jealous - when it comes to you, she doesn't play — and the thought of someone else getting too close? yeah, that gets to her more than she'll ever admit out loud.

Surprise - she's always the one giving - the calm in the chaos, the steady hands under pressure. but tonight? tonight, she doesn't have to lift a finger.

Sleepy - It's late when you finally get home-later than you meant to be. you expect paige to be waiting at the door like always, but instead, you find her asleep on your side of the bed.

STORIES:

PERFECT ADDICTION - chapter one

PERFECT ADDICTION - chapter two

PERFECT ADDICTION - chapter three

PERFECT ADDICTION - chapter four

PERFECT ADDICTION - chapter five

PERFECT ADDICTION - chapter six

PERFECT ADDICTION - chapter seven

PERFECT ADDICTION - chapter eight

PERFECT ADDICTION - chapter nine

[stylishpaige]

PERFECT ADDICTION - [WNBA PAIGE

BUECKERS X FEM! oc]

Synopsis. In the heat of a WNBA season, Hannah Grace is assigned to cover the Dallas Wings. The last thing she expects is for Paige Bueckers to become her biggest problem.

Content Warnings: Slow-burn romance, sports setting, emotional tension, some mature themes, implied/explicit (g!p) with Paige, consensual adult content, brief mentions of injury/recovery, occasional angst, personal boundaries, light language.

THE WINE glass was cold against Hannah's fingers, condensation slipping past her knuckles as she sank deeper into the corner of her linen couch. Her hair, damp from a late shower, was twisted into a lazy bun. Loose strands curled against her cheek. She wore a washed-out college tee and a pair of threadbare sleep shorts, legs folded beneath her, ankle tucked just behind the opposite knee. The room was quiet except for the soft buzz of cicadas outside the window and the low hum of her laptop fan.

She'd muted the TV a while ago. Some old game show rerun flashed colors in the background, but her focus was elsewhere, locked on the open document glowing on her screen. Color-coded pull quotes, organized timecodes, short reflections that walked the line between observation and narrative. It read well. But Hannah wasn't editing for clarity anymore. She was combing it for something she couldn't quite name.

She told herself she was just doing her job — making sure the language stayed neutral, the tone stayed even. Making sure the distance between her and her subjects remained intact.

And yet.

She opened a new tab. The Wings' social team had already uploaded the latest practice clips to their page — standard content. Short-form reels. One of JJ running the pick-and-roll drill with ease. Another of Aziaha dancing during warmups. And then... Paige.

Hannah didn't mean to click it. Not really.

She definitely didn't mean to pause on the reel titled "Bueckers Mic'd Up 🔊 | Practice Energy." But her thumb hovered. Then tapped. The audio was choppy — Paige calling out screens, dapping up teammates, grinning after a clean three. The usual.

Until the end.

That's when it hit. The tail end of the reel cut to a moment from their interview. Hannah froze, thumb still resting against the edge of the screen.

The internet had already slowed it down and looped it like a confession. But here, raw and unedited, it somehow felt...worse. She scrolled to the comments. She shouldn't have.

But of course, she did.

"Paige never flirts with reporters. Like EVER. This?? This was different."

"The way she looked at her 😭😭😭😭"

"Okay but Hannah Grace & Paige Bueckers is NOT the duo I expected this szn but I'm locked in."

"She got her giggling and mic'd up in HD. Journalism won."

"Y'all remember Paige was with Azzi like two seconds ago right???"

Azzi? Who was Azzi?. Hannah closed the comments tab, cheeks warm from the glow of the screen, and reached for her wine again — only to pause when her phone buzzed twice in a row on the coffee table.

First, a notification.

@paigebueckers started following you.

Then, two seconds later.

@paigebueckers liked your story.

Her thumb hovered.

She didn't move. Just stared at the screen. The glow of the username. The little blue checkmark. She didn't open the DM thread. Didn't check if there was a message waiting. Instead, she let the phone fall gently back onto the couch beside her and grabbed her laptop again — pulled up a separate browser and typed in a name she hadn't have been searching.

Azzi.

The results loaded fast. Interviews. Public sightings. Photos.

Old images surfaced first.

Paige and Azzi in high school, jerseys too big, grins even bigger. One of them mid-laugh on the UConn sideline, Azzi leaning into Paige's shoulder like they belonged there. And then, the newer ones. A video clip embedded in a fan thread. "Paige and Azzi after the game 🫶🏽💙" The footage was shaky, probably recorded from the stands, but clear enough. Paige walking just a step ahead, Azzi trailing but still tethered to her, fingers laced like it was a habit.

Hannah stared at the clip. Then at the timestamp. It was recent. Hannah didn't let herself speculate. She wasn't here for that. But she noticed. She always noticed.

And still, she didn't follow Paige back. Instead, she shut the laptop. Finished her wine. And sat there in the half-lit room with her legs pulled up close and her head leaned back.

[stylishpaige]

PERFECT ADDICTION - [WNBA PAIGE BUECKERS X FEM! OC

Synopsis. In the heat of a WNBA season, Hannah Grace is assigned to cover the Dallas Wings. The last thing she expects is for Paige Bueckers to become her biggest problem.

Content Warnings: Slow-burn romance, sports setting, emotional tension, some mature themes, implied/explicit (g!p) with Paige, consensual adult content, brief mentions of injury/recovery, occasional angst, personal boundaries, light language.

THE A/C hummed low against the Texas heat as Hannah Grace's white Jeep eased down the stretch of road toward the Dallas Wings practice facility. One hand on the wheel, the other tucked beneath her chin. A diamond ring caught the morning light through the windshield, gleaming with every subtle flick of her wrist.

"So? How was she?"

The voice on the other end belonged to Maya — Hannah's best friend since NYU and, unfortunately, the most dramatic person in her life.

"Who?" Hannah asked, already knowing the answer.

"Don't do that," Maya snapped. "You know who. Paige freaking Bueckers. Blonde, 6-foot-something, walks around like she invented oxygen."

Hannah exhaled through her nose. "She was fine."

"That's not an answer, that's a press statement," Maya groaned. "Come on. The girl is literally a walking highlight reel. You stood that close to her and didn't combust?"

"I've stood next to plenty of tall women before."

Maya made a choking sound. "Yeah, but not ones who look like that. You're telling me she didn't make your stomach drop a little? Not even once?"

"Nope." Hannah's tone was smooth, almost bored. "She's an athlete. I'm a journalist. We're not in high school."

Maya snorted. "Okay, but are you blind? She's hot. Like, distractingly hot. Ice bath hot."

"She's popular," Hannah corrected. "There's a difference. I'm not interested in being like every other girl who loses her mind just because she's Paige Bueckers."

"You say that like it's not completely justified," Maya said. "You're telling me if she slid into your DMs right now—"

"She won't," Hannah cut in, firm.

Maya went quiet for half a second. "You really don't like her?"

"I don't know her," Hannah said. "And from what I've seen, she's used to being looked at. I don't need to be another pair of eyes feeding the ego."

"Damn," Maya muttered. "Ice cold."

"No," Hannah said simply. "Just not impressed by hype. "

Still, she glanced down at her outfit — charcoal-black and cream plaid, the skirt hugging her hips perfectly. The matching cropped jacket was tailored, sharp, and the crystal buttons caught the sunlight through the windshield like they were made to. Beneath it, a cream ribbed turtleneck clung with clean precision.

Her accessories were like her. Quiet but intentional. Two layered gold pendants, a pearl ring, and a structured ivory handbag sitting beside her. Her long brown hair was pulled into a single bun this time, two strands falling neatly against her cheekbones.

"You look like you just stepped off a runway," Maya said, like she could feel the energy through the phone. "So tell me again how you're not trying to impress anyone."

"I dress for me."

"You dress like you're about to win a court case and ruin someone's career."

"Exactly," Hannah said.

She pulled into the media lot, engine cutting as the sun flared against her windshield.

"I just think it's hilarious how you're trying so hard not to care," Maya added. "Like, that girl looked at you like you hung the moon, and you're pretending you didn't notice."

"I didn't," Hannah lied.

Maya laughed. "Okay. Sure. Let me know when you start losing sleep."

"I won't."

"We'll see."

The call ended with a swipe of Hannah's thumb. She grabbed her press badge off the passenger seat, checked her reflection in the rearview mirror.

She stepped out of the car, smoothed her skirt with one hand, and walked toward the entrance with her press badge clipped and credentials tucked inside her bag. The sun hit the gold buttons on her jacket just right, catching the eye of a few staffers loitering by the door. She didn't look at them. She didn't slow down.

She was Hannah Grace. And today, she was ready for round two.

The doors to the facility slid open with a soft hiss, letting in a burst of cool air and the faint scent of fresh wax on the hardwood.

"Morning, Miss Grace."

"Good morning, Hannah."

"Welcome back."

The greetings came from everywhere — front desk staff, interns hustling toward the media wing, a pair of assistant coaches reviewing notes on tablets. No one lingered. No one overstepped. Everyone kept it short, crisp, and professional. Hannah nodded back to each of them with the same subtle authority she always carried.

She didn't need to ask where to go. Her badge granted her full access, and the hallway to the main court felt second nature already — polished floors, tall glass windows, framed photos of past seasons lining the walls. Her heels clicked softly as she walked, her tiny ivory handbag tucked neatly beneath her arm. The press team was already setting up cameras along the baseline when she stepped in.

"You're early," said Corey , one of the media assistants, jogging over with a clipboard. "We didn't expect you for another twenty."

"I like to be prepared," she replied, accepting the rundown sheet he handed her. "Are the players still cooling down?"

"Yeah, we got about five minutes. They're finishing stretches. You want to start with Maddy, JJ, and Aziaha?"

"Perfect."

She thanked him with a nod and crossed the court, stepping into her zone. By the time she reached the interview area, three players were already headed her way. Hannah ran through the interviews with precision. no fluff, no filler. Her questions were tight, direct, and just open-ended enough to catch something real. By the time she'd wrapped Aziaha's segment, her voice hadn't raised once. Her expression hadn't shifted. Not even when Corey leaned in and whispered.

"She's ready."

And then she was there.

Paige.

Still in practice gear — tank top clinging in all the right places, shorts slung low on her hips, towel around her neck. She jogged up, slower than yesterday, like she wasn't in a rush this time.

"Miss Grace," she said, lips curled into that half-grin. "You're makin' this a habit."

"Consistency is important," Hannah replied, keeping her gaze even.

Paige rocked back on her heels a little, eyes scanning Hannah's outfit again, slower this time, the fitted skirt, the tucked turtleneck, the shine of her pendant.

"You ever dress down?" Paige asked, voice low and teasing.

"I'm dressed appropriately," Hannah said coolly.

Paige chuckled. "Didn't say you weren't. Just wondering if you own sweats."

"Do you want to talk fashion or basketball?" Hannah asked, already signaling to the crew.

Paige raised her hands in surrender, smile still in place. "My bad. Go ahead."

The camera light clicked on.

Hannah took one step closer. "Second day back in practice — how's the team energy compared to last week?"

"Way better," Paige said. "We're cleanin' stuff up. Communication's tighter. Lotta talkin', which is good. That's where leadership starts — people bein' real."

Hannah nodded, keeping her expression neutral. "Do you feel like your voice is being heard differently this year?"

"I think people listen when they know you're not just talkin' to talk," Paige said, shrugging. "I'm tryna show that I mean it, not just say it."

"Is that difficult? Balancing that with expectations?"

"Some days," Paige admitted. "But pressure doesn't scare me. I've been under lights since I was sixteen. It's not new."

Hannah gave a small nod.

"Last question," she said, her voice smooth. "What's one thing about you the fans don't see?"

Paige's eyes narrowed slightly, just for a moment.

Then, with a grin, "I'm actually kinda shy."

Hannah raised a brow, just slightly.

"You don't believe me?" Paige asked.

"I believe you're good at interviews."

"That's not a no," Paige smirked. "Guess you'll have to get to know me and decide."

The red light on the camera turned off.

Hannah took a step back, pulling out her notepad.

"Thanks for your time," she said professionally, already turning.

But Paige wasn't done.

"Aye."

Hannah paused.

"You ever go out?" Paige asked, casually, like she was asking for a stat line. "Like — not for work?"

Hannah turned slowly. "Is this part of the interview?"

Paige tilted her head, smile lazy but intentional. "Could be. Or it could just be me askin' if you wanna grab a drink sometime."

There was a pause.

No blush. No shift in posture. Hannah just looked her dead in the eye and said, calm as ever, "I don't mix business with pleasure."

Paige didn't flinch.

"Fair," she said. "But if you change your mind... I'm easy to find."

Hannah didn't say anything back.

Just turned again, heels sharp against the hardwood as she walked toward the tunnel.

And Paige?

Paige watched her go. Same as yesterday. Same calm, same quiet stare — towel draped across her shoulder like she had nowhere else to be.

[stylishpaige]

PERFECT ADDICTION - [WNBA PAIGE BUECKERS X FEM! OC]

Synopsis. In the heat of a WNBA season, Hannah Grace is assigned to cover the Dallas Wings. The last thing she expects is for Paige Bueckers to become her biggest problem.

Content Warnings: Slow-burn romance, sports setting, emotional tension, some mature themes, implied/explicit (g!p) with Paige, consensual adult content, brief mentions of injury/recovery, occasional angst, personal boundaries, light language.

HANNAH GRACE didn't flinch when she got the call — she smiled, thanked the woman on the other end, and said she'd be there Monday morning, no questions asked. She hung up, straightened the hem of her miniskirt, and went back to typing the final lines of her article like it was just another Thursday. Because for her, it was. There was no screaming, no calling her friends, no freaking out over the fact that she had just been hired as the new media correspondent for the Dallas Wings.

Of course she got the job. She was Hannah Grace.

When she walked into the facility that Monday, every pair of eyes in the hallway flicked toward her. No one even tried to hide it. Heads turned. Conversations paused mid-sentence. Coaches, interns, assistants — all of them caught in that quiet pull she had, like gravity, but prettier. Her heels clicked against the polished floor, soft but certain, each step echoing off the high walls of the arena like she owned the place.

She wore a crisp, tailored two-piece set and a matching high-waisted skirt that flared out with every step she took. The cropped white tweed jacket hugged her waist just right, the gold buttons gleaming under the light as if they knew they were showing off. Black accents lined the collar, cuffs, and chest pockets, adding a sharp contrast that gave her a polished edge—bold but never trying too hard.

Her long brown hair was slicked into a clean ponytail, with a soft ribbon trailing down her back. Diamond studs glinted in her ears. Pink gloss coated her lips. Her look was immaculate. classic and polished, with the quiet sharpness of someone who paid attention to every detail.

She looked like she belonged on the cover of a tennis magazine or sitting front row at Paris Fashion Week — not walking into a gym full of sweaty athletes. And yet, she fit. Effortlessly.

She wasn't just beautiful. She was composed. She had a clipboard in one hand, her phone in the other, and a look in her eyes that said she didn't care who you were — you'd speak when spoken to.

Hannah had worked her ass off to get here. Late nights writing columns that didn't pay, early mornings covering high school sports in small-town gyms, building a portfolio that was smart and sharp and, most of all, hers. She didn't rely on her looks, but she knew how to use them. Her interviews were known for going viral, but never because she flirted or crossed a line. It was her voice. The way she could get even the most guarded players to open up just a little. Her confidence made people nervous. Her beauty made them stare. Her professionalism made them shut up.

She checked in with the PR director — a thin, slightly frazzled woman who looked both grateful and terrified to see her — and was handed a badge, a schedule, and a pair of credentials that said she had full access to team practices and games for the rest of the season.

Her assignment was simple. weekly features, player highlights, and post-practice interviews. Starting today. She smiled, thanked her, and asked where the locker room tunnel was.

Practice had just ended by the time Hannah got there. The court still buzzed with leftover energy — sneakers squeaking across hardwood, laughter bouncing off the walls, the soft thump of a ball hitting the rim over and over again. Players lingered, sweaty and tired but still riding the high of a good scrimmage. Hannah stood off to the side, heels planted, mic ready. She scanned the roster in her head, then checked her notes. Number five. Shooting guard. Fan favorite. The one she'd been warned about.

Paige Bueckers.

She spotted her instantly. It was hard not to. Tall, lean, blonde hair tucked into a slick ponytail, tank top loose over her shoulders. Her expression was focused but easy — like she was used to being the center of attention and didn't mind it. She had that athlete walk. relaxed shoulders, smooth steps, quiet confidence. Not cocky. Just calm. Like she knew exactly who she was and didn't need to say it out loud.

Hannah watched her from the edge of the court, not because she was a fan, but because she was studying. Studying the footwork, the tempo, the way her left wrist flicked differently than her right. She watched her body language when a teammate missed a pass.

She didn't blink until someone called it.

"Bueckers, media."

Before Paige could jog over, a voice called from behind the bench.

"Grace?"

Hannah turned to see a tall man in a Wings pullover stepping down from the sideline. Coach Chris Koclanes. head coach, sharp-eyed, and already sweating through his clipboard notes.

"Hannah Grace," he said, offering a firm handshake. "Heard good things."

"Likewise," she replied, shaking his hand with the same confidence she gave executives and editors. "I appreciate you letting me move around today."

He nodded, eyes scanning the court. "We just ask that you give the players a second to breathe before you start firing questions."

"Of course," Hannah said. "I'm just here to get the real stuff."

The coach smirked a little. "That's what I heard."

He glanced at the court again, where Paige had just swiped her towel from the bench and was now walking toward them.

"She's all yours," he said quietly, jerking his chin toward Paige. "Good luck keeping up."

"I'm not worried," Hannah said, smiling politely.

He laughed under his breath and stepped aside, letting Hannah move forward to intercept the star of the team.

Paige jogged over, a towel draped around her neck, tank top clinging like it was part of her skin. She wasn't drenched — just warm. Her blonde hair was loose and damp, cheeks pink, legs long and toned from hours on the court.

"Hannah right?" Paige asked, voice smooth, eyes flicking her up and down. Casual, but curious.

Hannah held out her hand. professional, steady, no tremble. "Hannah Grace. I'll be with you for the rest of the season."

"I know who you are," she said, a small smirk settling onto her lips.

She shook her hand— her grip warm, strong. Paige made good eye contact, like she always did in interviews. Like she wanted people to feel seen.

Hannah raised an eyebrow. "Do you?"

"Yeah. They said we were gettin' a new reporter." She looked her over again, slower this time. "Didn't say you'd walk in lookin' like that though."

Hannah didn't react. "There will be press interviews three times a week. I'll handle all game-night reporting, home and away. I don't chase headlines. I get real answers. And I don't like to be late."

Paige blinked.

"Damn," she muttered with a half-grin, rubbing the towel over her neck. "You like that all the time?"

Hannah didn't flinch. "You'll get used to it."

She motioned to the camera crew, who were already counting down.

"3... 2... 1..."

Hannah stepped slightly closer, posture tall, tone cool.

"So... Paige, this is your first official practice since the last road game. Anything different about the way you approached today?

Paige adjusted the towel around her neck, eyes steady on Hannah's. "Not really. Same mindset. I was locked in. We're tryin' to tighten things up, communicate better. I'm leadin' more now — that comes with being vocal. Being solid."

Hannah nodded once, no break in composure.

"You're stepping into more leadership this season. How does that pressure affect your performance?"

Paige's smirk dropped slightly, but not defensive. "It doesn't affect me. Pressure's normal. It comes with the role. I like knowin' they trust me with it."

"And when that trust gets tested... how do you earn it back?"

Paige nodded slowly, like she respected the angle. "You don't talk about it. You show up. You stay consistent. Own your part and move better the next day. That's how you lead, not just when things feel good, but when they don't."

Hannah barely blinked. "You've got one of the most talked-about work ethics in the league. Where does that come from? Is it internal, or is it pressure-driven?"

Paige glanced to the side, just once. Thoughtful, but not unsure. "Both," she said, looking back. "It's how I'm built. I don't need somebody tellin' me to go harder — that's automatic. But yeah, when people expect things from you, you don't get to coast. You either show up or you get left behind."

There was a beat of silence. One of those rare ones where neither party was trying to fill it. Paige stood in it comfortably. Hannah didn't rush the moment.

Then.

"And what does belonging look like to you?"

Paige tilted her head slightly, one hand tightening around the towel. Her voice dropped just enough to make it clear she wasn't guessing.

"Belonging means showing up the same way whether the lights are on or off. When you win, when you lose. When nobody's watchin', or when everybody is. That's what makes you real."

A pause.

"That's all I needed," Hannah said.

And for the first time since the mic turned on, Paige smiled. not big, not cocky.

Just honest.

She turned slightly toward the camera. "Live here from Arlington, Texas, Paige Bueckers, thank you."

"Just like that?" Paige asked, still standing in place as the cameraman gave the cut sign.

Hannah gave a small smile. "I don't like to waste time. And I expect the same in return."

She stepped back, gave a polite nod, and started walking off in slow, deliberate steps. Head high. Skirt swaying. Not a single hair out of place. The entire court watched her go — trainers, coaches, players. All of them.

And Paige? Paige watched her go, towel in hand, lips parted just enough to breathe something unspoken.

She wasn't used to being the one left looking. But damn — she didn't want to stop.

She'd had media days, press rooms, fan interviews. She'd faced hype and shade and questions that tried to rattle her.

But no one had ever spoken to her like Hannah Grace just did.

[stylishpaige]

ఌ SLEEPY; PAIGE BUECKERS ఌ

synopsis. It’s late when you finally get home—later than you meant to be. you expect paige to be waiting at the door like always, but instead, you find her asleep on your side of the bed.

pairing; wnba paige bueckers x fem! oc

it’s late.

like really late. the kind of late that makes your phone screen feel too bright when you check the time.

you slip your key in the door as quietly as you can, tiptoeing into the apartment like a teenager breaking curfew. not because you’re in trouble or anything. you just know what time it is. and you know paige.

she usually meets you at the door. kisses you before you can even take your shoes off.

but tonight… silence.

you close the door gently behind you. no light flicks on. no footsteps from the hallway. just the low hum of the fridge and the ghost of whatever show she probably fell asleep to.

you drop your bag on the kitchen stool, kick off your heels, and start to peel off your jacket. the air is still warm from the day, but there’s a chill in the quiet that settles in your chest.

she must be asleep.

it makes sense. she had a long day. early film, meetings, practice, more meetings. and still, she waited for you. probably longer than she meant to.

you pad softly down the hallway, the soft fabric of your dress whispering against your skin. the bedroom door is cracked open just slightly, like she left it that way on purpose. like she always does.

you push it open with your fingertips.

and there she is.

cuddled up right on your side of the bed.

her hair’s in a messy bun, barely holding on. her glasses are still on, sitting crooked on her nose like she fell asleep mid-thought. and she’s got your pillow wrapped up in her arms, clinging to it like it’s you.

your chest squeezes.

she looks so small like that. soft and warm and just a little vulnerable, her face relaxed in the low glow of the bedside lamp she forgot to turn off. her lashes flutter gently like she’s dreaming. and there’s something about the way she’s curled around that pillow. legs tucked in, hands folded under it. that makes you wanna cry a little.

you kneel beside the bed, one hand resting on the edge as you lean in.

“hi baby,” you whisper, brushing a piece of hair from her forehead. her skin’s warm.

gently, you reach for her glasses, sliding them off carefully. she doesn’t even stir at first, just exhales a little deeper. you fold them neatly and place them on the nightstand.

you lean in and kiss her forehead softly. once. twice. three times.

she makes a quiet sound. nothing more. not awake, not fully. but like she knows it’s you.

you kiss her again. just because.

then you head to the bathroom, peel off your clothes, and step into the shower. the water’s hot, and the steam fogs up the mirror fast, but all you can think about is her. tangled up in sheets and your pillow, probably dreaming of something that feels like home.

you tiptoe into the bathroom and dry off, shower quick and quiet, then pull on the oversized UConn tee she left folded on the dresser for you — the one she swears is good luck.

when you slide into bed, she’s still asleep, but you swear… she feels you.

her head lifts up, half-asleep, lids heavy and blinking slow. there’s that little crease between her brows she always gets when she’s disoriented. like her body’s waking up before her brain.

“s’just me,” you whisper, sliding closer so she doesn’t have to move. “just me.”

she relaxes the second she hears your voice. her face softens. her shoulders drop. and that sleepy confusion melts into something familiar.

her arm reaches out for you in that clumsy, instinctive way. fingers brushing your waist before slipping around to pull you in close.

you press a kiss to her temple. “go back to sleep, baby. i didn’t mean to wake you.”

“was waitin’,” she mumbles, voice thick and husky, barely words.

she nuzzles her face into the crook of your neck. a slow exhale warms your collarbone.

her arms tighten.

“i know,” you whisper, stroking her hair. “i saw you cuddled up with my pillow.”

“missed you,” she breathes, already drifting.

you smile into her shoulder. “i noticed.”

you let yourself melt into her. you always do. she’s warm and solid and smells like fabric softener and something sweet. maybe that lavender lotion you like, the one she swears she doesn’t use but always does.

you slide a leg between hers, anchoring yourself to her body.

her hand slips underneath the hem of your borrowed shirt. her fingertips trail along your hip, slow and soft across your back. not urgent. not asking. just… present. like she’s re-learning you with every stroke, even half-asleep.

her thumb draws slow circles.

then up, over your waist, your side.

like she’s tracing a map only she knows how to read.

“you should sleep,” you murmur, even though you’re the one who keeps talking.

“mhm,” she hums, barely awake, but her hand slides around to rest low on your back. a little possessive. a little protective.

you exhale into her neck. “you’re gonna be tired in the morning.”

“don’t care,” she says, and then after a beat, “missed you.”

your chest tightens. it always does when she says stuff like that. quiet and simple and so real you feel it in your bones.

you lift your head just enough to look at her, even in the low light. her eyes are open now. barely. but they’re on you. soft and blue and tired and so full of that quiet kind of love that sneaks up on you when everything else fades out.

you kiss her.

just gently.

her lips are warm and slow against yours, like she’s been waiting all night for it. like she knew it was coming.

and maybe you should be sleeping. maybe you will in a minute. but right now, in this soft, silent moment, with her hands on you and your heart beating too loud in your chest. you don’t want to be anywhere else.

not if she’s here.

[stylishpaige]

ఌ BESTFRIENDS; PAIGE BUECKERS ఌ

synopsis. you’ve always been close—three best friends who do everything together. but late one night, everything shifts when paige and azzi finally tell you the truth. smut (18+)

pairing; pazzi (paige bueckers x azzi fudd) x reader

you don’t even get the chance to knock.

the apartment door swings open before you lift your hand, and there’s azzi, grinning like she knew you’d show up late. her smile’s soft, a little smug. she’s wearing pink pajama pants and a white tee that hangs just low enough to make you blink twice.

“there she is,” she says, pulling you in with one arm, her cheek brushing yours for a second too long.

before you can even register the hug, you hear paige’s voice from behind her.

“yo, move. let me get my girl.”

azzi turns her head slightly, eyes her. “hey. i got her first.”

“nah, you didn’t,” paige mutters, stepping around her and sliding her arms around you like it’s muscle memory. like she’s been waiting. her hand settles low on your back, her touch lazy but firm, like it belongs there.

you can’t help but smile up at her. she always does this to you. knocks the breath right out your chest and acts like it’s no big deal.

“hi, paige.”

she leans back, head tilting just slightly. her eyes flick down, then back up, slow.

“hi, ma,” she murmurs. “you took your time.”

“had to get gas.”

“nah,” she grins. “you just like making me wait.”

you raise an eyebrow. “did it work?”

she presses her forehead to yours for a beat. “yeah.”

you glance at azzi, who’s sipping from a cup like none of this phases her. but the raised eyebrow says otherwise. she clocked it all. the look, the hand on your waist, the smile that doesn’t fade when you step back.

the truth is, this dynamic’s always been… weird.

they’ve been best friends forever. like, finish-each-other’s-sentences type of close. inside jokes. dumb handshakes. facetime calls that don’t end ’til sunrise. and somehow, you got folded into all of it slowly, like a thread stitching tighter every year.

but lately, it’s been… different.

you feel it again now. paige’s hand slipping off your waist slow like she’s still memorizing the shape.

azzi disappears into the kitchen like it’s nothing, but her voice carries.

“you hungry?” she asks, chin tilting. “i made pasta.”

“azzi cooked,” paige mutters behind you, like it’s a warning.

“it’s literally just noodles and butter,” azzi throws back, crossing her arms. “don’t act like i tried to sauté a duck.”

“you put cinnamon in the noodles last time, bro.”

“it was nutmeg.”

“that doesn’t make it better.”

you laugh. “it’s okay. yes, azzi, i’d love some noodles. thank you.”

you shoot paige a playful glare as you follow them into the kitchen. the place is warm. light spilling across the counters, something buttery lingering in the air. azzi’s dishing noodles into a chipped ceramic bowl while paige snatches a piece of garlic bread and tosses it over her shoulder to you. you catch it midair, laughing.

azzi hands you the bowl, her fingers brushing yours just long enough to make you pause.

“you okay?” she asks, quieter now.

you nod, smile soft. “yeah. thank you.”

and then paige’s arms are around you again, coming from behind, chin resting on your shoulder like she never left. 

“we missed you,” she says, quiet, her voice humming against your skin.

you lean back into her. just for a second. just long enough to feel how much.

“okay,” azzi says, hopping up onto the counter, legs swinging. “so—”

“azzi,” paige warns, already exasperated.

“what?” azzi’s grin turns sharp. “we said we were gonna say it.”

paige groans, rubbing the back of her neck. “you really gotta do it like this?”

“you’re so dramatic.”

“you’re pushy.”

“guys,” you laugh, settling at the table. “what is going on?”

they exchange a glance. then you blink and suddenly you’re sandwiched between them. paige on your right, azzi on your left. their knees brushing yours. two pairs of eyes locked on you.

“we’ve been thinking,” paige says carefully. “about you. about… us.”

“this is the part where you freak out,” azzi adds, nudging you. “but like… don’t.”

“i’m not freaking out,” you murmur.

“yet,” paige mutters.

azzi rolls her eyes. “you’re making it weird.”

“you started it.”

you shake your head, smiling. they’re still them. still the same two girls who call you just to argue about which smoothie spot is superior.

but now they’re both quiet. waiting.

“okay,” you say slowly. “someone just say it.”

azzi looks at paige, then at you. “we’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you this without making it… a thing.”

“but it is a thing,” paige says softly. “and it kinda just… happened.”

“we both started catching feelings,” azzi continues. “and we didn’t wanna ruin what we had with each other. or with you.”

“but you kept showing up,” paige adds. “and you kept being… you. and it got harder to act like it didn’t matter.”

your mouth opens. but nothing comes out.

“we’ve liked you for a while,” azzi finishes. “we just didn’t wanna make it real unless you—”

“—felt something too,” paige says, her voice barely above a whisper.

she’s looking at you now. really looking. “so we’re being honest, ma. no pressure. no rush. but we’re here. both of us.”

“and we’re not asking you to choose,” azzi says gently. “we’re asking if you’d let us try. together.”

you stare at them.

these two people who’ve been orbiting your life, slowly, deliberately, like gravity.

“oh,” you breathe.

“oh?” paige repeats, lifting a brow.

“it’s a lot,” you admit. “but… i think i knew.”

azzi smiles, soft. “we didn’t wanna push.”

“we just wanna be real with you,” paige echoes. “that’s all.”

you nod slowly, heart thudding against your ribs.

“okay.”

paige raises a brow.

“okay?” she repeats, voice softer now. “like… okay, you’ll think about it? or okay, like you’re not running for the hills?”

you laugh, but it’s quiet. nervous. full of that weird little ache in your chest that only they can pull out of you.

“okay, like… i want this too. whatever this is,” you say, looking between them. “i don’t know how it works. or what it means. but i know i don’t want to lose either of you.”

azzi’s shoulders drop with visible relief, like she’s been carrying the weight of this for too long. she leans in and kisses your cheek. 

the way she always does when she’s trying to calm you down without saying it out loud.

“you’re not gonna lose us,” she says. “we don’t move like that.”

“we’re not perfect,” paige adds, voice low. “but we’re real. and we’re in this, if you are.”

you swallow, trying to keep your voice from cracking. “i am.”

paige lets out a quiet “yo,” under her breath, then kisses your cheek so quickly it almost doesn’t register.

the three of you sit there like that for a second. you in the middle, knees still brushing theirs, heart thudding like it’s not sure if it’s terrified or just full.

“so…” azzi says eventually, shifting like she’s trying to lighten the mood. “does this mean we all get to cuddle tonight or what?”

“dibs on big spoon,” paige chimes in immediately.

“you’re, like, barely taller than me,” azzi protests.

“still taller though.”

you just laugh, head falling back, the tension slowly peeling away from your shoulders.

“you’re both ridiculous,” you mutter, but the smile tugging at your lips won’t go away.

—

paige’s bedroom already smelled like the three of you. like her cedarwood body wash, azzi’s vanilla lotion, and something softer. warmer. that you couldn’t quite name. it clung to the sheets, to the pillows, to the air between your bodies.

paige kissed you first.

she didn’t ask — she didn’t have to. you were already leaning in. her mouth was warm, slow at first, her thumb brushing along your jaw, tilting your face just how she liked it. her lips moved against yours like she knew the shape of you, and when her tongue gently touched yours, it felt like a quiet promise.

her kiss said mine. not possessively. just softly. securely. like she knew where she stood with you, and where you stood with her.

while your lips were still tangled with hers, you felt azzi come up behind you, her presence subtle but electric. her fingers gently brushed your waist, and then her mouth found the side of your neck. you gasped into paige’s kiss. couldn’t help it. your body reacting before your mind could catch up.

paige smiled against your lips, not cocky, just knowing. azzi’s mouth was slow, open, her breath warm against your skin as she kissed right under your jaw. the mix of their attention was dizzying. grounding. you were in the middle of it. held, cherished, wanted.

when you finally pulled away from paige, you turned to azzi, heart thudding hard against your ribs.

she was already looking at you like she knew. like she’d been waiting for you to face her.

so you kissed her too.

azzi kissed differently — slower, gentler, her lips moving with a kind of careful reverence that made your knees weak. her hand cupped your cheek first, then slid down your spine to rest at the small of your back, keeping you close.

she didn’t rush. she let you melt.

and you did.

you felt their hands on you. not frantic, just… there. one of paige’s on your hip. azzi’s at your lower back. anchoring you.

“princess,” paige murmured near your ear, her voice lower now, raspier. “are you sure?”

you nodded first. a soft, instinctual thing. then whispered, “yeah. i want this.”

they didn’t rush you. they didn’t tear anything off. azzi met your eyes, searching, and when you nodded again, her fingers gently found the hem of your shirt.

their touch was patient. warm. worshipful.

they gently guide your hands up, helping you pull the damp fabric of your shirt over your head until it slips off your shoulders, leaving you bare and vulnerable between them. the cool air brushes your skin, making every nerve stand on edge.

paige’s eyes drop to your body as she pulls your shirt off, and she actually growls under her breath, low and soft. “fuck, ma…”

“so fuckin’ pretty,” she mutters under her breath, like it’s just for her.

“your so beautiful” azzi whispered.

azzi leans in first, her lips grazing your collarbone, planting soft kisses that trail upward, along the curve of your neck. her tongue flicks lightly at your pulse point, swirling in gentle circles as paige’s lips find the other side of your neck, sucking softly, leaving a warm, tender mark.

you shiver at the twin sensations, your breath hitching, heart pounding as their hands roam your waist and back.

azzi’s mouth moves lower, kissing and swirling along the smooth skin beneath your collarbone, fingers tracing the curve of your ribs. paige mirrors her, hands sliding down to cup your breasts.

their lips meet your skin with slow, teasing kisses, and then each takes one of your breasts into their mouths, swirling their tongues around the sensitive peaks, sucking softly but firmly.

you arch your back instinctively, your hands tangling deep in both their hair, pulling them closer, craving more of their warm, worshipful mouths on you.

every touch makes you gasp, moan softly. your body responding with desperate hunger and sweet surrender.

their lips leave your breasts reluctantly, trailing down your stomach in soft, teasing kisses. the warmth of their breath sends shivers along your skin as they move together, lips and tongues mapping every inch of your bare flesh.

azzi’s fingers find the waistband of your underwear, slipping under the fabric with gentle precision. she pauses, looking up into your eyes with a quiet intensity. her gaze searching yours for the same permission you’ve already been giving her all night.

“can i?” she whispers, voice soft and full of care.

you nod, breathless, your heart pounding in your chest.

slowly, carefully, azzi pulls your underwear down your legs, revealing more of you to the room, and to them.

paige’s hand slides up your thigh, fingers curling into your skin, steady and reassuring.

“you okay, pretty girl?” paige murmurs, her fingers tracing down my hip.

you nod again, too breathless to speak.

azzi’s mouth returns to you, soft and warm, her tongue tracing delicate circles lower, exploring the sensitive skin of your inner thighs before moving slowly to where you ache the most.

you squirm instinctively, hips shifting, breath catching in your throat as waves of pleasure ripple through you.

“please,” you whine, breathless.

and then. azzi’s mouth.

right there.

warm, patient, reverent.

your hips immediately lift as pleasure overwhelms you.

paige’s strong hands settle on your stomach, holding you down. not harshly, but with steady, grounding pleasure that keeps you rooted in the moment.

“shh, baby,” paige murmurs close to your ear, her voice thick with praise and desire. “your doin’ so good. so damn beautiful like this.

she kisses you.

your sounds spill out—soft moans, muffled and gasps, the helpless cries of someone undone by love and pleasure and care.

azzi’s tongue moves slow, but steady. just giving. like she means it.

she hums against you and you gasp, the sound sends a pulse straight through you .

her tongue moves with purpose, but gentleness too. your whole body jerks, overwhelmed. you’ve never been touched like this. you feel paige’s hand slide into yours, her thumb brushing your knuckles, e while azzi keeps going. deeper. slower. perfectly paced.

“i can’t—i’m—

“let go, baby,” paige coaxes. “just like that. come for her.”

and you do.

hard. with a cry that spills from your chest before you can muffle it. your back arches off the bed and you feel yourself break apart beneath azzi’s mouth, paiges voice, the heat of both of them wrapped around me like a storm.

“such a good girl,”

before you can fully catch your breath, paige is moving.

switching places with azzi, who crawls up to lay beside me, brushing sweat-damp hair from my face, lips peppering soft kisses across my jaw. paige is sliding her hands under my thighs now, her grip strong and sure.

you blink, terrified. half dazed. “i don’t.. i don’t think i can handle more…”

“you can,” azzi says gently, kissing my temple. “your so good.”

paige leans in, kissing between your legs like she’s starving. no teasing now. just raw, reverent need. her tongue is more intense than azzi’s. deeper. confident. you cry out, gripping azzi’s hand tight while paige pushes you toward another edge.

every nerve in your body is lit. your hypersensitive. too much and still not enough. paige keeps going, not backing off, moaning low like she’s the one falling apart. her hands hold you wide, firm and possessive.

“look at you,” azzi groans.

you break again.

harder. louder.

tears prick your eyes and azzi kisses them away, whispering how proud she of you while paige keeps lapping at you like she never wants to stop.

keeping a firm hold on you, paige’s hands slid upwards to your breasts, massaging your nipples, gripping at them softly.

that was it.

you cum with another violent shake. and when it’s over. when your trembling, shaking, coming down in waves. not even a second later you feel paige’s middle finger and ring finger slid into your cunt.

"paige" you don't even finish your sentence.

you scream.

and paige’s right there, encouraging you, "there you go, mama, keep screamin'. let everyone hear how good we're making' you feel."

“your doin’ perfect” azzi added, kissing your forhead.

the heel of paige’s palm met your clit was almost embarrassing. it was like your pussy was made to take her fingers.

together, azzi and paige start back kissing and sucking at your neck, their lips meeting in a kiss. It's like every touch, every kiss, is sending waves of pleasure through you. you can feel their desire, their need, and it's just... incredible.

and when it’s over. when your trembling, shaking, coming down in waves. you feel both of them beside me. azzi curled around your front, paige wrapped around your back.

their hands stroke your hair. there voices call me baby, princess, mine.

you never felt more wrecked. and you’ve never felt more loved.

[stylishpaige]

ఌ SURPRISE; PAIGE BUECKERS ఌ

synopsis. she’s always the one giving — the calm in the chaos, the steady hands under pressure. but tonight? tonight, she doesn’t have to lift a finger.

pairing; wnba paige bueckers x fem! oc

“can you see?”

“nah,” paige mumbled, lips curled into a grin. “you got my eyes covered like we playin’ hide and seek.”

“good. keep ’em shut,” you told her, guiding her gently, fingers laced with hers.

“you know i don’t like surprises,” she teased, “unless they involve food… or you in a dress.”

“maybe both,” you said, laughing under your breath.

“mm, say less.”

you stopped just outside the private room — her favorite little spot in dallas. low lights leaked out from under the door, warm and quiet.

you leaned in and kissed her cheek. “okay… open.”

she blinked. then froze.

“yo…” she breathed, stepping into the room you’d rented just for her — soft music playing, candles flickering, warm wood walls, and a small table set for two. it was simple. intimate. hers.

she turned back to you, eyes wide, mouth parted in disbelief. “nah… you didn’t.”

“i did,” you said, smiling.

she looked around like she couldn’t believe it, like she needed something to hold on to.

“ma… what is this?”

“for you,” you said softly. “you’re the only rookie all-star starter, paige. that’s not normal. that’s you. and i know you usually do stuff like this for me, but… for once, i wanted to do something for you.”

her whole face softened. “princess…”

before you could respond, she picked you up off the ground like it was nothing, spinning you around in one strong, giddy motion.

you laughed, arms looping around her shoulders. “paige!”

she set you down slowly, like she wasn’t ready to let go, and her eyes stayed on yours the whole time.

then her lips were on yours — quick, warm. then again, just because. her hand stayed at your waist, her thumb brushing beneath your shirt like it belonged there.

“this is beautiful. for real,” she said, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“you deserve it.”

“nah but like…” she looked around again. her voice was quieter this time. “i don’t think anybody’s ever done somethin’ like this for me.”

“well,” you said, pulling out her chair, “get used to it.”

she laughed, a little stunned, and sat down. her eyes didn’t leave yours, not really.

dinner was easy — her favorite pasta, a bottle of wine neither of you really knew how to pronounce, and her stealing bites off your plate like she hadn’t ordered the exact same thing.

your fingers kept brushing across the table. she found your hand when she thought you weren’t paying attention.

you said something that made her blush — you don’t even remember what it was. but she gave you that look, the one where her eyes drop and her smile tucks into her shoulder like she’s trying to hide it.

“you really did all this for me?” she asked, her voice softer now. more real.

“i’d do it again tomorrow,” you said, brushing your fingers over hers. “and the day after that.”

she looked down, blinking fast, then met your eyes again — those soft blue eyes always gave her away.

“you make me feel like more than just a hooper, you know that?”

you smiled, leaned over, and kissed her knuckles. “you’re more than that.”

she leaned across the table and kissed you — slower this time. deeper. like a thank you she didn’t know how else to say.

she kissed you once more, then pressed her forehead to yours.

“my princess really set me up nice,” she whispered, her voice warm.

“you earned it.”

“nah,” she whispered back, shaking her head slightly, smiling as she kissed you again. “i earned the trophy. this… this is love.”

⸻

@HannahGrace ✔️

Liked by paigebueckers, azzi35, and 479k others

hannahgrace roses are red, her jersey is blue, she made history tonight and somehow said "i'm yours" too

proud of you. always. my rookie all-star starter. my girl.

💫🖤 #allstarstarter #rookieyear #softlaunchover

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[stylishpaige]

ఌ JEALOUS; PAIGE BUECKERS ఌ

synopsis. when it comes to you, she doesn’t play — and the thought of someone else getting too close? yeah, that gets to her more than she’ll ever admit out loud.

pairing; wnba paige bueckers x fem! oc

you knew something was off the second you saw her walking toward the tunnel.

her jaw was set, lips pressed tight, that sharp, focused look she only wore when she was mad — not at the game, not at herself, but at someone.

you waited just outside the locker room, hoodie on, hands tucked in your pocket like you weren’t lowkey nervous about whatever this was.

she didn’t say anything when she reached you. just leaned in and kissed your cheek like she was on autopilot.

“you okay?” you asked softly.

“mm.”

you didn’t speak again until you were both in the car. but you could feel it radiating off her. the silence was too quiet.

“paige?”

nothing.

you reached over, resting your hand gently on her thigh. “baby, talk to me.”

she exhaled through her nose, eyes never leaving the road. “nah. not tryna ruin the night.”

“ruin it how?”

“just don’t wanna argue, ma.”

your heart dipped a little. “who said we were gonna argue?”

she finally glanced your way. eyes sharp, but not unkind. just… bothered. jealous, but in a way that wasn’t petty — it felt personal.

“you really ain’t see how he was lookin’ at you?” she asked, voice low and even.

your brows pulled together. “who?”

“that camera dude. the one flirtin’ with you after the interview like i wasn’t standin’ right there.”

you blinked. “baby, he asked if i needed help with the mic—”

“he didn’t care about the mic, princess,” she said, jaw clenched again. “he was tryna shoot his shot.”

you sat with that.

“you think i’d entertain that?” you asked gently.

she didn’t answer right away. just shook her head, flexing her grip on the wheel.

“nah. i don’t,” she said eventually. “i just hate that he felt comfortable enough to try.”

you leaned your head back against the seat, looking over at her.

“you know you don’t have to protect me from everybody, right?”

“yeah, i do,” she muttered. “that’s literally my job.”

you smiled softly. but her hand was still tight on the wheel, so you reached over, laced your fingers with hers, and gave her hand a little squeeze.

“baby.”

she didn’t look at you yet, but her shoulders dropped, just a little.

“you’re the only one who gets to call me princess,” you said quietly. “and you’re the only one i want lookin’ at me like that.”

paige sighed — a little deeper this time, like she was letting it go. “you sure?”

“positive.”

“’cause i’ll pull up on him right now. i got the addy—”

“paige.”

“what?” she smirked finally, glancing over at you. “i’m just sayin’. he got too comfortable.”

you leaned over and kissed her cheek. “thank you for being jealous in the cutest possible way.”

“don’t gas me.”

“too late.”

she pulled into the parking garage, cut the engine, then turned toward you fully.

“for real though,” she said, softer now. “i know i get in my head sometimes. and i trust you, ma. i do. i just—when it comes to you… i don’t play about that.”

you nodded, hand reaching up to cup her jaw. “i know. and you don’t have to worry. you’re it for me.”

her eyes dropped to your lips.

“yeah?” she whispered.

“yeah.”

she leaned in and kissed you slow — the kind of kiss that starts soft but says everything. that you’re hers. that you’re not goin’ anywhere. that no one else even comes close.

“mine,” she mumbled against your lips.

“always.”