Today’s Warm-up: Armin

Today’s warm-up: Armin <3

i make book yeah

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐍𝐄𝐓 ꩜ juju watkins ¹² (part 3/4)

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MASTERLIST | PART ONE | PART TWO

ᝰ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 7k

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

ᝰ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | angst!!!!!!!!!!!!! hurt to comfort, ofc. could possibly be triggering?? lots of descriptions of performance anxiety, panic attack, blood/injury (nosebleed), self-doubt, intense internal monologue, comfort after breakdown, soft girl tenderness (tm), juju watkins being a little too good at seeing through you

ᝰ 𝒆𝒗'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | yeah so i meant to post this like… three weeks ago. but life got lifey (as u probably know if u keep up with my blog LMAO) and also this chapter emotionally wrecked me while i was trying to write it so i kept stalling. but!!! we are back and we are spiraling. thank you for your patience while i sat in google docs whispering “she’s fine she’s fine she’s totally not fine” over and over like a spell.

juju continues to be dangerously perceptive and our girl continues to unravel in high definition. i’ll see you in part 4. maybe. if i emotionally recover. (i will not). also would like to thank my beta readers! yall helped me out sm, ily<3

December in L.A. doesn’t feel like winter, not really.

It’s sixty-seven degrees and sunny outside. Palm trees still sway like it’s September, and girls walk around campus in shorts and crop tops like they haven’t checked a calendar. But inside the Galen Center, it feels like December - tight, tense, the kind of cold that doesn’t come from the weather, but from expectation.

Finals week is over. The dorms are thinning out. People are catching flights home, saying their see-you-next-years. But for you, there’s still one thing left.

Utah.

Your last game before winter break. And you have to win.

On paper, it’s just another conference game. But everyone knows it’s more than that.

Utah’s been electric this season - fast-paced, fluid, a team that knows how to move as one. They’re flashy, but they’re solid too, and fans have latched on. They’ve become the darling team of the year, the underdogs turned national darlings. ESPN’s been hyping the matchup for a week straight - undefeated USC vs. Utah’s run-and-gun machine. The comments are already spiraling. The forums too. “Can the Trojans stay perfect?” “Taurasi’s kid isn’t as clutch as her mom.” “Juju’s carrying again.”

You try not to read them. You really do. But they seep in. And lately, everything’s been seeping in.

Warmups feel off.

Your shots fall, but they don’t feel right. Too much wrist. Not enough arc. Your follow-through looks good, but it doesn’t settle you like it usually does. There’s this twitch in your legs, like you’ve had too much caffeine. Your heart’s pounding, even though you haven’t started running yet.

You glance over at Juju as you stretch. She’s bouncing on her toes, headphones in, nodding along to whatever she’s playing. She looks focused - but loose. The way she always is before big games. She thrives in this kind of spotlight. Loves it.

You used to. At least, you think you did. But lately it feels like the spotlight’s more heat than light. It blisters.

You’ve been here before. Big games. Big stakes. But this season has felt different from the start.

USC hasn’t lost once.

8–0. Ranked #3 in the country. Climbing.

The pressure started subtly - postgame interviews, features, “can they go all the way?” Then it ramped up. People you haven’t spoken to in months. Suddenly everyone wants to talk. Everyone wants a quote. Every game feels like proof. Every stat line is a headline.

And you - you’re the one with the last name that drips expectations. You’re the one they measure against a ghost who still plays like a myth.

THREE DAYS UNTIL UTAH

Practice had run long again. Not because Coach said it had to, but because that's just how it went when you were undefeated in December and still fighting to prove you belonged at the top. You were one of the last ones out of the gym, stretching alone in the corner with your earbuds in - though they weren’t playing anything. Sometimes silence helped quiet the noise better than music ever could.

Your phone buzzed once beside you. Then again. Then four more times in a row.

[Mom]: Landing soon [Mom]: Don’t freak [Mom]: Surprise! [Penny]: Don’t let your mom stress you out too much. We brought reinforcements [Derek]: BIG SISSSSSSS 😈😈😈 [Derek]: finally we get to see you play live!!

You froze mid-stretch.

No. No, no, no.

You blinked at the screen. The knot already forming in your stomach twisted tighter. For a second, your body didn’t move at all, like someone had hit pause.

They were here.

Diana. Penny. Derek. Gigi.

They were in Los Angeles. Three days before the Utah game. The last game before winter break. The game everyone on the team had circled and underlined. And they hadn’t warned you. Not really.

Your heart was racing, but it didn’t feel like excitement. It felt like pressure - familiar, cold, creeping pressure that settled on your shoulders and didn’t let go. Diana flying out to see a game wasn’t just about watching. It was about evaluating. Analyzing. Fixing.

You got up too fast, shoved your phone into your hoodie pocket, and left the gym without a word. This was classic Diana, showing up unannounced, like she owned the damn place. It was a tendency of hers, but you never really minded until it was like this - a high stakes game like this one.

They were waiting by the hotel when you arrived, standing on the curb as if they hadn’t just hijacked your entire mental space.

Penny was leaned against the back of the SUV with one arm lazily draped over the open trunk. Derek was bouncing on the balls of his feet like he was already in a full defensive stance. Gigi, tiny and grinning, sat cross-legged on top of a suitcase, wearing a hoodie that nearly swallowed her whole and sipping from a juice pouch like she’d never been happier.

And then there was Diana.

She stood a few feet away from the rest of them, hands in the pockets of her joggers, sunglasses pushed up on her head. She looked relaxed. Comfortable. Like retirement suited her in every possible way.

“Surprise,” she said simply, her voice even. But you knew her too well not to catch the anticipation behind it. The way her eyes scanned you from head to toe, subtle but focused.

You forced a smile. “Hey,” you said, and your voice cracked on the inhale.

Before you could say anything else, Gigi launched herself off the suitcase and straight into your arms, her tiny body colliding with yours like a rocket.

“You’re here!” she squealed.

You caught her, stumbling back half a step under her weight, and laughed a little. “Barely,” you said. “I’m like 40% real and 60% exhausted.”

“You look like Derek when he stayed up all night watching anime,” she said with a serious face, squishing your cheeks.

“I did that once,” Derek muttered. “And it was Naruto. It was important.”

You set Gigi down, and Penny came over to hug you next. She wrapped her arms around you slowly, gently, like she was trying to soften everything your mother inevitably brought with her.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Penny murmured. “You look... busy.”

“That’s one way to put it,” you said, stepping back with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Then Diana stepped closer. She gave you a side hug as she just studied you, unreadable expression in place.

“Good to see you,” she said, and it landed somewhere between a compliment and a challenge.

“Yeah,” you replied. “You too.”

There was a brief silence, the kind that never felt comfortable with her.

“We want to take you to dinner,” Penny cut in, trying to ease the moment. “Nothing fancy, just something casual. The kids are starving, and we figured it would be nice. No pressure.”

“Sure,” you said, even though your head was already spinning.

Dinner ended up being a loud Italian place not far from campus. It was the kind of place that served garlic knots by the basket and played old Dean Martin songs a little too loud over the speakers. Gigi insisted on sitting next to you and Derek spent most of the meal showing you clips from his last middle school tournament, pausing every few seconds to point out some assist or block.

You loved them. God, you loved them. But it was hard not to notice how different everything felt.

Penny cut Gigi’s spaghetti for her without being asked. Diana let Derek talk without interrupting, even when he got a stat wrong or rambled for too long. They were patient. Warm. Effortlessly encouraging.

When you were eight, Diana had made you run suicides in the driveway because you missed too many layups in a rec league game. When you were twelve, she’d given you film to watch during winter break and quizzed you on your footwork mid-dinner. When you were their age, she didn’t coddle. She didn’t laugh at your jokes unless they were smart. She didn’t let you cry unless it was in the locker room and even then, only once.

So yeah, watching her now - soft and domestic and kind in ways you didn’t grow up with, it did something strange to you. It made your food taste blander, your chest feel tighter. Made your head buzz with memories you’d tried to file away under “character-building.”

“You’re quiet,” Penny said softly, midway through the meal. “Everything okay?”

You nodded quickly. Too quickly. “Yeah. Just tired. Practice went long.”

Diana didn’t say anything, but you could feel her watching you.

And then she said, “Heard Utah’s been hot this season. Ranked top ten in fan votes.”

The comment wasn’t loaded, not technically. But with her, it always felt like there was something underneath.

You shrugged. “We’ve been watching film. We’re ready.”

“I hope so,” she replied. “Big crowd. Big moment.”

You smiled tightly, swallowing back the urge to say, I know. You don’t have to remind me.

The rest of the dinner passed in a blur - laughter from the kids, Penny’s calm presence anchoring everything, Diana occasionally offering commentary about the league or asking a pointed question about your rotations. You went through the motions. Said the right things. Made Gigi giggle. Gave Derek a few high-fives.

But all you could think about was how this was supposed to be a good thing.

And yet it felt like the walls were closing in.

You loved your family. You really did. But loving them didn’t make it easy. Not when every moment felt like a test you couldn’t afford to fail.

TWO DAYS UNTIL UTAH

The gym felt colder than usual that morning. It might’ve been the AC or the way the windows didn’t let in as much light during December, but something about the air felt heavier - like it was pressing against your skin instead of surrounding you. You laced up your shoes slower than usual, your fingers fumbling more than once on the second knot, but you didn’t say anything. No one did.

Everyone was in their own rhythm. Some girls were already warming up on the far court, others stretching in quiet pairs. You ran through your dynamic warm-up like muscle memory, but your thoughts were scattered, caught in a loop that you couldn’t seem to cut through. Your feet moved, your arms swung, but your brain was replaying film, comments, dinner conversations, old memories from Phoenix, like your entire life before USC had decided to come watch this one game. One game. And it had to be perfect.

The pressure wasn’t new. You’d grown up with it, worn it like a second jersey since you were a kid. But lately, it had felt different. Sharper. Not just something to rise to, but something you were afraid might crush you if you weren’t careful.

Practice started the way it always did - shooting drills, a few conditioning bursts, then walkthroughs. You were focused, or at least trying to be, and no one said anything about how quiet you were. Maybe they were used to it by now. Maybe they just assumed it was part of your process. But you could feel it bubbling under your skin, that pressure, that buzzing nervous energy that had been following you around since last night. Since you saw your little brother’s excited face and Diana’s unreadable expression.

By the time scrimmage started, your jaw was already tight from clenching it. You took the court without saying much, nodded at Juju as you settled into your spot on the wing, and locked in, or at least, tried to.

The first few minutes were clean. Crisp ball movement, smart reads, a couple of nice buckets. You even hit a pull-up three that made Coach shout “nice shot!” from the sideline, but it barely registered. Because all you could think was, That won’t matter if we lose on Saturday. That won’t matter if I mess up in front of them.

And then, halfway through the scrimmage, it happened.

One of your teammates - a freshman guard - misread a switch on defense. It wasn’t catastrophic. A miscommunication at most. The kind of mistake that happened all the time in practice and usually led to a quick reset or a calm pointer from Coach. But in that moment, something snapped.

“Are you serious?” you barked, turning around sharply. “You have to see that switch. That’s a wide-open three because you weren’t paying attention.”

The gym went quiet for a beat, just the echo of the ball bouncing once before someone caught it. The freshman blinked, clearly startled, opening her mouth to explain but you didn’t give her the chance.

“You want to win a natty or what?” Your voice rose, sharp and clipped. “Because this game, this game against Utah - this is the one. You think we’re gonna walk into March and magically pull it together if we can’t even run a clean switch on a Wednesday? This is the kind of thing that costs you a season. One mistake. One possession.”

Your chest was heaving, your hands clenched into fists at your sides. The whole team was staring at you, no one saying anything. A couple girls looked down at their shoes. One of the seniors shifted uncomfortably. And in the silence, the weight of your outburst settled in like dust—too quiet, too much.

Coach finally spoke, voice even but laced with something cautious. “Alright. Take a second. Everybody reset.”

You didn’t move.

Coach looked at you. “You okay?”

You nodded too quickly. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“I said I’m fine.” You reached for the ball and passed it to the nearest teammate, too forcefully.

Everyone got back into position, but the energy had shifted. Nobody was moving the same way. The pace was slower, tighter. Like everyone was suddenly aware of being watched. Like the trust had cracked and hadn’t fully sealed over yet.

Only Juju stayed near you.

She didn’t say anything at first, just stood by your side at the wing during the next possession, eyes flicking between you and the floor like she was working something out in her head. When the ball stopped again, she leaned in a little, keeping her voice low so only you could hear.

“Hey,” she said gently. “I know you’re trying to carry all of it, but you don’t have to.”

You didn’t look at her.

She tried again. “You’re not alone out here. You never were.”

You forced a smile. “I’m just locked in. That’s all.”

“You’re not locked in,” she said, still soft, still careful. “You’re spinning out.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose, trying to laugh it off. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“I’m serious,” she said. “You’re not sleeping. You’re barely talking to anyone. And now you’re yelling at freshmen over one blown coverage?”

“I’m not yelling.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Alright.”

You shook your head, trying to make a joke out of it. “Maybe I’m just trying to be more like Coach Taurasi. Gotta keep the legacy alive.”

But Juju didn’t laugh.

She didn’t say anything else either, just kept looking at you like she was trying to see straight through you. And that somehow - this was worse. Because it felt like she could see through you, like all the walls and deflections weren’t enough to cover up how much pressure you were under, how badly you wanted this game to go right, how terrified you were of failing in front of your family. Especially Diana.

It was too much.

“Can you just...” you started, then stopped, then looked at her with more bite than you meant to. “Can you worry about yourself, Ju? I said I’m fine.”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t snap back. Didn’t look hurt.

Just nodded once, eyes steady. “Okay.”

And that quiet, calm okay cut deeper than anything else could have. Because she believed you weren’t fine - but she was still giving you space. Still showing up, even when you pushed her away.

You turned back toward the scrimmage, swallowing the lump in your throat, the sting behind your eyes.

Because the truth was, you weren’t fine.

You were unraveling. And you weren’t sure how much longer you could pretend otherwise.

ONE DAY UNTIL THE UTAH GAME

Something feels off.

Not in a way you can name. Not in a way you can show. Your jumper still looks clean. You’re getting to your spots. You’re locked in during film. No one would guess anything’s wrong just by looking at you.

But you know.

It’s not nerves exactly. Not excitement either. It’s something heavier. Something slower. Like a low drumbeat under your skin that doesn’t stop. Like everything is a half-second behind even though you’re trying to stay ahead of it.

USC is undefeated. That should settle you. Should make you feel strong, confident. You’re part of something real heading into the last game before winter break. The Galen Center’s gonna be packed tonight. National attention. Ranked game. Everyone’s watching.

You don’t have room to miss tonight. Not after what you told her back in August - If I choose USC, I’ll give you 110%. Every damn game.

It wasn’t just a promise. It was a declaration. A challenge.

So no, you can’t lose. Not in front of her. Not when she’s watching like she used to - analyzing everything. Every decision. Every step. Every second you have the ball in your hands.

It’s not just a game anymore. It’s a test. And you're the one who wrote the syllabus.

You wipe your palms on your shorts, try to ignore the way your breath keeps catching in your throat like it's climbing over something just to get out. It’s not like you can talk about it. Not really.

Not to Coach. Not to the trainers. Not even to your teammates. Because everything on the outside looks fine. Better than fine. You’re averaging double figures. Your minutes are solid. Your defense has improved. You’re getting praise from analysts who used to call you overhyped.

But Penny called last night. Said Diana was watching film. Not just a game. Your game. Said she had notes.

And you knew what that meant.

She’s always done that. She rewatches your performances like they’re case studies. Breaks them down on the phone with military precision. No fluff. No sugar. Just cold, clean basketball logic.

You’ve learned to take it. Learned to breathe through it. But it still hits.

Because she doesn’t ask how you’re feeling. She asks why you missed the read on that backdoor cut. Why you pulled up into a double team. Why your closeout was slow by half a beat. She doesn’t mean it cruelly. That’s just how she loves you. She corrects.

And you love her for it. You do.

But tonight, you’re tired.

Not the kind of tired a nap will fix. The kind that settles in your bones and makes everything feel just a little too loud. The kind that makes your chest tighten when you think about her sitting there, watching with her arms crossed, judging whether or not her legacy was wasted on you.

Because nobody says it outright - but it’s always there.

She’s good. But is she Diana good?

You’ve spent your whole life hearing that question in one form or another. And tonight, you’re scared of the answer.

Juju catches your eye from across the gym. Just a look - subtle, knowing.

She sees you. And maybe that’s what makes your skin feel too tight.

Because Juju’s the type to smile through the chaos. To play free. To let the game come to her like it’s a gift. And you? You’re trying to outrun something invisible. Something that sounds like don’t mess this up. Something that feels like you have to be perfect or what was the point of choosing this?

You think about how Diana will be sitting courtside. You think about the promise you made. And you think about what happens if you come up short.

Juju tosses you a ball. “Wanna run through some sets?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

She doesn’t press. Doesn’t say what she’s probably thinking. But she doesn’t need to. You know she sees it. The stiffness in your shoulders. The way you’ve been chewing the inside of your cheek since this morning. The way your voice got quiet when Coach brought up the game plan for Utah’s zone press.

You’re here. You’re focused. You’re fine.

But she knows the difference between your game face and your real face. And right now, you’re wearing the wrong one.

Still, you run the sets. You make your reads. You talk through the actions. You do everything right.

But something in you is clenched. And you don’t know how to let go.

The sun’s starting to dip outside Galen by the time y’all finish running through sets again. The gym lights stay humming above, buzzing faintly like always. You can hear the faint bounce of a stray ball in the far corner, the shuffle of sneakers from some of the younger girls staying after, but mostly it’s just you and Juju now.

And she’s still watching you. Quietly. Like she’s waiting.

You wipe your face with the bottom of your shirt and grab your water bottle. It’s half-warm, the kind that’s been sitting on the sideline too long. You drink anyway.

“Hey,” Juju says eventually, walking over. Not loud. Just enough.

You glance at her, try to play it easy. “Hey.”

She studies you for a second. Her arms are crossed, one wrist lightly taped from something earlier this week. “You good?”

It’s simple, the way she says it. No edge. No accusation. Just a check-in. Not like you had a freak out yesterday.

You nod. “Yeah.”

She gives you a look that’s all eyebrow, skeptical and soft at once. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” You tack on a grin, crooked and automatic. “Why, you worried about me?”

That gets the smallest snort from her, but she doesn’t drop it. “Nah, I just know when someone’s about to play like they got cinderblocks on their shoes.”

You laugh lightly, trying to shove off the weight of that comment. “That your subtle way of saying I’ve been dragging ass?”

She steps a little closer. Not in a threatening way - Juju's never threatening. She’s just… grounded. Present. “No, it’s my way of saying I’ve been where you are. And it sucks when no one calls it out.”

You look down at your shoes. Scuffed just enough to prove you’ve been working. You press your lips together and shake your head like you're just shaking off sweat. “I’m good, Ju. I promise.”

Juju stays there. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

You know she’s not going anywhere. And something about that makes your skin feel too tight.

“I mean,” you add, trying again, this time with a little more bounce, “we’re undefeated. We’re at home. You’re about to drop twenty-five on Utah’s heads. My family’s here. What could I possibly be stressed about?”

“Stop,” Juju says, but it’s not harsh. It’s soft, almost like she’s telling you to breathe. “You don’t have to do that with me.”

“Do what?”

“That.” She gestures vaguely, hands loose at her sides. “The joking thing. The ‘I’m chill, everything’s fine, I got it’ act. You don’t gotta be Diana 2.0 with me.”

And there it is.

The one thing she wasn’t supposed to say out loud.

You freeze for a beat, something hot flashing in your chest before you even have the words. It’s not her fault. You know that. She doesn’t mean anything by it. But your whole body tenses anyway.

“I’m not doing an act,” you say.

Juju raises both palms. “Okay.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

Your jaw tightens. You don't know why it lands like that. The pressure behind your ribs flares up, sharp and restless.

You pace a little, not even really realizing you are. “I just... look, it’s not that deep. I’ve had a long week. Everyone’s hyped about Utah and I get it, but like… I’m not falling apart or anything. It’s one game.”

Juju watches you closely. Calm. Collected. Still not buying a damn thing.

You sigh through your nose, trying to laugh again. “You really don’t let shit go, huh?”

“Not when I care about it.”

That line lands too hard. You feel it in your teeth.

You turn back to her. “Ju, I’m fine. Seriously.” And then, quieter: “You don’t need to worry about me.”

She tilts her head. “Too late.”

There’s this moment, just a beat of stillness, and it feels like something might break if either of you move.

You snap first.

“Just worry about yourself, Juju,” you say, voice sharp - sharper than you mean it, but you don’t stop it either. “I’m fine, alright? Just drop it.”

It echoes louder in the gym than it should.

A few heads turn from across the court, curious but not too interested. You immediately regret raising your voice, but you’re too far in now.

Juju just blinks once. Then nods. Not upset. Not hurt.

She takes it in like she expected it. Like she understands.

“Okay,” she says softly. “Okay.”

You exhale hard, like you’re trying to burn it off.

But it doesn’t leave you. It just simmers in your chest, guilt and heat tangled up like a knot. She doesn’t walk away. She just picks up her ball and starts dribbling slowly toward the sideline.

And you watch her, feeling every inch of your tension suddenly coil tighter instead of loosening.

Because the thing is - she wasn’t wrong.

You are off. You are feeling it more than you want to admit. And she was trying to help.

But the idea of letting someone help you right now? Of admitting out loud that you’re not okay, that all the weight in your chest is actually starting to mess with your game, that you’re scared of failing in front of the entire country, in front of your family?

It feels impossible.

You sit down at the end of the bench, elbows on your knees, trying to find a breath that feels deep enough. But they all feel shallow.

Juju bounces the ball behind her back. Shoots a lazy three. Swish.

She doesn’t look at you again. Not out of spite.

Just giving you the space you think you want.

And for some reason, that makes your throat burn worse than anything else.

The locker room smells like sweat and eucalyptus muscle rub, that familiar post-practice haze hanging thick in the air. You’re not there - you left early, a quick muttered excuse to Coach about needing to ice your knee, even though both of you knew that wasn’t the real reason. The tension had gotten too thick, your voice too thin, and something in you had started to splinter at the edges. So you left. Grabbed your bag and ducked out before anyone could stop you.

But the rest of the team stayed. Some hit the showers, others sprawled out across the benches, still in their socks and compression sleeves. The mood is lighter now, the way it always gets after the grind is over and endorphins start to do their job. Someone’s playing music low from a phone speaker. A couple girls are teasing each other about missed layups and tangled ponytails. Laughing. Loose.

Until the topic shifts.

“Yo, was she okay today?” Kennedy asks, only half-innocent, towel draped over her shoulder. “She looked like she was gonna pop a blood vessel when Coach brought up Utah’s press.”

“She did pop a blood vessel,” Bree snorts, unlacing her sneakers. “Swear I saw it happen. One second she’s normal, the next she’s barking like Coach took her scholarship or something.”

There’s laughter. Loud, harmless in tone, but sharp if you’re listening close enough.

And Juju is listening.

She’s sitting on the bench across from them, quiet, towel around her neck, earbuds looped around her collarbone but not in her ears. She hasn’t said anything yet. Not since practice ended. Not since you left.

“I mean, I get it,” Kennedy continues, like she’s just filling air. “Pressure’s getting to her or whatever. But damn. Girl’s unraveling like an cheap sweater.”

That one gets a laugh too. Juju doesn’t join in.

Instead, something flickers behind her eyes. Not anger - not yet. Just… awareness. A tension drawing up the line of her spine.

“She’s not unraveling,” she says finally, and it’s quiet, but not uncertain.

The room softens a little, like it knows that voice. Juju doesn’t raise it often, but when she does, people listen.

Bree blinks. “I mean, she kinda is.”

“She’s had a bad week,” Juju replies, evenly. “That doesn’t mean she’s falling apart.”

“Okay, but you gotta admit-”

“No,” Juju cuts in, sharper this time. “I don’t have to admit anything.”

Now there’s a shift. Bare legs go still. Water bottles pause mid-sip. Kennedy quirks a brow, not defensive yet, just surprised. Juju almost never pushes back like this.

“She didn’t yell because she’s some ticking time bomb,” Juju says, standing now, towel forgotten on the bench. “She yelled because she’s under pressure and no one’s really been checking on her for real. And yeah, it wasn’t cool. But it also wasn’t some unforgivable thing. Y’all are acting like she spit on the Trojan logo.”

There’s a beat of silence, awkward and heavy.

“I’m just saying,” Bree offers, slower now, “it’s not that deep. We’re just talking.”

Juju crosses her arms. “Then maybe talk like teammates, not commentators. This isn’t some Twitter thread. That girl shows up to every practice, every lift, every film session. She works her ass off. She’s not out here slacking or starting fights or acting like she’s better than anyone.”

“She yelled at you, though,” Naya points out, voice more tentative now. “Aren’t you, like… mad?”

Juju shakes her head, jaw tight. “No. Because I know it wasn’t really about me and because I’m not gonna sit here and clown someone who’s clearly struggling just because it’s easier than asking what’s wrong.”

That one lands. Hard.

A few girls drop their gazes, suddenly busy with shoelaces or their phones.

Kennedy tries to lighten it again, maybe to save face. “Damn, Ju. Didn’t know you were out here defending her honor like that.”

Bree smirks. “Lowkey romantic.”

“Shut up,” Juju mutters, but it’s too late.

The comments spiral just a little. All in good fun, or so they claim.

“Is this, like, a thing?” someone teases.

“She yours now?”

“Gotta admit, the tension was kinda sexy-”

Juju doesn’t respond.

Because in the space between those jokes, something cold and startling is creeping up her spine. A realization. One she’s tried to ignore all week. Maybe longer.

She’s not just mad at them for the way they talked about you. She’s mad because it made her want to protect you.

And not in the team captain, ride-or-die, squad-unity kind of way.

It’s… softer than that. And messier. The kind of thing she doesn’t let herself feel, especially not about you. You, with your sharp game face and the way you never ask for help. You, who sniped at her like she was the problem. You, who left the gym with your shoulders drawn tight like a bowstring.

You, who she hasn’t been able to stop thinking about.

Not since the second you looked at her like she’d seen too much.

She swallows hard, pushing that thought deep down into her chest like it doesn’t matter. Like it’s not new and terrifying.

“Nah,” she says finally, forcing a smirk as she grabs her slides. “Y’all are stupid. I’m just not cool with teammates talking shit, that’s all.”

“Mm-hm,” Bree hums, unconvinced but willing to let it go.

Juju heads toward the showers, but the air feels heavier now, like the room shifted in a way no one wants to acknowledge.

She keeps walking, jaw tight, heart pounding against her ribs like it’s begging her to admit something. Something she’s not ready for.

She’s not in love with you. She’s not.

She just cares. She just… sees you. That’s all.

But the echo of your voice, the way it cracked when you told her to drop it, the way you couldn’t look her in the eye, it sticks. And she knows.

If she keeps caring like this, she’s going to have to deal with what that means.

But not tonight.

Tonight, she lets the water run hot over her face until the locker room clears, and she doesn't let herself think about the way she wanted to reach for you and say something she’s never said out loud.

Not yet.

GAME DAY

You wake up on game day before your alarm even has a chance to buzz. It's not nerves, exactly. It’s something else, something heavier. You lie there for a while, staring up at the ceiling of your dorm, sheets kicked down past your ankles, that pressure sitting on your chest like it's been waiting all night to smother you.

It’s the Utah game. Big one. Eyes-on-it kind of big.

Your phone lights up with team messages. Graphics with your faces. Hype videos. “Let’s eat today.” “Showtime.” You double-tap a few, type a half-hearted Let’s gooo, and toss the phone to the side.

No one knows how close you are to losing it.

You’ve been spiraling all week. You know it. The outburst in practice, the early exits, the way you’ve been tiptoeing around Juju like something broke and neither of you knows how to fix it. But today isn’t about that.

Today is about pretending.

You pull on your uniform like armor. Tape your wrists tighter than usual, like it'll keep the insides from leaking out. You tell yourself you’ll be the version of you that everybody expects - the one on all the posters, with the clean stat lines and the smart passes. The leader. The jokester. The one who flips the switch and makes magic happen under pressure.

The cameras are already around by the time you walk into the arena. The lighting’s too bright. The buzz in the gym is loud, even with just warmups going. Your team trickles into the locker room, talking fast, energy vibrating off the walls.

You walk in with a grin pasted on.

“You ladies ready to go viral?” you crack, winking at one of the freshmen.

They laugh. It’s easy. Too easy.

Coach says a few words, gives the scouting recap, says Utah’s going to press early, play hard, try to get in our heads. No surprise. You nod along like you’re locked in. You can feel Juju watching you from the opposite bench. You haven’t really spoken to her since practice. Not about it, anyway.

But you feel her eyes like heat on your cheek. You don’t look.

When Coach asks if anyone has anything to say, everyone turns to you. Like they always do.

You stand. Blow out a breath. Clap your hands.

“Alight, listen up.” You shift your weight from one foot to the other, exaggerating your usual bravado. “They’ve been talking about this game all damn week. About how Utah’s supposed to have this ‘elite defense’ and how they’re gonna take us out at home. But they forgot one thing.”

You pause for dramatic effect, raising your brows. “We’re them.”

The girls laugh, a couple whistles. You keep going.

“Every single person in this room earned their spot. They don’t hand out these jerseys. They don’t give us cameras because we’re cute, they give us cameras cause we can hoop.”

More nods. More little hums of agreement. You’re working them now.

“So I don’t care who they got on that bench. I don’t care how loud their fans are. I don’t care if I gotta put my body on the line - if we all do this together, they’re not walking out of here with a win.”

You finish with a loud clap, a bark of “LET’S GO” that echoes off the walls.

It works. They erupt, bumping shoulders, hyping each other up. And when you sit back down, you smile like your heart isn’t pounding out of rhythm in your chest.

Juju’s still looking at you.

You give her a crooked grin and say, “Don’t worry. I got my head on straight.”

But that’s a lie.

Because the second the game tips off, you realize how off you feel.

Your legs feel heavy. Like running through sand. The timing’s just… wrong. You’re late on rotations. You’re rushing passes. You hesitate on open shots, second-guessing yourself when you usually play by instinct.

Juju gives you that look, that small, subtle “you good?” glance after a clumsy turnover in the second quarter. You nod too fast.

She doesn't believe you.

And the rhythm between you, the one that’s usually automatic, starts to crack. Passes come a second too late. Cuts are missed. On a backdoor play you’ve run together a hundred times, you pull up when she expects you to drive. The ball bounces out of bounds.

You hear the crowd murmur. The announcers probably already crafting the narrative.

You, unraveling. The second coming of Taurasi, unraveling under real pressure?

Utah plays rough. They’re built for that. Physical and fast and annoying as hell. You get bumped more than usual, slapped across the arm, tugged off balance. But you don’t complain. You play through it. Until you stop playing smart.

You go for a charge when you shouldn’t. Reach in when you’re already off-balance. You start playing angry, and that’s not your game. That’s never been your game.

Fourth quarter. Four minutes left. Tight score.

You're chasing a Utah guard on a drive - number twelve, the one who’s been talking shit all game. You try to body her up, but you’re off-angle. You go high when you should’ve gone low. Your elbow flies. There’s contact.

And then there’s the crack.

It’s not bone, not anything serious - at least, not in the way it should be. It’s the crunch of cartilage and pressure, the sudden burn in your nose, and then the warmth. That kind of warmth that only means one thing. It drips before you can process it. A fat, wet drop splashes onto your jersey, right over your number. Then another. And another.

You're bleeding.

“Ref,” someone yells. It might be Juju. It might be the Utah bench. You’re not sure because the ringing in your ears has started.

You blink. Blood trickles from your nose down your lip, catches on the corner of your mouth. You wipe it with the back of your hand, smear it across your face and onto your sleeve. You don’t even realize it until a teammate grabs you - Kiki, maybe and says something about a sub, about getting looked at, about, “You’re bleeding, you’re bleeding.”

You shake your head. You wave them off.

“I’m fine,” you say. Your voice is hoarse and too loud. “I’m fine.”

You're not.

You're dizzy. You can feel the heartbeat in your nose, like a drumbeat behind your eyes. The blood keeps coming. The official calls for a trainer. You try to brush it off, plead with the coach, but she’s already signaling to the bench. Juju’s up before you can say anything.

And then there’s chaos.

You're walking off, jaw clenched, still trying to convince yourself this isn’t a big deal - that it’s just a nosebleed, not the end of the world. But you see Juju stop mid-play, pivot toward number twelve and let her have it. You don’t hear every word, but her tone cuts through everything else - sharp, furious.

“That’s how you play? That’s who you are?” she snaps, and the ref gets between them before it escalates.

The crowd is roaring. The Utah player is yelling back. Juju is still barking. It’s loud and hot and frantic and suddenly you feel like you can’t breathe.

You slump down on the bench, and someone tosses you a towel. You press it hard against your face, not gently - rough, punishing, like maybe you can make it all go away if you press hard enough. You don’t want to cry. You won’t cry. But your vision is already blurry. Your throat is tight. You’re swallowing fast and hard, like that’ll keep everything inside.

The trainer says something, but you don't completely register it.

“You need stitches.”

“I said I’m fine.”

You’re watching Juju argue from the sidelines, watching her swing on defense and hustle for the ball and throw you these quick, panicked glances like she wants to come to you, but she won’t let herself. You want to meet her halfway. You want to be okay. But you’re not.

You’re spiraling.

The game presses on. You keep the towel pressed to your face. You nod at the coaches like you’re paying attention but you're not absorbing anything. Every time your eyes flick up to the scoreboard, your stomach drops. Two minutes. Then one. You're still on the bench. Blood on your shorts. Blood in your mouth.

The buzzer sounds.

Final score: Utah 84. You: 82.

You don't even remember the last play.

The crowd erupts for them. Cheers and celebration and Utah players rushing the court. Confetti falls. Cameras flash. You sit on the bench like a statue, still holding the blood-soaked towel to your nose, which has finally stopped bleeding but somehow still aches.

It hits you all at once.

You lost.

Because of you.

You should’ve played through it. You should’ve insisted harder. You should’ve been smarter - lower on defense, tighter with your arms, better with your body. You should’ve never let her get the drive. Never let her get in your head.

You start to tremble.

Your chest seizes. Your throat closes. Your vision blurs, not from blood this time but from the tears that you’ve been holding back for what feels like the entire game, the entire week, the entire season. Maybe your entire life. You don’t blink. If you blink, they’ll fall. If they fall, it’s over.

You stand. Your legs are wobbly, but you start walking away from the bench, away from your team, away from the noise and the lights and the confusion. You don’t know where you’re going, only that you need to move. If you stay, you’re going to lose it in front of everyone. And that can’t happen. Not again.

Down the tunnel.

Past the locker room.

Into the first empty hallway you can find.

You press your back to the cold cement wall and let yourself slide down it until you’re sitting, knees to your chest. You bury your face in your hands - still sticky with blood, you can smell it and that’s when it happens.

The unraveling.

It starts with the shaking. Your hands first, then your arms, then your whole body. You can’t stop it. Your breath comes in short, shallow gasps. You try to take a deep one, but it catches halfway, turns into a sob. You bite your fist. You try to muffle the sound. It’s no use.

Your heart is pounding like it’s trying to break through your chest. You’re sweating but freezing. Your ears ring, and your vision dims at the edges.

This is your fault.

You let a nosebleed ruin the game.

You let your team down.

You let yourself down.

You’re the reason they lost.

You’re the reason the cameras caught Juju yelling and Diana losing her mind and the entire game spinning out like a car on black ice.

You press your head to your knees and try to disappear. You want to crawl out of your skin. You want to rewind time. You want to vanish. You want to scream. All of it. Everything. All at once.

It’s not just about this game.

It’s about every game. Every practice. Every comment.

Every moment this week where you haven’t felt good enough. Haven’t felt like you. You’ve been pretending - acting like you're fine, like you're focused, like you belong. But the cracks are showing now. You're not holding it together anymore.

What if this was a mistake? What if everyone was right - you are just Diana 2.0, that’s all you are. That's all you’ll ever be. You should’ve just listened to Diana, went to UConn. Did you really think you’d ever be something outside of the Taurasi name?

You're spiraling.

You try to count your breaths.

One. Two. Three. Four.

It doesn’t help.

The floor feels like it’s spinning underneath you. The hallway is too quiet. You can hear the echo of your breath and the shaking in your limbs and the sob that rips out of your throat when you finally give up trying to hold it in.

You feel pathetic.

You feel like a failure.

You feel like if you sit here long enough, maybe no one will find you. Maybe they’ll forget you. Maybe that’s easier than facing what just happened.

But then, faintly, you hear footsteps.

Voices.

Someone’s calling your name.

You flinch.

You pull your hoodie over your head, press your back harder against the wall, as if it’ll swallow you whole. You’re not ready to be seen. You’re not ready for Juju or Diana or the coaches or anyone. You’re not ready for the sympathy or the disappointment or the “you did your best” lies.

You just want to be alone.

So you stay still.

You close your eyes.

You let the world keep spinning without you, heart still thudding in your ears, chest still caving in on itself, and for the first time in a long time - you let yourself fall apart completely, completely unravel.

The second Juju turns that corner and sees you - crumpled on the floor, hoodie over your head, body shaking like a leaf in the wind - something inside her breaks. This wasn’t the girl she knew back in October, in the beginning of the season.

She doesn’t think. She moves.

She drops to her knees beside you like gravity pulled her there, like the weight of how much she cares knocked her flat. And she doesn’t even hesitate - doesn’t ask, doesn’t pause, just reaches for you, arms open and steady.

“Hey,” she whispers, soft and warm and everything you need. “Hey, I got you. I got you, okay?”

At first, you flinch. Like you think you’re not allowed to be touched right now. Like you think you're not deserving of comfort. But Juju doesn’t pull back. She stays there, solid as ever even when you shake your head, even when you try to apologize through the tears that won’t stop.

“No,” she says, her voice firmer this time. “No, it’s not your fault.”

She says it again.

And again.

Until she feels your fists uncurl just a little.

Until your head drops against her shoulder.

Until your breath starts to hitch instead of sob.

“You didn’t lose that game,” she tells you, pressing her cheek to the side of your head. “A nosebleed didn’t lose that game. We win as a team, we lose as a team. That’s the deal. You don’t carry this alone.”

Your hands are clutching the front of her jersey like it’s the only thing tethering you to the world.

Juju tightens her arms around you. Keeps you there. Keeps talking, soft and steady, because she knows if she stops, you'll spiral again.

“Your mom doesn’t hate you,” she murmurs. “Diana is probably tearing the refs a new one right now, not thinking for a second that this was on you. She’s your mom. She loves you. She just... she gets intense. You know that. But you didn’t let her down. You didn’t let anyone down.”

You’re shaking again. She holds you closer.

“And USC doesn’t hate you,” she says, more fiercely now. “They love you. We love you. No one’s looking at you thinking, ‘wow, she blew it.’ We’re thinking you gave everything until your face bled and you still wanted to play. You never quit. That’s what we see. That’s what I see.”

Your breath stutters. Slows. Not normal yet, not easy but enough that Juju can feel your weight starting to shift, starting to relax into her.

And God - Juju doesn’t even realize how tightly her chest has been wound until this moment. Until you melt against her like you're finally letting go. Like all month you’ve been carrying this pressure, this legacy, this image you think you have to live up to, and now - finally, it slips a little. You let her take some of it. You let yourself be held.

And Juju’s heart? It soars.

She strokes your back, slow and rhythmic, grounding you with each pass of her hand.

Because you’re not just Diana Taurasi’s daughter, and you’re not just some phenom dropped into the starting lineup with too many expectations stitched into the seams of your jersey.

You’re you.

The girl who wears her headphones too loud and eats all the hot fries before anyone else can get to them. The one who texts Juju memes at 2 a.m. even when they’re rooming two doors down. The one who overanalyzes film and underestimates herself, despite the overconfident exterior she tries to uphold.

You’re not trying to take Juju’s spot.

You’re just trying to survive it all.

And for the first time - she sees it.

Not the image. Not the pressure. Not the competition.

You.

You, with your bleeding nose and your bloodshot eyes and your whole heart on your sleeve.

You, who are still so soft under all that armor.

You, who let yourself fall apart in front of her and maybe that’s the most honest thing you’ve done all month.

Juju holds you like she means it. Because she does.

She presses her forehead gently to yours and lets the silence stretch, warm and safe.

You’re not saying anything now. You’re too tired to think, too wrung out to speak. But you’re still here. You haven’t pulled away.

You’re not some perfect little legacy player sent to outshine her. And Juju - well, she wants to protect you.

Not because you’re weak. But because you're finally letting someone in. And because she knows what it’s like to try and be everything for everyone and still feel like it's never enough.

So she stays.

She holds you like the world isn’t spinning, like this hallway is the only place that matters.

And even when your breathing evens out and your body stops trembling and your death grip on her jersey loosens, she still doesn’t let go.

Because for the first time all month, you’re letting her carry some of it.

And Juju’s not going to drop you.

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

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

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salemsuccss

2 months ago

BRING BACK GRINDING~2025

Tags

grinding

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salemsuccss

2 years ago

this is my first ever fic 🥹 so um yeah

plug!eren x nerdy!chubby!reader

word count- 1686

summary- you’re a stressed college kid that just needs to relax

MINORS DNI please‼️‼️

Keep reading

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salemsuccss

2 months ago

285 notes View Post

salemsuccss

1 month ago

This awoken something in me, might be more gay than I thought

BIGGER IN TEXAS

pairing: paige bueckers x fem!reader

content: filth (and some plot, as a treat)!! language, light alcohol/body shots, oral, fingering, strap, fuck ass cowboy hats, freak shit im talm bout inittttt, slight overstim, mirror, light choking (author is unoriginal we know this), reader is honestly thirsty as hell but so is paige, idk how to tag smut properly just know im losing my spot in heaven for this fic

wc: 10.5k

synopsis: A Dallas Wings rookie and a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader walk into a club together. What could possibly go wrong?

notes: i wasn't ovulating when i drafted this but i am now! maybe tmi. sinners changed my life and my main takeaway from that movie is everyone is a munch and thats a life philosophy i think everyone should have. make sure you all say "thank you kali uchis" because i actually got insane writers block after waking up this morning but her album saved me. not much to say but im actually going to hell for this so please make it worth it and hit up my inbox pls and ty 🫶 as always i hope yall enjoy!

Let the record show that you weren’t serious.

Okay. You were like, 50% serious. As in if you were presented with the opportunity, you would take it, but if any of your friends were to ask about it, you would probably deflect.

You realize now that you tend to get a little overzealous on Twitter – it’s far more unhinged than your Instagram is, where you share pictures of your everyday life and action shots as a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader. You have less followers on the bird app (it is not X), you’re a little more…real, and as a bonus, your mom doesn’t follow you, so you feel like you can be a little more insane on there.

Although you’d probably apologize to her later – because one of your recent tweets is going a little crazy.

It didn’t start as anything crazy. Being a Dallas athlete, you kept up with nearly every sports team – the Mavericks, the Stars, the Cowboys, obviously, but you loved the Wings, too. You watched the WNBA draft as did countless others in the country.

When the Wings admin posted the Welcome to Dallas, Paige Bueckers! tweet, you’d giggled to yourself, mostly because you were nursing a Chili’s margarita and because she looked insanely good in the graphic.

You retweeted it, typing, welcoming you into dallas w open arms @.paigebueckers1 🤠

Then, almost like an afterthought, you commented on your own retweet, typing, and with open legs 🙏

You didn’t think much of it. Obviously. You didn’t have a huge following and if anyone asked, you’d just be kidding. The next ten minutes are peaceful as you finish off your margarita and scroll aimlessly through TikTok, keeping one ear out for the next draft pick. And then your phone starts blowing up.

A bunch of likes. A few people retweeting your second comment with various laughing or crying emojis. But what makes you pause is the notification reading Paige Bueckers has liked your tweet!

Oh. You click just to make sure, and – yeah. Definitely the one about having open legs.

Any other day, this would probably be mortifying, but today you’re a little emboldened by the margarita in your veins and you can’t help but think this is a little funny. You’ll probably regret it later when everyone remembers that you’re kind of a public figure and decides to flame you for being a little unhinged on main. For now, though, it’s not that big of a deal.

When you wake up in the morning to an unread DM from Paige – who’d followed you back, mind you – on your Instagram, you suddenly realize that it actually is a big deal.

Paige 💕: I’m flying into Dallas on the 23rd for media Paige 💕: If the offer still stands maybe you could show me around the city?

You stare blankly at your phone. Then you blink once. Twice. You power off your phone, press your pillow to your face, and you scream.

You weren’t serious, but you think you’re being presented with the opportunity – and, well, who are you to look a gift horse in the mouth?

After you finally come back to your senses, you reach for your phone again, navigating back to your DMs with Paige. You only have to contemplate for a few seconds before your fingers are flying across the keyboard.

You: i’ve been known to be a thorough tour guide You: let me know what your schedule looks like and i’ll show you the pretty parts of dallas

Her response comes quicker than you were expecting.

Paige 💕: Looking forward to it 🫶 Paige 💕: Not sure how Dallas compares to you but I can be open minded

Admittedly, you have to reread her message twice to fully grasp the cheesy pick-up line, but you hate the way it makes your cheeks flush. You’re not sure how to respond to that.

You settle for screaming into your pillow again.

The week passes by quickly. You and Paige talk — a lot — truly enjoying getting to know each other during your rare moments of free time. Paige is busy with flights and appearances while your schedule is packed with practice and learning the audition choreography for the next season of DCC.

Despite yourself, you can’t help but think how nice it is. There’s no expectations. You’re both athletes with a combined two hours of free time. For now, you’re just content to see where this goes. You enjoy her company, and honestly, you’re really into her. Paige flirts relentlessly, but you can tell there’s an undercurrent of respect and admiration that makes you feel like that feeling is mutual, too.

She texts you a picture of the Dallas tarmac when she lands on the 23rd, a coy reminder that you did promise to show her around. Paige has media for a good portion of the day, though, so you know you won’t be seeing her for a while. You tune in for a little bit of her rookie press conference, and no, you weren’t cheesing while listening to her speak. But if you were, that wouldn’t be anyone’s business but your own.

You don’t hear from her for the next few hours, which doesn’t bother you. You do get a call from one of your squadmates, Lielle, asking if you’d be down to hit the club before the DCC season starts – and who were you to say no to that?

You settle for a light, natural makeup look, throwing on a blue, mesh, halter corset top that sparkles in the light and a pair of cropped, white denim shorts. They’re long enough to cover what they need to, but it’s the perfect club outfit – something with the right amount of tease and will make you feel confident enough to truly let loose.

Lielle picks you up along with a few other of your friends who tease you relentlessly for your actions on Twitters – it’s no use defending yourself, although they’re nearly howling in excitement when you point out that Paige is in your DMs, so you’re probably doing something right.

You and your girls enter the club with high spirits, the atmosphere already electric, and two of your squadmates break away to find a table while you and Lielle make your way to the bar to order shots and drinks for everyone. Lielle leans over the bar, already laying it on thick for the bartender, who grins politely like he’s seen just about every variation of whatever game Lielle is playing.

On the bright side, he does end up discounting your drinks on account of being a DCC fan, which makes you think Lielle never truly had a chance, anyways – but a cheaper drink is a cheaper drink, especially in Dallas. Lielle walks away with a wink and the drinks in her hands as you remain to order something for yourself. The bartender has just slid the drink your way when you feel the heat of someone’s body next to yours. At first, you’re alarmed, but you soften when you hear their voice, followed by finally looking at their face.

“Didn’t expect to see you here.” In person, Paige Bueckers is so much taller than you’d anticipated, which is probably a really stupid thing to say for a professional basketball player. She’s tall, her cologne a heady scent of warm vanilla and something distinctly floral, and she rests her arm against the bar in a way that’s devastatingly casual and dangerously alluring. Paige is wearing a black and white striped Nike sweater, the very same she’d done media in, a look not befitting of the club but you can’t help but think about how perfectly her it is.

You crack a coy smile, taking a quick sip of your drink for some liquid courage, because Paige is staring at you like she knows exactly what she wants from you and your heart thrums because if she said the word, you’d be willing to give it to her. “What, is this place too scandalous for a cheerleader like me?” you joke, and the heat of her gaze travels down your body in one quick motion.

“Nah, nothing like that,” she assures you. “Just didn’t think that out of every club in this city, I’d be lucky enough to run into you my first night out.”

“Seems we’re both feeling a little lucky tonight, huh?” you say, and she laughs gently under her breath. Paige holds out a hand to you. In lieu of a shake, you settle for hugging her instead, which she relaxes into immediately, her hands resting respectfully at the small of your back. “It’s great to finally meet you in person,” you say genuinely, pulling away at the right moment. “You enjoying Dallas so far?”

Paige shrugs a little, a smile on her face and gratitude on her tongue when the bartender slides a drink her way, too. “Haven’t got the chance to see much,” she says honestly. “Was in media all day, then I stopped by Costco so my apartment looked a little less pathetic. Now I’m here. Something about rookie initiation, according to Rike, but I think she just wanted someone to buy her drinks.”

You laugh. “Look at you already taking care of people,” you comment, your grin widening at her playful expression. “You’re here with your team, then? Where are y’all sitting?”

Paige purses her lips, her eyes squinting as she peers through the dim lighting of the club. “I think over there?” she says, pointing at the VIP section towards the back. She’s closer to you now, her chin resting just above your head, and you follow her gaze. You can’t help your smile, something she picks up on immediately. “What’s funny?”

“I think your team’s already hitting it off with mine,” you say, easily spotting Lielle handing a shot to Arike and clapping when she downs it in one go. You don’t think Lielle is drunk yet, but she has a natural excitement and zest for life that makes her the easiest person in the world to befriend.

Paige huffs a little under her breath, amusement lacing the sound, and her hand finds your waist. “Must be meant to be,” she says to you. Despite yourself, you preen, your smile widening when her hand finds your skin. “After you.”

Paige walks almost protectively behind you, the crowd of club-goers parting instinctively for the both of you. When you make it back to the VIP section, both of your teams cheer – like they know something you don’t – which causes a blush to rise on your cheeks and a nearly smug expression to take over Paige’s.

Introductions are swift, if a little unnecessary. You’d run into many of the Wings players before, having made a genuine effort your first year as a professional cheerleader to show up to many of the Dallas sports games.

Before you know it, Arike has ordered more shots for the table, and Paige slides into the booth next to you with a dangerous glint in her eye and two shots of tequila in her hands. The table is lively, raucous, with Kelsey – one of your squadmates – going shot for shot with Aziaha James and Lielle and Arike instigating.

But here, now, in this little corner you and Paige have tucked yourselves into, you’re enjoying the intimacy of the moment far too much, feeling as though you’ve been afforded far more privacy than you actually have.

Paige presses one of the shots into your hands, a loose smile on her face. “To Dallas?” she asks you, raising her glass.

You tap yours against hers, a matching smile of your own as you agree, “To Dallas.” You down your shots in one go, the liquid warming your belly pleasantly. “And to Twitter,” you add a little jokingly, but your blush deepens when Paige smirks, raising a thumb to your lip to wipe away the excess tequila beading on your mouth.

She sucks her finger into her mouth, humming a little insufferably, and you’re burning for an entirely different reason now. Your gaze hones in on her hand, flicking between her lips and her eyes. And, sure, she was constantly flirting with you over text. You knew she was feeling you as much as you were feeling her – but to watch her behave so confidently in front of you, to unravel you like it was nothing… The confirmation makes you ache. It reminds you that you’re not the only one feeling the warm buzz between the two of you.

“You always that forward?” Paige asks you, referring to your tweet. “Or am I just lucky?” Her words are punctuated with a heated grin, one that makes you shift in your seat. You hope that she didn’t notice, but you see the way her eyes darken and how she leans in a little closer to you.

“Only when I’m tipsy, apparently,” you mutter. You glance up, taking in her expression, the curiosity and desire in her eyes. Your lips quirk into an amused smile. “But I don’t think I have to tell you about the effect you have on people.”

“Good thing I don’t really care about other people,” she says, her gaze dropping down again. You can’t tell if she’s looking at your lips or your chest, but it makes warmth bloom under your skin, anyways. Paige makes eye contact as easily as she drinks you in. It’s disorienting, unwavering. It’s almost like you can see exactly what she’s thinking by the way her pupils dilate. Her fingers brush against the inside of your wrist, setting each and every one of your nerve endings on fire. “But you? Didn’t know I was affecting you like that.”

“Oh, you’re not,” you laugh, which just makes her laugh, too, something dangerous flashing in her eyes. Dangerous because you know you’ve already given in. Any other attempt at saving face or trying to look a little less down bad is just meant to make you feel a little bit better – like she hadn’t already won you hook, line, and sinker the moment you promised to show her around Dallas.

“Lying is a sin,” Paige murmurs.

“Lust, too,” you retort.

Paige’s subsequent grin is a little too wicked. “Touche,” she agrees, and you can’t help but lean into her touch when her hand splays over the expanse of your toned waist, her thumb brushing your skin like she’s trying to memorize every shift in your muscles. Her voice drops a few decibels, only loud enough for you to hear as she presses in closer to you. Your hair raises when her lips ghost across your temple, the shell of your ear. “You’re already burning for me, though. Probably soaked through these fucking shorts, aren’t you? So why pretend you ain’t?”

“Paige,” you whisper, your heart beating a little faster, pounding against your ribcage. Your hand finds hers, linking your fingers together, and you don’t stop her when she maps out every inch of skin not hidden by your top. If anything, you arch into it slightly, enjoying the heat of her palm against your belly. She grins like she knows, like she’s already called the Uber and is thinking about how she can ruin you in the car without alerting the driver.

“Jus’ say it, mama,” she murmurs, her breath hitting your ear. You should feel some type of way for how easily your body betrays your brain, pressing further into her without your permission. “Tell me what you want and we don’t gotta play these games in front of your girls.”

Your mouth opens, the words getting caught in your throat when Paige finally grips the meat of your thigh with her hand, not hard enough to bruise, but enough to claim.

But before you can give into the feeling of it all, the bubble of peace between the two of you is broken by Lielle exclaiming, “Who wants to do body shots?!”

Breathless, you glance up at Paige, who stares back at you with mischief. She squeezes your thigh gently, whispering, “Be good,” before tugging you to your feet and towards Lielle, who holds the salt, lime, and the bottle of tequila. You sigh a little, already feeling like you could combust.

Your combined teams cheer when Paige volunteers you. Her smile, which is borderline smug and nearly possessive, makes your skin burn, but her eyes betray the ease in her features. She scans her teammates like she’s waiting for one of them to think that they could take her place.

Kelsey clears space on the table while Lielle uncaps the bottle of alcohol. One of the other Dallas rookies – JJ, you think her name is, extends a hand to help you onto the table, but all it takes is one glaring look from Paige to make her raise her hands in surrender. Paige steps up, her gaze dark, and she grips your hips, raising you onto the table with a weightless ease. Her eyes never leave yours, watching you with rapt attention as you lean back, getting comfortable.

“You good?” she asks, her hand resting over your stomach, which rises and falls steadily under the heat of the moment. You nod quickly, needing her hands on her body more than you think you need air, and she allows herself a quiet smile as she reaches for a lime wedge. Gingerly, she holds it out to you. Your teeth part at her wordless command, clamping down on the lime, trying not to wince at the taste. Her fingers linger on your lips, pupils blown wide, and it makes warmth coil low in your belly when you realize just how reciprocated this feeling is.

She reaches for the salt next, uncapping it, too, and meets your eyes with one last unspoken question. You don’t hesitate before you nod, uncaring of where she lines up the salt. You are surprised when she leans down, licking a stripe between the valley of your breasts, wetting the skin there so the salt can stick. You hardly register the wolf whistles around you, far too focused on the satisfied, focused grin on Paige’s face as she sprinkles the salt on your skin.

Finally, Lielle hands over the bottle of tequila, and you try to steady your breathing as Paige pours a generous amount in your navel. A drop slips, trailing down and soaking into the fabric of your shorts. You swear you can hear Paige’s breath hitch, but the club is too loud for you to be certain.

Lielle is probably recording. There’s no way she isn’t – she’s the life of the party, and whenever you wake up tomorrow, you’re sure you’ll find the video of Paige doing a body shot off of you on her close friends. But right now, when Paige is staring at you like you’re the only person in the room, like she can’t wait to get you alone and ruin you? You can’t think about anything but the blonde athlete and how willing you are to let her unravel you.

With one last glance to check in on you, Paige leans over you, caging you in with her arms. Her head dips down, licking the salt off of your chest with a devastating slowness. You catch the edge of her grin as she trails her lips down your torso, settling at your belly and drinking the tequila directly off your stomach.

Her tongue probes for the last drop and she presses a farewell kiss to your skin that makes your breathing stutter. Then, finally, she makes her way back up to your lips, her skin a little flushed, and she parts her lips to take the lime wedge in between her teeth.

But Paige isn’t through with you. You watch with wide eyes as she punctures the flesh with her teeth. She takes the lime wedge in between her fingers and with her free hand, she cups your jaw, her thumb brushing against your lip. You adhere to the silent demand, your lips parting again, and she presses down on the bottom row of your teeth with her thumb, keeping you open as she squeezes the juice of the lime into your mouth.

You shudder, eyes slipping shut in a non-physical pleasure – Paige hasn’t even touched you yet, but you feel like you’re ready to fall apart. The lime juice makes your face contort from the sourness, but you hardly think about it when your eyes blink open once more to take in Paige’s lazy expression. She’s already gone – her smile wide, reverent, satisfied, proud, and she discards the lime peel.

Paige removes her finger from your mouth, closing your jaw for you, her features softening with pride as you swallow the juice dutifully. You barely hear her whisper, “Good,” before she helps you off of the table, steadying you when you sway a little unsteadily, and the both of you make every effort to ignore your friends.

They don’t focus on the two of you for too long – JJ is helping Kelsey onto the table to keep going, so you take advantage of their distraction and pull Paige down to your level by her collar. She grins insufferably, like she knows she’s teased you to the point of no return. Her smile widens when you demand, “Take me home. Or we’ll cause a scandal in the middle of this club.”

Her lips brush against yours. “Uber’s already here,” she informs you, her expression far too satisfied. If you were any less pussy drunk, you’d probably hate yourself for being too easy, but all you can think about is how her skin would feel against yours.

You let her pull you through the club. You let her hands linger on your hips when she helps you into the Uber. And without so much as a noise, you part your legs for her in the car, letting her fingers trace the inside of your thighs discreetly. Paige doesn’t give you what you need – you knew she wouldn’t.

You keep your reactions tempered, even when she leans in closer to you, her nose brushing against your ear as she whispers filth that the driver is none the wiser to. And when you make it to her apartment complex, you hardly hear the driver’s farewell before she guides you out of the car, through the apartment lobby, and into the elevator.

Paige’s grip on your hips is tight, like you’re not sure if she’s trying to keep you close or trying to restrain herself from defiling you in the elevator. Either way, you don’t mind. You press your hips to her front, grinning in satisfaction when her fingers tighten and her breath hitches, a groan building in her throat. The ding of the elevator breaks you both from your stupor and you follow her to her door, watching in amusement as she fumbles with the key in her haste.

“Do you remember my tweet?” you ask a little offhandedly, sliding your fingers under the hem of her sweatshirt. She curses under her breath when your fingers find her waist, splaying across her abdomen – it’s more for your pleasure than it is hers, feeling her muscles jump under your hold. Her eyes are a little wide and blown out when they meet yours.

“S’all I’ve thought about for weeks,” she confesses, finally getting the lock to turn. Her words give you pause as she throws open the door. Catching you by surprise, she picks you up, one arm looping under your ass, and your arms slide around her neck for stability as she shuts the door behind her, making sure to turn the lock back.

It’s all speed from there. Paige kicks her shoes off in the entryway, her hands gripping the back of your thighs as she blindly walks the both of you through the hallway towards the bedroom. You silently thank her coordination as an athlete, more so when she starts mouthing at your chest like it’s been the only thing keeping her going. Her tongue darts out, wet against your skin, and she hums against your breast as she tastes the residual salt from the shot and the sweat. Paige nips at your skin and holding onto her tighter with a wordless sigh is all you can do to keep it together.

Finally, she finds the bedroom door, throwing it open without a care in the world. Paige deposits you safely on bed and then almost falls over herself following – the dichotomy makes you ache, the way she’s so desperate to get her hands and mouth on you, but the evident care she makes sure to treat you with despite her need. You want her to turn you out in every single way she’s thought about since draft night, but the respect is touching.

The first press of her lips against yours makes you keen, arching into her exploring hands while yours cups her cheeks. You’ve thought about this for weeks, too, how it would feel to have her on top of you like this. She tastes like a tequila shot and something distinctly fruity from the cocktail she was sipping on. Combined with the lime juice on your breath, your kiss is intoxicating for several different reasons, and the heat coiling in your belly reminds you of how badly you want this.

She tugs your bottom lip between her teeth, pulling it back and letting it snap back before her lips find every inch of your skin. The hinge of your jaw, the tender spot on your neck that makes you thread your fingers through her hair to pull the tie loose, the dip in your throat where your moan vibrates against her lips. Paige is ravenous. Like there’s a million different things she wants to do to you before the sun comes up. You’d let her.

“Thought about this forever,” she murmurs, her voice hoarse and wrecked. Your breath stutters, back arching to help her untie your halter top and letting her pull it off you. She goes almost painfully silent when she takes in your breasts fully, your pebbled nipples. “Fuck.” Her curse sounds like a filthy prayer, one that you’d give up almost everything to respond to. One of her large hands splay over your breast while her mouth finds the other one, alternating between kneading and sucking and here – you’re sure you could fall apart completely, your hips jumping up for contact.

“You don’t know what that stupid comment did to me,” she continues, almost to herself, but she knows you’re listening. She feeds off of the way your breath hitches as she pulls back long enough to rip her sweatshirt and sports bra off in two quick motions, the chains around her neck tangling briefly before they trail cold caresses across your stomach when she leans back down to take your skin in her mouth. Your jaw falls open in pleasure, gripping onto her, the sheets, anything to stay rooted.

“Looked at your page, and those–” Her fingers find the waistband of your shorts, popping the button and pulling the denim off while she rambles. She falters when she takes in the white lace covering your body, a low, wrecked groan spilling from her lips at the sight of the wet patch at the apex of your thighs. Paige brushes her fingers against you, relishing in the way your hips jump and your whispered plea.

“Those stunts you do,” she continues finally. “That fucking uniform is sinful, you know that? Got myself off thinking about you, how good you’d be. You offered yourself up and all I could think about at the presser was how many different ways I could get you to come for me. I wonder if I could do it without my hands.”

You’re not coherent enough to tell her she could probably do it with words alone, but you reach for her and pull her back to your lips, kissing her hungrily, like you’re on death row and she’s your only chance of salvation.

Your hands explore while her kiss disorients you. Finding the waistband of her pants, you reach for the belt, undoing it. Paige helps you pull her pants off, leaving her in a dark pair of boxers. Her skin is impossibly warm against your palms as you press your fingers into the small of her back, undoubtedly leaving marks.

She pulls back to trail her lips down your body, sucking marks everywhere, her hands holding you like she’s afraid you’d float away if she didn’t keep you rooted.

Paige doesn’t make any effort to strip you out of your damp underwear – if anything, she stares at it like she’s more proud of it than getting drafted first overall, and she presses her lips to the skin just above your waistband until it blooms red and purple. She soothes it with a kiss, her expression far too smug and satisfied.

“You’re soaked,” Paige murmurs, pressing her thumb to your cunt again, her grin widening when you moan, your hands shooting down to grip her hair. She makes eye contact with you and sucks her thumb into her mouth, eyes slipping shut as she tastes you. You can’t help the curse that tumbles from your lips. “That ‘open legs’ offer must have been a cry for help, huh?” she teases, but her voice is rough, like the very taste of you is a drug and she’s addicted. “Nobody else doin’ it for you?”

“No,” you admit, cheeks burning under the weight of your confession. The truth is you’d stopped looking after a while, but now, with Paige tucked between your legs and staring at you like you’re the most beautiful girl she’s ever seen, you briefly consider the fact that she’s going to ruin you for anyone else. For yourself.

She grins again. “Shame,” she murmurs, her lips trailing down to the inside of your thighs, where she presses gentle kisses. “Someone got to you before me and they couldn’t even make it worthwhile.”

She nips at your skin, the pain blooming into pleasure instantly. Your breathing comes to you a little faster the closer she moves to your aching cunt, but she soothes you with a hand to your belly. “I got you, mama. Gonna be the best you’ve ever had. Swear.”

You don’t doubt it, your head already swimming, and she presses one last kiss to your clit through the damp material of your underwear. It makes you jolt, but she steadies your hip with her hand as she pulls the lace to the side slowly. You can’t help but gaze down at Paige, locked in on the way her eyes glaze over with desire when your cunt is finally revealed to her.

You don’t think you’ve ever been this wet in your life. Maybe it’s been a fire that has been slowly burning ever since she initially hinted at flying out and taking you up on your offer. Now, all you can focus on is the way her hands grip your strong thighs, holding you open as she dives in to lick a long, slow stripe up the length of your slit.

You both moan in tandem – yours of pleasure and hers in awe. You’re dripping onto her comforter, hardly able to feel much remorse about it, but something tells you that Paige is really fucking into the fact that she has you so pliant beneath her.

Her tongue is exploratory, drinking in every drop of your arousal, her brows pinched together as she focuses on building you up. Her nose brushes against your clit while her tongue finds the source, licking you clean like she’s stranded in a desert and you’re the only thing that could satiate her thirst.

She’s wild, her tongue everywhere all at once, muttering messily into your cunt about how you “taste so fucking good,” but you’re sure you fall apart completely when her lips close around your clit and she sucks.

Your brain is mush. You’re not sure if you want to keep your eyes on her or let your head fall back into her pillows, unable to process the pleasure fully.

Paige makes the decision for you when your eyes slip shut and she nips at your clit gently – not enough to hurt (even though it sends a surge of pleasure up your spine, anyhow), but enough to get your attention.

The message is clear – she wants your attention. Thinking about how she’s probably getting off from you watching her makes the heat coil in your stomach, ready to snap at any given moment.

You tangle your fingers in her messy hair, pressing her deeper into you, head tipping back in pleasure when she doubles down on her motions. Paige is ravenous, tongue circling your clit, never once stopping or slowing.

Not until your thighs are shaking from pleasure. Not until the tears bead at your waterline. Not until she encloses her lips around your clit again, her cheeks hollowing from the pressure, and releasing you to drag the arousal from your entrance to your clit, coating it completely.

You’re wholly unprepared for the first press of her fingers against your entrance. Paige doesn’t push in – not yet. She drags her fingers through your folds, soaking them, listening and looking for your reaction as she probes deeper.

The first finger sinks in until it reaches her knuckle, punching a breathless moan out of you, and she curls her finger as she pulls out. She’s a quick study – learning what you like and how much pressure she needs to unravel you completely. But she’s slow, not adding in another finger. You get the message instantly when her eyes find you, her gaze dark and imploring.

Not above begging, your voice is hoarse, rough from your moans, your lips split-slick and bitten. “Please, Paige, keep going,” you request, clenching around the single finger in you. “More, please, fuck–” The words get caught in your throat when she smiles against you, taking your clit in her mouth again just as she slides in a second finger. Too far gone, you can’t help the repeated, delirious ramble of “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” or the choked out, “So fucking good.”

The more vocal you get, the more she gives you. Her lips and her tongue speed up, flicking against your clit with a devastating intensity. Paige’s finger’s scissor inside you more firmly, sliding in deeper with every thrust, particularly timed with her mouth. It’s a Pavlonian response. The pleasure is overwhelming, and you can’t find it in yourself to be too embarrassed by how loud you are.

You chant her name, breathless little sounds that sound more like pleas than sentences. The grip on her hair must be painful but she never slows. She’s fucking you closer and closer to the peak, and when it finally arrives, warning her is all you can do.

She’s heedless, her pace somehow intensifying even more, and you come with a sob that’s a mix of her name and a string of curses as the pleasure washes over you.

Paige doesn’t stop, drinking in every drop of you like she’s parched, her fingers slowing as they work you gently through the shockwaves. You’re breathless, stuttering through the euphoria, gratitude lacing your words.

When she pulls away, the bottom half of her face is slick with your arousal, her tongue darting out to catch the edges of her lips, but it’s like drops of water in a bucket. For all intents and purposes, she’d been drowned, but her grin tells you she would have been more than happy to go out that way.

Boneless and limp in bed, she trails her lips up your body until she finds your lips, kissing you deeply and allowing you to taste yourself on your tongue. The taste is heady, something you’d probably attribute to the taste of her, too, and you can’t help but moan against her lips, your body burning under the touch again.

“Don’t think I’m letting you tap out so soon,” she murmurs, squeezing your waist and peering down at you. “We haven’t even started.”

“Greedy,” you say teasingly.

Her subsequent grin is sharp, nipping your lip gently. “And proud,” she states, already leaning over and digging through the drawer of her nightstand. When her hand comes back into view, she’s holding a strap and the harness.

The sight of it makes your brows raise – it’s modest in size, but it’s still bigger than anything you’ve ever taken, both in length and girth. “What?” she asks, a smirk appearing on her lips as she fastens the harness around her hips.

“It’s big,” you point out obviously, but the heat is already licking at your skin again as you stare at it longingly.

“Everything’s bigger in Texas,” she retorts. The strap hanging from her hips makes your mouth water, and you suppose this is what you wanted anyway – for Paige to ruin you. She glances at you curiously, able to read how your hesitation washes away. You’re safe with her. She wouldn’t hurt you. That thought alone makes you a little more hungry for it. “Trust me, you ain’t gotta worry.” She drags her fingers through your folds again, raising it to the lamplight and showing you how they shine. It makes you blush, but her smirk is a little insufferable. “But, I mean…if you wanna try something smaller–”

“No,” you disagree a little too quickly. She raises a challenging brow, one that infuriates you. She’d been mean all night – teasing you and working you up. And, sure, she delivered, but you think that she deserves to be knocked down a peg or two.

You wrap your legs around her waist, and in a quick motion, you flip the both of you over, straddling her waist with your hands on her chest. She’s a little breathless, eyes wide and pupils dilated, yet you can spot the impressed look in her gaze. “You don’t think I can handle it?”

“Didn’t say that,” she says, her eyes drinking you in, the fucked out look on your face and she bruises covering your skin. Her hands find your waist, pulling you onto her fully – onto the strap – and she guides you into a slow grind, taking back the control seamlessly as you gasp. Paige grunts, too, the strap pressing back into her clit, and the fact that she’s feeling as good as you are makes you tremble with want.

“You insinuated it,” you argue, a little miffed.

She grins like your indignance is cute. “Just tryna be in you, mama,” she says, tugging you down a little harder, and it punches a moan out of you. “You gonna let me do that or are we gonna sit here and argue all night?”

You narrow your eyes at her, but you don’t say much else, and she draws her bottom lip between her teeth as she gazes down at where your centers connect. “That’s what I thought.” Her words are mostly said to herself.

She grips the waistband of your underwear and pulls them down your legs – you adjust to help her pull them off, and she throws them to the side.

Now that you’re completely bare, she pulls you down onto the strap again, your arousal coating the silicone. The unrestricted contact makes you shiver and you loop your arms around her neck for stability while one of hers finds your waist again.

With her free hand, she reaches for the base of the strap, guiding it to your entrance and holding you steady – the tip of the strap brushes against you, but she doesn’t allow you to move.

Her eyes are zeroed in on where you’re clenching around nothing, your arousal leaking out of you. Then, finally, she pulls you down slowly, controlling each and every small movement. Your breath hitches when the head breaches inside, pressing into you, and Paige kisses all over your chest to soothe you.

“Good, that’s it,” she murmurs, lips encircling a nipple as she pulls you a little further down. The stretch is delicious, splitting you open, her hands mapping out your skin. She grips the flesh of your ass in one large hand, the other reaching around to rub featherlight circles on your clit to distract you.

The sensations are overwhelming in the best way possible. Her mouth drags wet kisses across your body while she listens for your reaction. Paige lowers you further down, drawing a drawn out moan from you, and you feel her grin against your breast as you tighten your grip around her neck, pulling her tighter against you.

“Perfect girl. Taking me so well,” she coos. Her body is impossibly warm against you and you can feel yourself relaxing into it, wanting to sink down completely, but she doesn’t let you. “Want you to feel good, baby. Don’t rush it.”

Still holding onto your annoyance from earlier, you can’t help your slight eye roll as you nip at her neck, sucking a matching hickey into her skin. She hisses, letting you fall another inch before gripping your hips tightly. “Would feel good if you just fucked me,” you state, staring at her with an expression that’s borderline pathetic. “What’d you say earlier? Just tryna be in you?”

“Think you have a patience problem,” she muses. “I’d heard so much about this southern hospitality bullshit growing up in the north, but it seems like you got a manners problem, too. I gotta teach you how to say please and thank you?”

You barely resist a sigh. Instead, you let your lips pucker out in a pout, the motion drawing Paige’s attention immediately. You press closer to her, your breasts dragging against her chest, and she sighs from the feeling. “Please, Paigey?” you beg in a near whimper, taking the hitch in her breathing as a sign that you’re doing something right. “Just want you to fuck me. Been good for you all night, haven’t I? And I promised to welcome you to Dallas. Let me make you feel good.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, but the way her throat bobs tells you she’s minutes away from flipping you over and making you forget your name. “You’re dangerous,” she whispers.

“I’m yours,” you respond, and that’s enough for her. Paige drags you down the last few inches, bottoming out. You moan into her neck, the hand at the small of your back pressing you into her. You’re sure that you’re soaking her lap, but judging by the way her hips rut up into yours, she likes knowing how fucked she has you.

Her hands settle at the bottom of your ass, pulling you up as she mouths at your chest, her tongue darting out to taste your skin. You sink down on the strap again. The sound is obscene, drawing a gasp from you, and you repeat the motion.

Up, then down. Up, then down, beginning to set the pace for yourself, but making sure you grind at the bottom of your strokes to make sure that Paige is getting off too. Her eyes are hooded, darting from your face, to your chest, to the apex of your thighs where you’re soaking the strap.

“Fuck,” she groans, her voice rough, and it sends white hot desire up your spine. She speeds up your motions, the veins on her hand protruding from the effort of keeping you upright, her jaw unhinging in awe as she stares at you.

You allow yourself a small smirk, your right hand tilting her head back, revealing the expanse of her throat as you grind down onto her. With your ears so close to her mouth, you can hear every stutter in her breath, every jilted moan she tries to hold back, the hiss of pleasure when you bite down, sucking dark marks into her skin.

When her motions start becoming desperate, her hips bucking up into yours in time with every drag down like she’s trying to chase her high, you reach down for her hands, tangling your fingers together and pressing them into the pillows over her head.

“Really?” you murmur, your lips ghosting the dip in her throat. “You’re this close just from helping me get off?”

She laughs a little, something that sounds like a sob mixed with a whine, and her jaw falls slack in a low groan when your lips attach to the sensitive spot below her ear. “Can’t help it,” Paige manages. Her lips are slick, bitten raw, so you kiss her deeply, swallowing the sound she makes when you grind down especially hard. “Think you like it, though.”

“Mmm,” you hum. You speed up your motions, feeling your thighs and your stomach burn with the effort, but also feeling yourself teeter on the edge of crashing down completely. Your thrusts draw out another moan from Paige, one that makes you grin – because she’d tried so hard to keep herself together, to pretend she was here to fuck you and not the other way around. “Think I just like you.”

That makes a lazy smile appear on her face. Paige pulls one of her hands out of your grip, inching towards your throat and tangling in the necklace there. “Yeah?” she goads, her tone a little insufferable. “Didn’t – fuck – didn’t think I affected you.”

You’re still rutting against her, sweat beading on your temples as you argue, “You don’t.”

But that just makes her grin turn a little more smug. She releases your necklace, her fingers pressing lightly into the sides of your throat, squeezing once in warning. It makes your hips stutter, your breath catching. “Keep lyin’, mama,” she mutters, something dark in her eyes as her fingers trail down your body. One tweaks a nipple, kneading a breast as you gasp. Then, she goes lower still, bracing her large hand over you while her thumb finds your clit, rubbing messy circles through the slick there.

You lose your rhythm again, whimpering, but you keep going despite the exhaustion. It’s less about your pleasure now. You need to get Paige off, to tear down that ego of hers, to silence her for once. Even as you stare down at her, your eyes a little hooded, you realize she enjoys receiving as much as she enjoys giving, and there’s truly no winning with her – she’s getting off either way.

“Actin’ like I don’t know you already,” she continues, her thumb as ruinous as her hips – as ruinous as her words. “What you like. What you need.” You could fall apart like this – her words picking you apart piece by piece, her thumb reminding you that she has you right where you want her. Paige gazes up at you, her pupils blown wide, but you can make out the challenge in the blue of her eyes – she’s daring you to get smart again.

But you’re just as competitive as she is. Without faltering in your movements, you lean slightly, reaching for the cowboy hat perched on her nightstand. It has Paige stitched on the bill. Her jaw falls slack again as she watches you slide it over your head.

“You talk too much,” you retort, and then you’re doubling down again. You can tell the image of you wearing Paige’s hat is doing something to her – the way it bounces in time with your thrusts, combined with the wrecked sounds leaving your lips, the slick sound of the strap deep inside you, the fact that Paige wants you so bad it makes her stupid.

It doesn’t take much longer after that. You and Paige were already pent up. Her thumb quickens on your clit, her free hand gripping your hips tight enough to leave a bruise as she drags you up and down relentlessly, her own hips meeting yours. You can tell she’s getting close when her breathing turns ragged and her face burns red. You’re right there with her, digging your nails into her shoulders for stability as you push yourself to your high.

Part of you expects Paige to open her mouth again, to say something slick that would leave you trembling, but you don’t give her the chance to. You pull her face to yours, silencing your cries with her lips. You shiver when she bites down on your bottom lip harshly, soothing the sting with her tongue. “‘M close,” you manage breathlessly, holding onto her tightly – feeling as though your orgasm would wreck you completely.

“I know,” she murmurs, her voice choked. “Let go, mama, I’m right here.”

So you do, the pleasure washing over you completely as you cry out, sagging onto her body bonelessly, the cowboy hat falling off to the side of the bed. Paige drags you against the strap, riding out the high, her jaw slack in wordless pleasure while her body burns. She doesn’t still until you push her hands off of you, the overstimulation buzzing under your skin.

Your thighs are still trembling, your breathing uneven. You hardly have the energy to slide off of the strap, so you settle for holding onto Paige, tucking your head into the crook of her neck where sweat glistens and the lingering scent of her cologne remains. You shift, feeling the soaked comforter beneath both of you. It’s enough to make you groan.

But then Paige is shifting, too, the strap brushing against a spot inside you that punches a moan out of you. You don’t have to look up to know she’s smirking. “Chill,” you admonish, your body still sizzling. You don’t know how she still has the energy and the stamina to go after she just turned you inside out, but she moves her hips again, on purpose this time, and the heat coiling in your belly returns tenfold. “You’re insatiable.”

“Look who’s in my bed,” she says as if it explains everything. You just shake your head, amused by her. Paige’s fingers trail down your sides, brushing against your skin while she presses featherlight kisses to your temple, your cheeks, the hinge of your jaw. “Know you’ve got one more for me, don’t you?”

You can’t find the words, but you don’t need to. You grab onto her chain – mostly to hold her in place, and you kiss her – deep, lingering, soft despite the moment prior. She grins against you, sliding the strap out as she maneuvers you. The emptiness makes you sigh, but the shift doesn’t take long. She angles you until you can see your bodies in the mirror across her room, your breath catching at the insinuation.

You watch through the mirror as she reaches for the cowboy hat again, settling it over her messy curls. Her smile is determined – like she’s not quite satisfied, not content with the two orgasms she’d pulled from you; ravenous like she can’t wait to have you again. It shouldn’t turn you on like it does, but the flame is licking at you once more and you can’t help but succumb to the fire.

She wraps her right arm around your waist, pulling you up to a kneeling position while she settles in behind you. The strap brushes against you. The sensitivity makes you jolt, but Paige soothes you with a hushed murmur, her hand pressing against your stomach and keeping you tethered. “Want you to watch,” she whispers in your ear. Her right hand abandons your waist to hold you by the jaw, gently tilting your head up until you make eye contact through the mirror.

You’re rendered breathless by the sight – Paige’s body eclipsing yours, the hickeys adorning your skin, the slick between your thighs that shines from the lamplight. Paige isn’t much better, either. Her hair is a mess, the hat on her head skewed to the side, her neck littered with your teeth marks, skin shining from exertion. For stability, you hold onto the arm that’s wrapped tightly around you, pushing back against the strap.

“Can you do that for me?” she asks, pushing her hips forward, dragging through your folds. You nod quickly, letting out a soft whine when the tip of the strap catches your sensitive clit. “Keep your eyes on me or I’ll stop.”

“I will, Paige, promise – just…please–”

She hushes you again, kissing your neck. “I got you, baby. Relax for me, okay? Gonna give it to you. Just need you to be good for me.” You nod again, melting into her body, and with the hand not holding you upright, she guides the strap to your entrance. You moan softly as she slides inside with little resistance, bottoming out as she murmurs, “That’s it, perfect girl. You take me so well.”

You can’t muster the words to respond to that, so you lean your head on hers when she drags the strap out, then pushes back in with a devastating slowness that you feel throughout your entire body. Your body is still buzzing with oversensitivity, but the slowness of her thrusts helps to ground you.

She glances up to the mirror to ensure you’re still looking at her – which you are, enraptured and unable to look away – before she trails her lips down your neck, pressing gentle, wet kisses to your overheated skin.

She’s softer now. Soft in a way that makes you clench around the strap breathlessly, tilting your head to give her more access to your neck. She recognizes that it won’t take much to build you up again, more focused on making sure you enjoy every second – every motion, every push and pull of the strap. Paige plants a kiss on every hickey she’d left on your body, her actions borderline reverent in a way that makes you want to come for her again and again and again.

With one arm still wrapped around your chest, holding onto your jaw, the other wraps around your hips, holding you by the stomach.

Unable to look away, you tighten your grip on her arms, trying not to fall apart too soon. Your stomach coils, already close, but Paige moves slowly, her thrusts hitting deep, and you’re all too content to float along the current of pleasure. Her lips still ghost across your body, licking the salt off of your skin, pressing gentle apologies to the dark spots on your neck.

“You want more, mama?” she murmurs in your ear, a gentle check in despite the question. You hardly have to think about it before you nod. With the hand braced over hers, you drag her left hand down, her fingers finding your clit with ease.

She doesn’t apply much pressure, just enough for you to feel it without overpowering the sensations. You don’t let go either, guiding her motions, moving it further down to gather more of your slick before bringing it back up to circle your clit.

The slide makes it impossibly sweeter – she tightens her circles, pushing deeper inside you with the strap, the tip brushing against the spongy spot inside of you that makes you keen.

Paige doesn’t slow. She doesn’t speed up. She keeps her pace deliciously consistent, the strap dragging in and out of you deliberately, her fingers working you up in tandem.

Her free hand keeps your gaze locked on the mirror, watching her as she kisses your neck, the shell of your ear, listening to her breath heavily as if she’s feeling everything you are, too. That thought alone makes your hips stutter, pressing back into her.

She soothes you with gentle whispers. “So good for me, baby,” she’d say, or she’d time the circling of your clit with a deeper thrust, murmuring, “You feel me? Want you to feel good.” And the stupid hat makes you unravel a little bit more – it hangs off of her head loosely, threatening to fall at any moment, but all you can think about is how you rode her wearing her hat, how she claimed you in the club and how she made you fall apart wearing something with her name on it. You’re hers now, and honestly, you don’t hate that idea.

It doesn’t take much longer before your eyes are slipping shut, confessing, “Close, P,” in a hoarse voice. The sensations are overwhelming – her hot skin pressed against yours, the strap sliding through you and hitting spots you’d never knew existed, the maddening feeling of her thumb against your clit, her breathing against your ear, the pounding of her heartbeat against your back revealing just how close she is to falling apart, too.

“Okay, baby,” she whispers, her motions never slowing, kissing your neck again. But she presses her fingers a little more firmly to your clit, her free hand tapping against your cheek to gather your attention.

Your eyes blink open, finding the mirror again, the ruined look on her face. She looks desperate – not to get off, but desperate to watch you get off. “Want you to watch yourself.” Her voice is a little broken, almost begging, and it makes your breath catch in your throat. “You look so pretty when you come for me, you know that? Wanna watch you do it over and over and over again.”

“Paige,” you gasp, the sound coming out like a half-sob, half-whine, the pleasure building and the heat coiling.

But she hardly hears you, her eyes glazed over and pussy drunk. Her jaw hangs slack like she’s the one being fucked, her breathing uneven and heavy. “You feel so good,” she rambles. “Like you were made just for me. Can’t get enough of you. Please, mama, wanna see you fall apart for me. You’re so good, so fucking perfect–”

The coil snaps, white hot pleasure coursing through your veins, electricity down your spine, and all you can do is sag back into her one final time, moans tumbling from your lips while she works you through the aftershocks.

Her hips and her fingers slow, murmuring incoherent sentences into your ear, her words dripping in both gratitude and a satiated desire like watching you get off finally quenched a thirst she’s been harboring for years.

You don’t have to say anything, either – it’s like she knows your body by heart now. Gingerly, she slips the strap out of your soaked cunt and detaches her fingers from your sensitive clit. As much as you’d love to feel her skin against yours, her hips dragging against yours, you can barely keep your eyes open. The final aftershocks dissipate, your thighs calming, the pleasurable fog in your brain clearing.

“You still with me?” she asks softly, smoothing the hair at the crown of your head with her clean hand.

At that, all you can do is muster a laugh, your eyes opening blearily. “Yeah,” you say, “no thanks to you, though.”

“Hmm,” she scoffs, amusement in her eyes. “Coulda sworn this was exactly what you wanted. You know, open legs and all.”

“Alright,” you deadpan, attempting to roll on your side, but you can’t summon the strength. You settle for some weird half angle that’s hardly worth the drama of the moment. “Goodnight!”

“No way,” Paige laughs. “C’mon. I need you awake. Lemme run you a bath and change these sheets so you can rest, okay? You good with that?”

You meet her eyes again, your smile softening at the gentle earnestness on her face. If she hadn’t already ruined you before, you’re sure you are now. But there’s something in her eyes that promises this might not be a one night thing after all. “Yeah,” you whisper, drawing her closer to plant a chaste, affectionate kiss to her lips. You feel her grin. “You’re gonna have to carry me, though.”

“Whatever you want, baby,” she assures you, crawling off the bed and unbuckling the harness on her hips. She throws it haphazardly into the adjacent bathroom and you try not to laugh when something clatters to the floor. Paige picks you up with ease, one arm looping under your knees and the other wrapping around your back. She sets you on the edge of the tub as she heats up the water, helping you into it gingerly and tossing in a eucalyptus bath bomb for your aches. Before she leaves to swap the sheets, she plants a soft kiss onto your forehead.

You soak for a few moments until she returns, offering you a small smile before she slips in behind you. Her body is almost as warm as the water and twice as soft. She massages the shampoo and conditioner into your hair and jokingly points out her assault on your neck with a mixture of pride and concern. You tell her she’ll have to buy your concealer in bulk but when she murmurs, “As long as I get to see you again,” you find that you don’t really care about the marks on your neck as long as you get to keep this annoyingly charming, devastatingly beautiful athlete in your life.

Paige helps you out of the tub, your eyes drooping once more, dressing you in a pair of her boxers and an oversized t-shirt from her college days. She guides you back to bed gingerly, the sheets fresh and clean, and you have your head on her chest before she’s even got her head on the pillow. She grins because it doesn’t bother her at all. You smile because her heart’s pounding and you think you know why it is.

Just before you fall into a blissful, exhausted sleep, Paige’s voice cuts through the fog once more. “About that offer,” she whispers, tapping on the leg you have slung across hers. “Does it expire?”

She jokes, but you can hear the truth of her question beyond it. She’s not referring to your legs. Not literally.

Your smile is tired, but it’s no less affectionate. “For you?” you echo, drowsiness lacing your tone. “No. It’s renewable.”

“How long?”

You’re quiet for a beat, just enough to consider your words.

Is this something you want? Relationships can be hard. Tricky. But something about Paige tells you she’s in for the ride. That you can trust her – with you and your heart.

So you press a kiss to the hinge of her jaw, feeling her cheeks stretch with a smile, and you make her a promise:

“As long as you want.”

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