#puppet master freak | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

uncuredturkeybacon · 22 days ago

Text

𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which you coach her game and quiet her mind

part two - part three - part four - part five

You met Paige Bueckers on a Tuesday afternoon in late September, your sophomore year at Hopkins.

It’s open gym. You aren’t technically supposed to be in there—you’ve already finished your weight training hour and your basketball season doesn’t start until winter—but the hum of a bouncing ball is too rhythmic to ignore. There’s a familiar comfort to the hollow echo of sneakers and grit on hardwood, something that calls you in like a whisper.

You open the gym door quietly, backpack still slung over one shoulder, and that’s when you see her.

Blonde ponytail swaying. Wide stance. Shot pocket high. Paige freaking Bueckers.

You’d heard of her, of course. Everyone at Hopkins had. Varsity freshman starter. Handles like a string puppet master. Shot like a dream. Girl had already been ranked nationally, and people couldn’t stop talking about her like she was some prodigy out of a sports movie. You thought it was all hype.

Then you saw her move.

And the thing was—she wasn’t just good. She was smooth. Every step calculated, but casual. Every pivot like muscle memory. She dribbled like the ball owed her rent.

She doesn’t notice you at first. Just keeps shooting from mid-range, the ball sailing through net with that soft, cotton-candy swish. Over and over and over.

You step in farther.

She stops, finally turning her head slightly, eyebrows raised. “You lost?”

You blink. “No. Just… didn’t know anyone else was in here.”

She nods once, grabbing her rebound. “You hoop?”

You shrug. “Yeah. But I train more than I play now. Strength and conditioning stuff. I work with Coach Cosgriff sometimes.”

Paige bounces the ball slowly under one hand, studying you with that squint she always seems to wear. “So you're, like, a trainer-trainer?”

You laugh once. “A sophomore trainer. I’m certified in watching YouTube videos and correcting people’s forms at the gym.”

She smirks. “Sounds legit.”

“Totally. Olympic-level.”

There’s a pause. You think she’s gonna go back to shooting, but instead she spins the ball toward you with a flick of her wrist. You catch it without thinking.

“Rebound for me?” she asks.

That’s how it starts.

You don’t say much that first week. You mostly pass the ball back to her and correct her foot placement when she does too many fade aways in a row. She doesn’t seem to mind your notes. In fact, she listens. Eyes narrow, brows drawn together. She nods when you speak. Adjusts. Tries again.

By week three, you’re staying after school just to watch her shoot.

By week five, she’s asking you to run drills with her. “I need someone who won’t go easy on me,” she says. “You look like you play defense like a demon.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You calling me aggressive?”

She grins. “I’m calling you annoying. Like a mosquito.”

You end up training together every week after that.

It’s past 6:30 PM, and the gym lights are humming like they’re tired of you both. You’ve run suicides, jump-rope footwork ladders, and back-to-back spot shooting. She’s collapsed on the baseline with a towel over her face.

“You trying to kill me?” she mumbles.

You grin, stretching near her. “You wanna be the best or nah?”

She lifts the towel just enough to peek at you. “I was the best like three years ago.”

“Complacency,” you shoot back, rolling your eyes. “That’s the first sign of career death.”

She snorts. “You sound like a Nike ad.”

“I sound like someone who’s keeping your ass in shape.”

“Yeah,” she mutters, tossing the towel aside. “You do.”

There’s something unspoken in the air. The gym is empty. Just your water bottles clinking, the soft squeak of shoes as you shift. She looks at you a beat too long.

“You ever think about going into this for real?” she asks suddenly. “Training people?”

“I already am,” you say. “I’m applying to kinesiology programs. Sports science. I wanna do this for a living. Maybe NBA. Or… WNBA.”

“You’d be good at it,” she says, and there’s no teasing in her voice.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You make people better without making them feel like shit. That’s rare.”

You blink. She’s never said something like that before—not with that tone. And something flickers in her eyes like she didn’t mean to say it aloud.

“I’d want you to keep working with me,” she adds quietly. “If I go to UConn. Or wherever.”

“You planning on bringing me with you?” you joke, nudging her shoe with yours.

She doesn’t joke back.

“Yeah,” she says simply.

The dorms are stuffy and the air smells like ramen and underachieving. You moved in early because Paige wanted to start pre-season training before official practices began. You aren’t on the team. You aren’t on staff—yet. But Paige made some calls. And they made an exception.

You’re the one in her corner before the season even starts.

You run her drills. Chart her shot percentages. Track her fatigue, time her sprints, log every mile she runs.

But you also learn her.

The way she hums under her breath when she’s shooting threes. The way she swears under her breath when she’s not getting it right. The way she pulls at the hem of her shorts when she’s overthinking.

The way she looks at you when she thinks you’re not looking.

You see it more now. The lingering. The heat behind her glances.

And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t look too.

You’re lying on your back in her dorm room after a long night of training, the air between you quiet but charged.

“You ever think this… all of it… happened too fast?” Paige asks softly, turning her head toward you.

You meet her eyes. “Basketball or…?”

She doesn’t answer for a second. “Everything.”

You inhale slowly. “No. I think some things happen when they’re supposed to.”

She smiles faintly, shifting closer.

“And what if this—us—is one of those things?”

You glance down between you. Your hands are almost touching.

You don’t pull away.

Neither does she.

“Then I guess we’re right on time.”

It’s weird how easily your dynamic translated to college. She still listens to you. She still trusts your eyes more than anyone else’s.

“Step on your left harder after the spin,” you tell her during an individual session. “You’re floating too long. You’re not getting enough power.”

She nods and tries again. Nails it. Of course.

Afterward, she walks with you back to your apartment, as she’s been doing for weeks now.

"You coming to the scrimmage Saturday?" she asks, kicking a pebble down the sidewalk.

"Obviously. I'll be sitting next to Coach. Telling him what he's doing wrong."

She laughs and bumps her shoulder into yours. "You're cocky."

"I'm right."

“You’re something,” she mutters.

You don’t ask what she means. You don’t need to.

But you can feel it growing. The way she lingers when she talks to you. The way she watches you when you speak with someone else. The way she listens too closely. Stands too close.

And then it happens.

It’s after a game—a blowout win. You’re the last two in the practice gym, her icing her knee, you jotting down some movement notes in your tablet.

She asks, “Do you ever think about us?”

You stop mid-type.

“Us?” you repeat.

“Yeah. You and me. Not just trainer-player.”

You blink. Slowly. “All the time.”

She’s quiet, like that answer knocked the wind out of her. “So what do we do?”

You swallow. “We try.”

She smiles, soft and quiet. “Cool. So… kiss me?”

You walk over, heart thudding like you’re about to play in front of a sold-out crowd. But this moment—this kiss—is private. Gentle. A quiet victory.

Dating Paige Bueckers is exactly what you expected and nothing like you imagined.

She’s a goof. Always humming Drake songs and using you as a weighted vest when you’re trying to do push-ups.

But she’s also laser-focused, and sometimes that means 3AM texts. My jumper feels off, help. So you drag yourself to the gym with bedhead and bad breath, and she lights up like the scoreboard when she sees you.

The chemistry you have—on and off court—is unmatched.

“Let��s try that pin-down cut again,” you say during a workout. “But sell it harder this time.”

She wipes sweat from her brow. “Why don’t you just play defense on me? That’ll make it real.”

So you do. And she doesn’t get past you the first three tries. Fourth try, she fakes right and spins left—you’re gone.

“God, I love when you push me like that,” she says, out of breath, laughing.

You grin. “Yeah?”

She walks toward you, playful. “Yeah.”

Paige kisses you there, right in the middle of the gym floor, hands on your hips like you're her anchor.

And you are.

You always have been.

There are tough days. Days she doubts herself. When the pressure builds and she doesn’t want to talk to anyone but you.

“I’m not playing like myself,” she says one night, curled on your couch.

You rub her thigh gently. “You’re in your head. You need to come back to your body. You need to play with joy.”

She looks at you, teary-eyed. “How do you always know?”

You shrug. “I’ve always known you, Paige.”

There’s a long pause. And then she says, “I think I want to do this forever.”

“Basketball?”

“You.”

It’s not flashy. There’s no grand gesture. No candlelit dinner. But it’s her. And it’s you. And it’s exactly enough.

It’s senior year now. She’s a legend. You’re her official trainer.

And people still call you Bueckers’ shadow, but now it comes with respect. Because they see it now. That you’ve helped shape her, sculpt her, kept her balanced.

On her senior night, she gives a speech.

She thanks her coaches. Her team. Her family.

And then, looking right at you, she says, “And to the person who’s been here since day one… my first pass, my best read, my forever one-on-one partner—thank you for never letting me forget who I am.”

You don’t cry.

Okay. You do.

But so does she.

Later that night, she pulls you into her room, shuts the door, and murmurs against your mouth, “You were always more than my trainer.”

You smile into the kiss. “I know.”

The moment Paige Bueckers’ name is called, the world erupts.

But she doesn’t.

She just looks at you.

Not the camera, not the stage—you. With that look you’ve seen a thousand times since high school. The one that says we did it.

You’re already standing when she launches into your arms, nearly knocking you back into the row of chairs behind you. Her arms wrap tight around your neck, her face pressed to your shoulder, whispering through the noise, “Don’t let go.”

You don’t.

Not when she pulls back, eyes glassy, hands still gripping your waist.

Not when she walks up to the stage with tears in her lashes and your name on her tongue.

And definitely not when the cameras catch her glancing at you before every answer.

The draft is a blur of bright lights, cheers, cameras, and interviews—but you stay close. Just off-screen. Just like always.

Until the media starts asking questions that aren’t about her game.

“Paige, congratulations on being the number one overall pick to the Dallas Wings! Can you tell us who you brought with you tonight?”

She glances sideways to where you're standing in her shadow. But you know her well enough to read the decision flicker behind her eyes.

She’s not going to hide you. Not anymore.

She turns back to the mic, confidence radiating from her like warm sun. “That’s my person. She’s been with me since high school. Trains me. Puts up with me. Challenges me. Loves me. So yeah—she’s a big part of why I’m here.”

The reporters buzz.

“Who is she to you?”

Paige smiles softly. “She’s everything.”

You nearly choke on your breath backstage.

Paige’s suit jacket is slung over a chair. Her shoes abandoned by the bed. Her Wings hat perched crooked on your head.

She’s on her knees in front of you, chin resting on your thigh, dress shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, her fingers lazily tracing circles on your knee.

“You really said all that on national television?” you murmur, smiling.

“I’ve wanted to say it since we were seventeen,” she replies. “Since that day in Hopkins when you rebounded for me until I cried.”

You slide your fingers through her hair. “You know what this means, right?”

“That I’m your number one overall pick, too?”

You grin. “That, and now the whole world’s gonna know you’re soft for me.”

She leans up and kisses you—slow, full of promise. “Let ’em.”

You lie back on the hotel bed as she climbs in beside you. Her fingers tangle with yours like muscle memory.

“I’m scared,” she whispers eventually.

“Of what?”

“The league. The pressure. Failing.”

You squeeze her hand. “You won’t fail. You’ll figure it out. You always do.”

She turns to face you, nose brushing yours. “Stay with me through all of it?”

You press a kiss to her forehead. “Always. I trained you for this, remember?”

She grins sleepily. “Guess I’m stuck with you then.”

“No,” you say quietly. “You chose me.”

Her silence says everything.

And for the first time that night—long after the cameras stopped flashing and the confetti settled—you both breathe.

The sun’s barely cracked the skyline of Dallas, golden haze stretching long across the parking lot when Paige turns to you, duffel bag slung over one shoulder and her practice jersey half-tucked into her waistband.

“You sure you want to come?”

You raise an eyebrow as you slide into the passenger seat of her car. “Seriously?”

She grins, brushing a hand over your thigh before starting the engine. “I mean, you’re not on staff.”

“Nope. Just the person who got you to number one.”

She leans over at a red light and kisses your cheek. “Damn right.”

The gym is humming with controlled chaos when you arrive—assistant coaches shouting instructions, music blasting, rookies trying not to trip over their own nerves. Paige is handed her gear and directed to the locker room, while you find your way to the bench along the sideline.

You set your bag down beside you, pull out your tablet, and cross your legs. The gym smells like polished hardwood and sweat and the faintest trace of new opportunity.

And there she is—Paige Bueckers—tying her shoes like it’s still high school in Hopkins, rolling her shoulders, bouncing a ball between her legs like she doesn’t know every camera in the room is aimed at her.

Your stylus hovers, and you begin.

Hips tight in lateral slide. Right knee still drifting inward on push-off.

She doesn’t look at you once, but she doesn’t need to. She knows you’re watching. Studying. Calculating.

You catch her third turnover in scrimmage. The coach yells something—timing issue—but you know better.

Drifting right early on corner curl. Jumping the pass. Tell her to settle feet before turn.

The practice stretches two hours. Drills. Scrimmage. More drills. Water break. Media arrives toward the end, clicking cameras, calling out names. Paige answers politely. You watch how her smile fades when she turns away.

When it finally ends, she doesn’t even glance at the locker room. She walks straight to you.

“Alright, hit me,” she says, dropping beside you on the bench, water bottle tucked under one arm, legs wide and hands clasped between her knees. Her jersey clings to her back with sweat. Her hair’s pulled into a tight bun, a few loose curls framing her flushed face.

You smirk. “You sure? I’ve got five pages already.”

“Jesus,” she mutters, leaning over to peek. “You still do bullet points?”

“I upgraded. Color-coded now.”

She groans. “Please tell me red still means ‘sucked.’”

“Red means ‘must address immediately.’ But yeah, you sucked on a few.”

She tosses her towel at you. You duck, laughing. Then you glance down at your screen.

“You rushed your footwork on the baseline pick. Every time. You’re cutting the corner too shallow, and it’s forcing your hips to stay closed when you rise.”

“I felt that,” she says, nodding. “Couldn’t get any lift.”

“Exactly. Also—your right knee’s collapsing again on your jump stop. You need to slow down your load. Breathe through it.”

“Got it.”

“Scrimmage—third possession, you jumped the passing lane too early on the weak side. You overcommitted on a read that wasn’t there. That’s a high school mistake, Bueckers.”

She groans again, flopping back against the bleachers. “Ughhh. Be nicer.”

You smile. “No.”

She nudges you with her shoulder. “Anything good?”

You glance at her, the way her eyes are shining despite the exhaustion. You nod.

“You read the defense perfectly on that skip pass to Crystal. Footwork was clean, timing was elite. Also—your fake hesitation in transition off that turnover? Disgusting.”

She grins. “Filthy?”

“Filthy,” you confirm.

There’s a pause, one of those quiet pockets that only exist with people who know every version of you.

Then Paige stands.

“Come on. Let’s fix my corner curl.”

Half the players are already gone, heading toward the locker room or training room or their cars. But Paige pulls you to the far basket like it’s still your high school gym at midnight.

You don’t even hesitate. You grab a ball and toss it to her.

“Start at the top. Walk me through your cut.”

She moves to the elbow, begins her motion slow.

“Too shallow,” you call.

She adjusts. Again. Again.

“Keep your center low. You’re rising too soon.”

She adjusts. Again. And again.

You step closer, placing your hands on her waist as she resets.

“Watch your hips. You’re twisting before your feet are planted.”

Her eyes flick to you. “You watching my hips or checking me out?”

You give her a look. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“You sure?” she smirks, stepping closer, her hands ghosting your sides.

You push her shoulder gently. “Back to work, Bueckers.”

She backs up, laughing.

Across the court, Coach Koclanes is still talking to staff when he glances over and sees the way Paige moves differently with you. The way she listens more intently. The rhythm of it. The ease.

He watches as she finishes her last curl, catches the ball you pass her, and sinks it from the wing—net barely moving.

You jog to grab the rebound. She resets.

And he’s already walking over to her by the time she sinks another shot.

“Paige,” he says, calm but direct.

She turns, wiping her forehead. “Coach.”

He glances across the court, then back at her.

“She yours?”

Paige follows his gaze to you, where you’re dribbling the ball lazily between your legs and checking your notes again.

She swallows.

“Yes, sir.”

Koclanes raises an eyebrow. “Trainer or girlfriend?”

“Both.”

He watches you again for a moment then nods slowly. “She’s sharp.”

Paige smiles. “She’s the reason I’m sharp.”

Koclanes studies her, arms crossed. “Alright. Just keep it professional when it counts.”

“She always does. I’m the reckless one.”

He smirks. “I figured.”

You're sprawled on the couch, tablet in your lap, and Paige is sitting on the floor between your knees, her back against the couch as you gently press into her shoulders.

“How bad was I?” she mumbles, half-asleep already.

“You weren’t bad,” you say. “You were just out of rhythm. New system. New teammates. New everything.”

She sighs. “It’s weird. Being the rookie again.”

You thread your fingers through her hair.

“You’ll adjust. You always do.”

She tilts her head to rest against your knee. “Coach asked about you.”

“Yeah?”

“Wanted to know if you were my trainer or my girlfriend.”

You grin. “What’d you say?”

“I said both.”

You pause. “And?”

“He said you’re sharp.”

You tap her forehead lightly. “Told you.”

She laughs softly.“Thanks for coming today.”

“I’ll be at every practice I can,” you promise. “Always.”

Paige reaches back, wrapping one hand around your ankle. “Feels like we never left the gym back home.”

You smile.

Because you know, deep down, that no matter how far Paige goes—WNBA stardom, championships, international fame—there will always be a corner of a court, a half-lit gym, where it’s just you and her.

The next time Paige asks if you’re coming to practice, you don’t answer. You just give her a look from across your shared bed, tablet already charging, stylus clipped to your hoodie collar. She laughs like she already knew.

"You're such a nerd," she teases, stretching as she slides out of bed.

"And you're late to everything but the gym," you shoot back, already packing snacks into her duffel.

Inside the Wings facility, it's déjà vu—but with a twist.

Paige is looser now. She’s smiling as she jogs out onto the court for warmups. Still focused, still razor-sharp, but her eyes find you through the bleachers like you're her true north.

You're already scribbling notes.

Dribble height off the left—still inconsistent. No dip off the hip before the pull.

She looks smoother today. Reads are quicker. She’s calling out switches and catching mismatches before they fully form. You know she’s watched the film. Your film.

And it shows.

She has a strong scrimmage. Ten assists. Fifteen points. The gym buzzes every time she touches the ball. Coaches watch her like she’s the answer to every late-game possession. But she still looks to you when she’s subbed out, even for just a moment.

A raised eyebrow from you is all it takes to remind her, slow your footwork, release higher, trust the screen.

She does. Nails her next three.

After practice ends, some of the players linger around the half-court line, chatting and stretching. But Paige’s sneakers squeak straight toward you.

She slides onto the bench beside you, water bottle cradled between her palms, jersey clinging to her collarbone with sweat.

“Well?”

You pass her the tablet. “You tell me.”

She scrolls. “Less red.”

You bump your knee against hers. “Because you actually did your hip mobility warm-up this time.”

“Don’t out me.”

You smirk. “I’ll keep your secrets if you keep hitting those high-release threes.”

She hands the tablet back, mock-serious. “Deal.”

You open your mouth to say something else, but someone clears their throat just behind you.

You turn and see him—Coach Chris Koclanes. Arms folded. Neutral face. Calculating eyes.

“Mind if I steal you a second?” he asks—not to Paige, but to you.

You blink, then glance at her. Paige just smiles and gives a subtle nod. You stand slowly, brushing your hands on your sweats as you follow him a few paces down the sideline.

He gestures toward the court. “That was a hell of a session for Bueckers.”

You nod. “She’s a rhythm player. Once she finds her pace, she’s lethal.”

“She credited you yesterday. Said you’ve been training her for years.”

“Since Hopkins.”

“She listens to you.”

You shrug, cautious. “We’ve built trust. I’ve been in her corner longer than most.”

Coach tilts his head, studying you. “You ever worked in a professional setting?”

“Not officially. Internships. Assistant roles. Mostly freelance analysis. Paige has been my primary focus.”

“I noticed.”

You’re silent.

Then he says it, casually—like it’s not a thing that could change your entire trajectory.

“I’ve got a spot open. Player development. One-on-one focus. I want you on staff—assigned directly to Paige.”

You freeze.

“Wait... what?”

He doesn’t waver. “You’ve clearly studied the game. You’ve got rapport. She trusts you more than anyone I’ve seen her with. I want that. I want you working with her officially. You’d be listed as player development assistant, but your job’s simple. Keep her sharp.”

“I—I’d need to talk to her about it.”

“You can. But it’s her job now. Not college. Not freelance. You’ll be part of the system. You in or not?”

You hesitate for the first time in a long time.

You’ve always been by Paige’s side. Always in the shadow just outside the spotlight. But this… this would put you inside the machine.

And that scares you.

But then Paige jogs over, towel around her shoulders, hair a mess, and eyes locked on you.

“You okay?” she asks, sensing the weight of the moment.

You look at her.

At the girl you trained through injuries, through heartbreak, through the hardest years of her life.

At the woman she’s become.

You smile softly.

“Coach wants to hire me,” you say.

Her brows lift. “For real?”

“To train you. Officially.”

There’s a pause.

Then her hand slides into yours, quiet but steady.

“What are you waiting for?”

You show up fifteen minutes early.

Even though you’ve walked through these gym doors a dozen times with Paige, everything feels different now. Your name’s on the clipboard. Your badge is clipped to your lanyard. You’re not just the person she looks for in the crowd.

You’re staff.

Official.

You nod to Coach Koclanes as you pass him in the hallway. He grunts a greeting, mid-conversation with another staffer, but you catch the way he gives a tiny approving nod in your direction.

Paige’s locker is already open when you make it to the court. She’s sitting cross-legged in front of it, re-lacing her sneakers like she didn’t lace and unlace them five minutes ago just to get it right.

She doesn’t say anything. Just looks up and gives you the smallest smirk.

“You nervous?” she asks without looking up.

“Why would I be nervous?” you say, adjusting your tablet bag and trying to sound like your heart isn’t pacing like it’s game day.

“Because you look like you’re about to give a TED Talk instead of coaching me through curls and closeouts.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“That’s what I’m banking on.”

“Y/N?” Coach Koclanes’ voice calls from across the court.

You walk over. “Yes, Coach.”

“You’ll be shadowing the guards today. Track foot placement and timing—specifically the pick-and-pop sequences. If Bueckers misses any lift opportunities, I want it noted.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ll run her one-on-one this afternoon. After team breakdown.”

“Understood.”

He claps your shoulder once, short and firm. “Welcome aboard.”

You nod. “Glad to be here.”

Practice unfolds like muscle memory.

You stay on the sidelines during group drills—eyes sharp, clipboard scribbling fast, quiet enough not to distract but focused enough to clock the split-second decision Paige makes before her assist in a half-court set.

Hesitation dribble sets defender. Delay creates opening. Reinforce timing.

During defensive rotations, she switches too late once.

You make a note.

She knows.

On the next possession, she’s early.

By a beat.

You smirk down at your page.

Water break.

Paige jogs past you, towel around her neck. She slows just enough to pass a quiet, “How am I doing, Coach?”

You don’t look up. “Foot’s still sliding out on the stagger screen. Don’t let your heel lead.”

“Got it.”

She grins and disappears into the huddle.

You keep writing.

The court’s cleared of team chaos. Most of the players have filtered out, heading to the weight room or showers. Coaches flutter around, chatting about the next game plan.

You wait with two fresh basketballs and a short list of drills. Paige walks back onto the court, damp hair tucked into a fresh headband, sweat already drying on her skin.

She nods at your clipboard. “How bad is it?”

“Not bad. But I’m not here to tell you what’s good.”

“Of course not.”

You toss her the ball. “We’re going to fix the angle on your split step first. You’re hesitating mid-transition when you don’t need to.”

She shifts into position. “I only trust you to tell me that.”

You smile quietly. “Lucky me.”

The next thirty minutes are the closest you’ve felt to home since stepping into this facility.

You aren’t just watching her. You’re correcting, measuring, coaching her through every breath and pivot.

Her shoulders relax under your voice.

Your fingers brush her knee to adjust her positioning—not intimate, but familiar.

You step in behind her on a jab series drill, guiding her hips gently with your hands to show where her weight should be. She exhales through her nose, eyes laser-focused on the floor.

When she nails it three reps later, she grins over her shoulder at you.

“I forgot how it feels when it clicks.”

You nod. “That’s why we’re here.”

Another assistant watching nearby chuckles. “She listens to you better than anyone.”

You don’t answer.

You don’t have to.

You’re gathering your clipboard and packing up your notes when Coach Koclanes walks over again. Paige’s eyes flick toward you once, but she heads toward the weight room with a soft brush of her fingers across your arm.

It’s subtle.

No one else would notice.

But you feel it.

Coach stops in front of you, arms crossed. “That was a clean session.”

“She’s responding well to structure,” you say.

“No. She’s responding to you,” he replies. “That’s why I pushed to get you on staff.”

You nod. “I appreciate that, sir.”

He watches Paige across the gym, already laughing with teammates in the weight room.

“You keep this up, you’re not just gonna be her trainer. You’ll be a real asset to this team.”

You look at him. “I want to help them all. But she’s the one I know best.”

He nods once. “Then don’t let her down.”

You tighten your grip on the clipboard. “Never have.”

That night, Paige sits beside you on your apartment balcony, toes tucked under her, hoodie zipped halfway, her knees brushing yours.

"You were so locked in today," she says.

"So were you."

She leans over and places a kiss on your shoulder, resting her head on your arm. “You made today feel like home.”

You close your eyes for a second, listening to the hum of Dallas in the distance.

“You are home,” you whisper.

She doesn’t reply.

She just laces her fingers with yours and holds on.

You linger near the back wall, just behind the assistants’ bench setup as the players finish changing. Paige tapes her wrists in near silence, bouncing her knee the way she always does before big games. You know her tells like your own breath.

She looks up once and catches your eye.

You nod, once. A signal.

You're ready.

She blinks slowly and exhales. A signal back.

I know.

Paige Bueckers in crunch time is art. She’s calm chaos. She moves like music. The crowd chants her name before the buzzer even sounds.

You don’t celebrate yet. You just stand with the clipboard tucked to your chest, waiting for the team to return to the bench.

And then she jogs off the court, towel over her head, high-fiving teammates—and her eyes go straight to you.

No smile.

No show.

Just a look that says everything.

I needed you here.

You give a subtle nod, lips parting just slightly, and she closes her eyes for half a second like she’s sealing the moment.

There are reporters. There are lights. Paige answers questions about the debut, the crowd, the shots. One asks if she felt ready.

She pauses. “I was more than ready.”

“What helped you prepare the most for your first game?”

She tilts her head slightly. “Honestly? I’ve had someone in my corner for years. She’s always known what I need before I do.”

A subtle answer.

But you know who she means.

Another day, another practice and you and paige stay past practice to work on more one-on-one training.

She’s standing at the elbow, hands on her hips, jersey damp with sweat. You’re holding the ball. Clipboard tucked under your arm. Your eyes narrow as you step forward.

“Okay. Three reps. Elbow pivot into the dribble-drop. Inside foot. One step. Pull.”

Paige nods. You pass her the ball. She moves—sharp, clean, quick—but her foot lands too flat. You don’t say anything, just tilt your head. She stops, pivots back toward you.

“Too slow?”

“Too flat.”

“Again?”

You toss the ball again. She resets. This time, the movement slices. Sharp plant. Quick pop. Perfect arc. Net barely stirs. You smile, but you don’t say anything. She already knows.

DiJonai Carrington is leaning against the wall near the exit, pretending to be texting. She's not. She’s watching.

She nudges Arike Ogunbowale, who’s walking by.

“Tell me that’s not a couple.”

Arike squints. “You mean Bueckers and iPad Girl?”

“Y/N,” DiJonai corrects.

“Yeah, I mean… they’re always together. I thought she was just training her.”

“Sure,” DiJonai says. “But you ever watch them?”

They both look again.

You’re walking in a small circle as Paige mirrors your movements, copying your footwork in silence, like dancers in slow sync. She laughs at something you say. You roll your eyes but reach out to adjust her elbow softly.

Arike raises an eyebrow. “That’s not just training.”

“Nope.”

You’ve got the court from 7 to 8 a.m. before scheduled practice begins. Paige shows up five minutes early—iced coffee in one hand, her mouth already chewing a bite of banana.

You’re in joggers and a Wings tee, tablet resting on a folding chair, cones lined up like a blueprint for something more serious than just “a workout.”

“You’re in a mood,” Paige says, setting down her drink.

“You’re inconsistent on your left side release. We’re fixing it today.”

She groans. “That’s a lefty problem.”

“It’s a you problem.”

She steps into her shoes and points. “Tell me what to do, Coach.”

You walk through it together.

Left foot plant. Shoulder twist. Off-hand steady. Ball into motion.

You call out commands. She adjusts immediately.

Thirty minutes in, she’s drenched. You toss her a towel and a water bottle.

“Better,” you admit.

“I’m gonna crash before real practice even starts,” she huffs.

You smirk. “You’ll thank me mid-season.”

Paige grins. “I always do.”

“Is it true?” Maddy Siegrist asks during stretching.

“What?” Ty Harris replies.

“That Paige and Y/N have been together since college.”

Ty shrugs. “They’ve known each other forever.”

“I thought it was just a trainer thing,” Maddy mutters.

Ty grins. “Look again.”

Later, during team cooldown, Paige finishes her reps and jogs straight to you. Doesn’t even grab a towel first.

You hand her one anyway.

She dabs her face and says, “Can we run that pick split tomorrow? The one we talked about?”

You nod. “I’ll draw it up tonight.”

She nudges you lightly with her hip. “Add a note that says ‘tell her she’s brilliant’.”

You roll your eyes. “Noted.”

The gym’s closed. The team had morning practice and mandatory lift. Most of the players have left for the day.

You’re not supposed to be here. Not technically. But Paige had asked. Just thirty minutes, she said. Just to walk through that new screen sequence you diagrammed.

So here you are.

You both are.

No cameras. No coaches. Just the echo of sneakers on hardwood and the sound of Paige’s soft exhale as she resets for the fifteenth time.

You're seated cross-legged on the court with your notes spread around you like a campfire circle. She’s walking herself through spacing patterns and foot placement, talking aloud so you can listen for her rhythm.

She misses a step. You catch it instantly.

“Too wide on your pivot,” you murmur.

She sighs. “I felt that.”

“You’re rushing the top foot.”

She stops. Tilts her head.

“You know what helps that?” she says.

You squint up at her. “What?”

She walks over slowly, takes your hand, and gently pulls you to your feet. “You.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You want me to demo it?”

“No,” she says, slipping her arms around your waist. “I want a break.”

You laugh quietly. “Oh, so now I’m a human timeout?”

“You’re my entire recovery system.”

Her fingers hook into the waistband of your joggers. Her forehead presses to yours. Her body still humming from the workout, but her expression soft, flushed in a different way.

You lean in. Her lips brush yours once—slow, careful, reverent.

Then again—deeper this time, her hand rising to the back of your neck. She kisses you like you’re the rhythm she’s trying to memorize.

You sigh against her mouth.

“Oh my god—”

Both your heads whip toward the doorway.

Maddy is frozen, Gatorade bottle in one hand, gym bag slung over her shoulder, eyes wide.

You and Paige instantly take a step apart—hands dropping, space returning.

Too late.

“I didn’t see anything,” Maddy says, blinking. “Except I very much did.”

Paige groans quietly. “Mad…”

Maddy grins—messy, teasing, thrilled. “So… I was right.”

You rub the back of your neck. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

“Too late. They’re all going to scream.”

Paige groans louder, dragging a hand down her face. “God.”

Maddy holds up her free hand like a scout’s oath. “I’ll be cool. But like… this is kinda iconic.”

She starts to back out the door, already pulling out her phone.

“Ver—no texts!” Paige calls.

“I can’t hear you,” she says, vanishing around the corner.

Paige is curled up beside you on the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, scrolling through the messages with an embarrassed smile.

“Maddy said she saw a spark fly across the court when we kissed,” she says.

“She’s being dramatic,” you mumble, stroking her leg.

“She also said we owe her wedding invites.”

You snort. “Tell her she’s not getting a plus one.”

Paige laughs softly, then sobers. “You okay with this?”

You glance down at her. “The team knowing?”

She nods.

You rest your hand over her heart. “Feels like they always did.”

She smiles again. Quieter. More secure.

“Yeah,” she says. “I think so too.”

The Wings take the game by six.

Paige finishes with 24 points and 9 assists, carving up the fourth quarter with her signature midrange feints and off-ball creativity. You watched it all from the second row behind the bench, scribbling down your notes in silence, even though you knew everything you needed to say could be told with just a look.

After the buzzer, she walks off the court with her arm draped over DiJonai’s shoulder—grinning, exhausted, and glowing in that way she only does when she’s earned it.

She doesn’t come straight to you like she normally would. She gives you a look—soft, quiet, later.

You nod. Clipboard tight in hand.

Because you both know what’s next.

She’s in front of the mic, jersey swapped for a Wings hoodie, hair damp, eyes focused. The media crowd is familiar now—reporters from local outlets, national sportswriters, and the occasional YouTube basketball guy with a small mic clipped to his collar.

She’s answered three questions already. All standard.

“What did you see on that final possession?” “How has your chemistry with Arike developed this early in the season?” “What’s been the biggest adjustment from college ball to the league?”

She’s smooth. Thoughtful. Never rehearsed, but always real.

And then it comes.

From a new face in the third row. Out-of-town badge. Small outlet, but a big voice.

“Paige—this one’s off-court. There’s been a lot of speculation online recently about your relationship with your player development assistant, Y/N L/N.”

You feel your stomach go tight, even from where you stand just off to the side.

“There are viral clips. Locker room comments. A lot of fans believe you two are more than just athlete and trainer. Do you have any response to that?”

The room doesn’t gasp—but it shifts. Everyone suddenly leans in.

And Paige?

She blinks. Once. Steadies herself. And answers.

Calm. Clear. Unapologetic.

“I think it’s interesting that when a male player trains with someone for years and builds trust with them, no one asks these questions.”

The room holds its breath.

“But when it’s two women, it’s suddenly public interest. People want a headline. A label. Something to screenshot.”

She pauses. Looks directly at the reporter. Not angry—just... resolute.

“Y/N has been by my side since I was fifteen. She's shaped how I play. How I think the game. Whether we’re running drills or sharing silence, she's never once wanted credit for what I’ve done.”

Paige turns her head slightly.

Just enough to catch you in her peripheral vision. She doesn’t smile. But her voice softens.

“So no, I don’t owe anyone a label. But I will say this. Whatever she is to me, it’s not just anything.”

Silence. Then cameras flash. Keys click. But no one says anything else.

You’re leaning against the cool concrete wall when she steps out.

She doesn’t speak right away. Just walks toward you, tugging her hoodie sleeves down like she’s trying to hide how tense her hands are.

You hand her a water bottle. “You handled that well.”

“I hated that,” she mutters.

You nod. “I know.”

She leans her shoulder into yours. “Was I too blunt?”

“No,” you say. “You were just... honest.”

Paige swallows, jaw tightening. “They’ll make it into something it’s not.”

“Let them try,” you say. “They still won’t know us.”

She looks at you now. Really looks.

“Do you wish I’d said more?”

You shake your head.

“You said exactly enough.”

Dallas Wings vs. Connecticut Sun

The crowd is loud before the game even starts.

It's not UConn-blue anymore — this arena bleeds orange tonight. Still, there are kids in Bueckers jerseys lining the front rows. Signs that say "Hopkins to Storrs to the League". A smattering of navy Wings hats in the crowd.

You keep your head down as you walk out of the tunnel with the coaching staff. No clipboard today — not your usual one. Today it’s a tablet. Branded Wings quarter-zip. You’re seated next to the coaches. Front row. You’re not just behind the bench anymore. You’re in it.

“It’s a full-circle night for Paige Bueckers — back in Connecticut, where she built her legend at UConn. But let’s talk about something fans might not know…”

“You mean Y/N L/N?”

“Exactly. She’s seated right there on the bench now. Officially added to the Wings’ player development staff this season, but unofficially, she's been Bueckers’ personal trainer and basketball mind since Hopkins High School.”

“I’ve seen it up close. She has one of the sharpest eyes for the game I’ve ever encountered. Doesn’t just do physical development — she reads the floor like a coach with fifteen years in.”

“And you’ll notice it tonight — every timeout, every free throw, every adjustment, Paige checks in with her. Watch for it.”

Timeout. Wings down by 5.

The team gathers. Coach Koclanes talks to the core five. But Paige doesn’t go to him first.

She walks straight to you.

“Every time I fight over the screen, they’re slipping the weak side,” she says, breath quick but eyes locked on yours.

You nod, tapping a graphic on your tablet. “They’re baiting you. Your stunt’s coming too early. Let them close the lane, then rotate.”

“Got it.”

“On offense, they’re loading strong side on you. Reverse it. Skip it before the trap comes.”

“Copy.”

She claps your shoulder once and jogs back to the huddle.

Behind you, one of the coaches mutters, “It’s scary how fast she processes.”

You smile. “She’s just wired that way.”

The arena quiets slightly as Connecticut sets up at the line.

You see Paige backpedal toward your end of the bench. The ref glances at her, but she makes it quick.

“They’re stacking corner help every time we swing,” she says.

You lean forward. “Because you’re not cutting sharp enough off the split. Give the help something to respect.”

She nods, jaw set. “Backdoor?”

You whisper, “Only if Arike clears. They’re watching her eyes.”

Paige jogs back on-court, whispering something to Arike as the free throw bounces off the rim.

The very next play — skip pass. Fake drive. Backdoor cut. Paige lays it in.

Your stylus marks the play with a bright green tag.

“And there it is. Every time she glances at the sideline, it’s Y/N she’s looking for.”

“And you know what’s incredible? They’re not even speaking full sentences anymore. It’s absolutely fluid. That’s chemistry you build over years.”

“There are players who have court vision, and then there are those with a court language. Bueckers and L/N speak their own.”

It’s close. Wings up by 2. Sun with the ball.

Timeout.

Everyone’s shouting. The crowd is on their feet.

But Paige walks directly to you.

“What do I do?” she asks, fast, fierce.

You point at the digital clipboard. “Let her take baseline. You don’t need the steal. You need the stop.”

She nods. “You sure?”

“Always.”

She gets the stop.

The Wings win.

And as the clock winds down and the buzzer sounds, Paige doesn’t jump. Doesn’t throw her arms up. Doesn’t scan the crowd.

She turns.

And she finds you.

She walks straight to you and pulls you in with one hand behind your neck, pressing her forehead against yours again—this time longer. This time with the world watching.

The locker room is buzzing with celebration.

Not wild. Not champagne-and-speakers. Just a grounded, satisfied kind of joy. The kind that comes when you win with poise. When strategy trumps talent. When Paige Bueckers gets the stop that seals the game in the city where she once built her name.

You’re standing off to the side, tablet in hand, quietly reviewing clips when you hear her voice behind you.

“Hey.”

You turn. She’s fresh out of the postgame cooldown, hair tied back again, towel looped around her neck. Her cheeks are still pink from the adrenaline.

“That cut worked,” she says, low so only you hear.

You nod. “Knew it would.”

“I’ll say it in every language if I have to,” she adds, stepping a little closer. “But thank you.”

You smile, voice soft. “You already say it in mine.”

She holds your gaze like she wants to say something else—but then a media assistant calls out, “Bueckers — press in two!”

She winks once. “Meet you after.”

The postgame presser is at full capacity. More media than usual. Because this one? This wasn’t just a win. This was a return.

Paige walks in wearing her warm-up jacket zipped to her collarbone, no jewelry, no flash. Just locked in. She slides into the chair beside Coach Koclanes, a bottle of water in front of her.

First few questions are standard.

“What did it feel like playing back in Connecticut?” “Did you hear the crowd reaction when you checked in?” “What were you seeing on that final defensive play?” “How do you feel still being undefeated at Mohegan Sun?”

She answers each calmly. Firmly. Head high. Shoulders square.

From a reporter in the second row—

“Paige, we saw a lot of sideline communication between you and your player development assistant, Y/N L/N. This isn’t the first time, but it was definitely the most visible. Can you speak to that relationship and how it affects your in-game decisions?”

A pause. The room quiets. Coach shifts slightly in his seat but says nothing.

Paige exhales once through her nose — not annoyed. Just... thoughtful.

Then she looks directly at the reporter and begins.

“Y/N isn’t just a development assistant. She’s my basketball brain outside my body.”

A few eyebrows lift. Cameras click.

“She knows my tendencies, my triggers, my adjustments. We’ve worked together since high school. Every version of my game — from Minnesota to UConn to the league — she’s helped shape.”

Another pause. The air is listening harder now.

“So yeah, we talk every timeout. Every free throw. Every off-ball set. It’s not just strategy. It’s trust.”

Her voice softens slightly.

“I trust her eyes more than film. More than instinct. She sees the angles I don’t.”

Someone clears their throat. Another reporter chimes in.

“There’s been public speculation that your connection goes beyond coaching. Are you prepared to comment on that?”

Paige tilts her head just slightly — and then gives the smallest smile you’ve seen all day.

“I’m prepared to say that what we have is ours. And whatever anyone thinks they see... I hope they understand it’s built on years of work, not just a few looks during timeouts.”

She shrugs once.

“If it looks like more, maybe that’s because it is. But it’s not for you. It’s for us.”

Silence.

And then, one lone voice, “Well said.”

You’re waiting just past the press hallway, tablet shut down, credential badge dangling loosely from your neck. Paige rounds the corner still in her team gear, phone buzzing in her hand, mouth curled into a small, tired smile.

She walks up slowly, voice low.

“You hear that?”

You nod. “Every word.”

“Too much?”

You shake your head.

“It was perfect.”

She steps in, arms sliding around your waist, and rests her forehead lightly against yours — again, the way she always does when the world outside is loud and this little pocket of quiet is the only thing real.

You whisper, “They’ll keep asking.”

Paige whispers back, “Let ’em. We’ll keep answering our way.”

#paige bueckers #paige bueckers x reader #paige buckets #uconn women’s basketball #uconn wbb #wnba x reader #dallas wings #lesbian #wlw #wuh luh wuh

698 notes · View notes

nemesyaaa · 2 months ago

Text

god & monsters || dark!ring master!rafe x circus freak!reader

summary : /

warnings : dddne. +18. dark content. circus au (ahs inspired.). smut. oral (m.) freak's abuse. noncon. bruises fetish. blood. carving kink. toxic relationship. pet names. threats. violence. age gap. illegal owning. mentions of drugs. dehumanization. be aware of the warning before reading.

author's note : to @rafesangelita and @littlelamy for being so patients. <33 the dividers are so cute omo

“ The circus arrived in town without a warning. But the freaks….they never leave. ”

Rafe Cameron saw you trapped in that little cage he made for you, the usual one reserved for his dangerous animals that he thought suited more for beautiful creatures like you. After all, you were his little monster, the freak he owned, and paid for a few years ago for nothing more than 50 dollars. You were dressed in your little show-performer costume, the blazing sun walking down your skin, as you were chained against the bars to be sure you will never try to leave or run away. “ Look at you…what a pretty bruised face i've seen here…”

You approached. It wasn't like you could tell no to your owner, he possessed all the rights to you.. His hand brushing your braised hair before trailing down your face, and lips, before caressing your jugular, to reach at the line of your throat with his thumb. He looked at you, the glooming parts over your skin, the little bruises over your body and smiled. “ That's a shame baby, you look prettier with your skin ripped off. But don't you know what they say? ? ”

His fingers traced the bruises, circling every parts of it with a grin on his face. “ They say that you're mine because nobody will want you with those wounds except me…nobody, baby. ”

Rafe Cameron saw you as someone promising his million dollar ticket. You were different from his other prizes, you were young and beautiful, the kind of little girls everyone wanted to see performing. You were so innocent, perfect to manipulate and so easy to use. And that's what he did. You were his young and pretty puppet, whose every string he delighted in pulling and commanding. He spoke and thought for you. He had conditioned you like a perfect obedient doll.

You were so talented. A wealthy businessman like him couldn't afford to waste you. You were the only star in his circus. And while his coffers overflowed with bills and cash, you received nothing, not even a single dollar. You were doomed to watch him grow richer without ever getting your share.

You never asked questions. In any case, he rarely allowed you to speak. He was a cruel man, with terrible blue eyes, a cold piercing gaze. He was tall and evil, like the roofs of those big tops. The circus was a gigantic labyrinth. You could try to run, try to escape, but you would always come back to where you started.

One day, he caught you trying to run away. He didn't yelled, but his gaze was mischievous, and the smile on his face was only a portent of the terrible fate that was about to befall you. You were a few meters away from him, searching for the circus exit with panicked eyes, while he moved slowly forward, as if knowing that no matter how much distance you tried to put between you, he would always be faster.

"Do you really think you can run away?" He mocked. "Baby, that’s my playground, so you'd better get back here before I catch you."

You continued backing away as he got dangerously close, a smile in his face, slightly amused to see you playing with his nerves. "You know, bambi... I love the way you run, but it would be a shame to ruin such beautiful legs, don't you think? What will you do without them ? Think better…"

He was playing with you. He was completely manipulating you with his scary, sadistic expression. But deep down, you knew he wasn't joking. This man could hurt you. He'd already ruined your life, so your legs? They were nothing to him.

He had rearranged the strands of his bangs, revealing a sweat-drenched forehead. He was wet in sweat from the sweltering heat, and you weren't making it easy for him. But he was in a good mood. “Do you think people would pay for a beautiful girl with no legs? I mean... I would. But you know me, I like freaks. But the others, they'd laugh at you. They'd abuse you. Men are cruel, my angel. Haven't I taught you that already? Come on, be grateful to me. ” He continued, “ Good dolls listen to their owner. ”

Your cheeks were wet, your skin dripping with tears from crying. You didn't want him to get into your head, but it was already too late. He aimed a sympathetic hand in your direction, but you knew that behind that kindness lay a sadistic act. He didn't want you to come home, he only wanted you to stay with him forever. “Come on. Think about your pretty legs, it's gonna be hard to stand in front of me again without them…and you know I wouldn't mind having you on your knees for me everyday. ”

Little by little, your steps moved in his direction without your consent. You were forced into it by the manipulative sound of his voice, by the dominance he had always exerted over you. “ You're making the right choice...look at you, little girl coming back home. ”

He was so pleased with the effect he had on you. “ You're good. ”

"I hate you..." You whispered, your voice empty and breathless. "I hate you so much..."

He hugged you, ignoring the lack of recognition in your words. "I'd hate for you to love me. I'd rather know you're afraid of me." He inhaled the scent of your hair, the vanilla scent and the warm touch of the sun, nuzzling his nose into your untidy hairstyle. "But you disobeyed me. I think that deserves a little correction."

"I'm sorry! Please…Please, Rafe ! " You begged, already out of breath.

"Huh, you're sorry now? I'm afraid it's a little too late for apologies, you little hypocrite."

"I'm not lying."

"Get On your knees, little dove.”

“ Now ? In front of everyone?"

"Don't act like you've never had an audience." He mocked you with a hint of sarcasm. "I thought you liked crowds."

"I don't want to do this in public."

"Do you want me to bring the whole city here to motivate you? Get on your knees. If I have to say it again, I promise you, porn is where you'll make a career. And believe me, I'll miss your pretty airborne somersaults."

You landed on your knees, once again controlled by his urges. You glanced around a few times. You were slightly scared and intimidated.

"Don't look at me like that, you know exactly what to do…’not your first time, nor the last. ”

"I'm scared..."

"And you'll be a little more scared with a knife to your throat...right? So if you don't want this little blowjob to taste of blood, I advise you to start right away.”

The threat had worked, as you pulled his pants down to his knees before freeing his cock. It wasn't the first time he'd asked you to satisfy him. You were his little whore, except he didn't pay you. He only abused you. You were his sweetheart, ready to do anything for him. When he ran out of coke, he used your adorable little mouth to unwind.

You were so good at this kind of thing. You slid his cock between your lips, taking his flaccid shaft between your fingers before moving your mouth along his length. He placed his hand on your head without guiding you. He let you do it. Soon, your movements around his cock were audible, accompanied by a sound of sucking and saliva. Your eyes were open, fixed on the inches you were swallowing with your mouth.

"You see, when you want to, you can be a good girl... but you have this need to be threatened don't you ? "

He pushed himself further down your throat, letting you gag around his cock. "Poor little thing. You want that dick, but you can't take it…”

Your doll-like eyes drove him crazy. You looked at him like some abominable creature, and it made him want you even more. You sucked him until your mouth felt accustomed to his presence. He was imposing, the blood in his veins pumping as you took him. Drool pooled around the corners of your mouth, spurting onto the tip of his cock. Your makeup was ruined. Your mascara was running, and your lipstick was completely smeared on the corner of your cheek.

He grabbed your hair with his right hand, before slapping your face with his dick. Hearing the little sound from your mouth had excited him. So he slapped again, hitting your puffy cheeks until the heat was running your skin. The sound was loud and wet, but humiliating. You were trying so many times to hide your face because of the shame but it wasn't right for him. “ Don't cover your face. Let people know what a good slut looks like. ”

When he finished his little show, he let you take him back in the mouth. Your lips were moving faster, switching the pace to quick. As you were on your knees for him, mouth working on his hard cock, he pulled the knife from his pocket. Enough to bring the fear back inside your body.

Fear locked in your eyes, you were terrified of what he could do. “ Shhh..'not your business. Focus on my cock, doll. You don't want a little cut on your face because you're not paying attention ? ”

He didn't wait before pushing himself back into your mouth, fucking your little throat until you overdrool around his length. He could hear the little sound from your lips as he went deep enough to show his cock inside your throat. His grip was tight, “ fuck ! only freaks can do like this, right ? ” he cooed mouth-open, forcing your head to go down on him. “ s’good…i bet mama doesn't know about those skills when she leaves you to me, huh ? ”

You whined at his remark, not feeling good about the way he talked about your mom. But he didn't care about your feelings. He pulled his dick out of your mouth, switching his warm cock with the cold steel of his knife. “ ‘ think it's my turn to give you some pleasure, little freak. open it…” And you did.

His eyes had lit up like the devil's when you opened your mouth wide, letting the sharp surface of the knife slide over your tongue. You knew the slightest false move would be risky, that a single breath was enough to add a taste of blood to your saliva. You were as still as a statue, your throat completely static as he pushed the knife inside your mouth. Every time he felt a twitch from you, he pushed an inch further with sadistic pleasure. “Now, you're acting so perfect... that's boring,” he said with a sigh. “Maybe I should cut that tongue. Think I would mind if you don't speak anymore? I'm joking.” He chuckled. “What would be a good slut without her tongue…”

“ S-not funny…” You softly gurgled around the knife.

“ Sure, dove. ‘nothing funny to have a knife inside your throat. Let me help you. ”

He removed it from your mouth, letting you take your breath again. “ But do you wanna hear something else ? There's nothing funny too about what I'm about to do to you. ”

He pushed your face to the dusty grass, not caring of the hurt it could give you, hand forcing your neck on the ground as he moved away the fabric of your skirt and your panties. “ Scream and you will be nothing but a pretty corpse. ”

He threatened you softly, but he meant it. He forced himself inside your hole without a warning, pushing his dick so hard in your dripping core. He tied your hands on your back with his fist as he thrusted his cock against your walls. He could feel your sweet pussy clenching around him. The feeling was so good that he went deeper and deeper until he just slipped so easily. He was big enough to stretch your pussy open, leaving his length tearing apart your soppy lips. He was going back and forth, your little core pumping him to the base as he reached the spot of your insides. Your body was crushed under the strength of his hand when the idea flashed him.

“ I think i'm too easy on you. Let me fix that right now. Since you think you can leave, let me show you that you can't. ”

He took the knife he was playing with for some minutes and cleaned your naked back from the dirt. When it was clean enough to accomplish his little masterpiece, he started to carve the blade into your skin, letting the blood fulfill your body. He traced every letter without stopping himself from pounding you. The vision of the liquid running your flesh as he was tracing the word over the vicious blood was driving him insane, and he was so turned on over the view.

He fucked you harder as you squirmed from pain and pleasure. “ It only hurts because you're moving, baby...” He lied.

His dick was fast and thick, keep running your insides, and bullying your cervix. The hot sound of skin to skin covered in sweat and blood. He wasn't really focused on you, but on his little art.

MINE.

He picked up the blood smears on his hand before pushing his fingers inside his mouth, licking the sweet metallic taste. “I'm kind...Next time, it will be on your throat. Not sure that a pretty little pet like you will survive this.”

“ E-enough…” You just answered with your tears shaking.

The pain was intense and painful. You could still feel the burning of the knife on your skin, the slow minutes of torture inflicted by the blade cutting through the immaculate patches of your skin, but also the trickling of your own blood to your hips, and the frightening sound of it dripping between your legs. His dick was still buried deep inside your cunt, as he was merciless fucking the blood and wet, watching your pussy disapear into a red glooming tone. “ Please…I need a break ! Just a slow break “

“ Please ? What is it, baby ? Fear, it's nothing that I can give you…” he replied, “ Cum for me, baby. ”

It wasn't like you really wanted it, but you came, shame masking your face. You felt humiliated as always. “ Now, it's time to go back to your little cage. ”

Freaks couldn't leave the circus. Little dolls weren't allowed to leave their masters.

“ ‘ Not like that. Walk is for humans, baby. Sweet creatures like you aren’t allowed to walk, they crawl. ”

“ I-i..what…? ”

“ You heard me. Put those legs to use. ”

He grabbed his ringmaster's whip as you got down on all fours on the floor. "What are you doing?"

"Just need to give you a little motivation, you know? I want to make sure you're moving, dove. Now, fucking walk. And be sure to show me your little ass, I want to see those bruises on your cheeks. ”

“ Y-yes…”

“ And that's only the beginning. The worst is yet to come. ”

552 notes · View notes

nxvellus · 1 month ago

Text

Weird Puppet Show

A/N: Okay so this is my first time writing a Y/N/Reader Insert fic so bear with me in this one alright? Also this fic is something LMAO.

Warnings: Voyeurism, Cuckholding Banner created by @/anitalenia

What was it that you said to yourself over and over again?

'Shadow Milk Cookie was full of surprises.'

Yeah, that exactly.

You can't go a day without being in awe with the things he's capable of doing. One day, you witness he can mimic the voices of other cookies which was something he loved pulling on you as one of his many pranks.

Another day, you found out that he can shift his form from cookies to animals when you were just petting a cream sheep and it stared up at you with different shades of blue slitted eyes. It freaked you out more than it should have, but he got a kick out of seeing the horror on your face.

Then you find out that he can read your thoughts! Taking advantage of that especially when you two have sex.

The possibilities were endless. And today was no exception.

Let's walk back to how this happened, you were wrapping up losing card game with Candy Apple Cookie and Black Sapphire Cookie as a short break. The cocky attitude from the gem cookie receiving good hands to be followed by the angered screeches from the apple cookie that accused him of cheating meanwhile you were given the worst of the worst hands.

You weren't keeping track of score just mainly playing for fun, (also to avoid the embarrassment of your losing streak) and getting a chance to properly bond with your partner's minions. Its nice for once to not be given the stink eye from the short girl who couldn't fathom why a common cookie like yourself would be so interesting to capture the gaze of her beloved Master Shadow Milk Cookie. It made you sometimes question why he was fine with this one-sided crush. But it didn't matter, at least not right now.

Then after the last round, Black Sapphire Cookie tapped out. Claiming, "It's becoming a snooze fest when you keep winning. I'm sure my listeners would agree too."

The way your and Candy Apple Cookie's face flush at the fact that he was broadcasting this to who knows how many cookies, you couldn't show your face outside the Spire. Candy Apple Cookie started growling and her little bat wings flap with boiling anger as she yells after him.

So, you were left alone as the two departed and just cleaned up the table and took the deck of cards with you. They were Shadow Milk Cookie's cards that you three borrowed and you'll give it back to him.

As you walked down the milk white and azure blue halls, footsteps faintly echoing, you were growing closer to his bedroom. Yes, his bedroom because he preferred his privacy but was perfectly fine invading yours. Priorities were something he valued unless they were in his favor.

The bedroom doors, double doored, painted blue that shimmered under the starry sky and curved golden handles. You casually approached, assuming he was in his studies to do either scriptwriting or sewing. As you reached for the door, you halt.

What was that noise?

You slowly lean in and press your ear against the door, focusing on your hearing.

Do you hear moaning? Not just from him, but-but another..?

You pull away and you can feel your heart begin to crumble. This couldn't possibly be true could it? You two were lovers, weren't you? He's shown you devotion and you have done the same so why would he-

Your heartbreak shifted into rage, grabbing the handles of the bedroom door with a vice grip and pulling them open as hard as you could muster. You step inside as your tears filled your eyes, teeth gritted and throat burning as you prepared to yell at him.

Yet, what you saw on the bed made you choke on your words and eyes widened as you stared in disbelief.

Let's remind ourselves again. 'Shadow Milk Cookie was full of surprises.'

What were you witnessing currently?

Him, completely stripped of his clown attire and settled between the legs of

You.

Shadow Milk Cookie didn't react to the way you entered with hostility, just stopping his motions and looking over his shoulder. The moment you lock eyes, he flashed his toothy grin at you. "Ohhh lookie who we got here!" He sings before climbing off of you(?) and laid on his side, propping his head up with his hands. "What's with that look, Doll? You appear to be speechless!"

Because you were speechless. This didn't feel real. But of course it was real.

You-the other you-laid on your back, legs spread and pussy leaking with arousal. This doppelganger mimicked you perfectly. Capturing your physique, your tone, everything. It was scary, it freaked you out.

You could ask, "Why?"

He groans, rolling on his back now. "You were too busy playing with my minions with my cards, couldn't be bothered to ask me if I wanted to play when I was so bored in my lonesome!" He dramatically drapes his hand over his forehead. "To leave me like that, oh how it wounded me!" Then his mood switched as he laid on his stomach, kicking his ankles up. "It was only fair I did the same thing to! Created this little beauty and made use of them like how you made use of my belongings."

You were appalled. And hurt. What the fuck was wrong with him?

"Oh! And it's so wonderful to have an audience!" He exclaims as the doors closed and locked.

A chair is pulled and the moment it hits the back of your ankles, you were forced to sit down. You look around confused, not quite understanding what was going on.

Shadow Milk Cookie sits up on his knees and positioned you-other you-in front of him on all fours. And you watched your expression as he re-entered you. Grabbing your hips tightly as he snapped his against your ass at a rough pace. The sounds of your moans and yelps reverberate in your ears, mingled in with his sadistic giggles.

This was making you feel an odd slurry of emotions. Confusion, discomfort, and even arousal. You didn't wanna stare at your own face scrunched up as he pushed in deeper at a aggressive pace. You didn't wanna hear the groans and grunts of your own voice being thrusted out of you. And yet, you were stayed put and getting off to this. It made you feel sick.

"I bet you wish it was you, hm?" He teased. "Well it is you! Being used like a good little toy for my pleasure. I'd argue it's a better you!" He grinned with glee as he picked up the pace. "I can use them any time, put them in any position, mark and break them, and they'd enjoy all of it! It'd be so so so so so so SO much enjoyable!"

You wanted to scream. You wanted to roar at him to stop this. Stop talking like this and to stop fucking this fake you. Yet, you couldn't find your voice to say anything.

"Ooooh it looks like you're getting off to this! That's pretty sick and twisted of you!" He grabbed your shoulder and lifted your upper half, grabbing your throat. "Do you get off to watching cookies ABSOLUTELY destroy their partners in front of you?! Does that mean I can just snatch up any cookie and give it to them like this as you watch?! Now isn't that deliciously macabre!"

Your moans were becoming higher pitched and his pace quickened. As well as your heart. Your fingers clench in your lap, wanting to turn away. But you don't.

Your eyes zero in between your legs as you watch the thick cream of his come start pooling between your thighs as it leaked out of your abused pussy. Your breath quickened, grew heavy as you clenched your teeth.

Then, you fizzled into shadows and faded away. Shadow Milk Cookie leans back on his ankles with a satisfied expression, his thick cock throbbing and still leaking with his creamy seed. Then he stares at you, tilting his head to the side.

You feel a cold hand cup your cheek, tilting your head up to look up at him.

"Now be serious," He says flatly. "Did you want to see me do that again?"

...

You nodded your head.

#shadow milk cookie #cookie run kingdom #smut #crk x reader #shadow milk x reader #nxvellus writings

111 notes · View notes