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goldfades · 11 days ago

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𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐏𝐋𝐄 ───── LUKA DONCIC

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⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 1.6k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | (request for my lovely jo, @wanderlusturous) you, a hotheaded wnba star and your equally chaotic courtside boyfriend luka dončić take turns being menaces on and off the court, earning the title of Crash Out Couple with every tech, shove, and courtside screamfest

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | banter, luka being an instigator, it's kinda cute

The first time you meet Luka, he’s not quite a household name yet—but he’s well on his way. The smirk, the aura, the almost reckless abandon with which he commands the court—it’s all there. You’re sitting at a bar in Manhattan after a grueling Liberty practice, sipping on some overpriced cocktail that tastes like regret and stale citrus, when he strolls in, all easy confidence and mischief. You’re vaguely aware of who he is—because, duh, basketball—but you don’t care. Not about his growing fame. Not about the headlines that tend to follow him like a stray dog.

At first, it’s just banter. He comments on the Liberty cap perched on your head like he knows something. You volley back, sharp and unbothered, because you’re you, and nobody gets to talk slick without catching a little heat. You don't even realize you're flirting until he pulls out that grin, all teeth and menace, and asks for your number like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You give it to him—mostly because you’re intrigued by the audacity.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Fast-forward a couple of years, and the “Crash Out Couple” is practically an ESPN institution. You’d roll your eyes at the nickname if it weren’t so hilariously accurate. You, with your unapologetic on-court antics, and Luka, with his penchant for egging on entire benches, were practically made for each other. There’s a viral video that resurfaces every few months, some grainy courtside footage of Luka heckling refs while you jaw at a six-foot-four forward breathing down your neck. The caption reads, “Soulmates.” You both pretend to hate it, but the truth is, you kind of love it.

The media has their narrative: the fiery, unrelenting WNBA star and the NBA's most charming troublemaker. But what they don’t see is how it started—how the two of you fit together in a way that no one else ever really could.

Before you were dubbed half of the league’s favorite chaotic duo, you were just a girl with a chip on your shoulder and a game so good that even your doubters had to sit down and shut up. You grew up on New York asphalt, weaving through defenders who didn’t care if you were 13 or 30. You’d seen it all—trash talk, cheap shots, elbows that left bruises—and you didn’t just survive it; you thrived in it. You weren’t Sabrina Ionescu good in college—you were Sabrina Ionescu-adjacent, a little grittier, a little rougher around the edges.

By the time the Liberty scooped you up, you’d already perfected the art of letting people underestimate you. On the court, you were all business—sharp elbows, sharper words. Off the court, you weren’t much different.

And Luka? He had the same energy, just dressed up in a European accent and a billion-dollar smile.

So when the two of you finally crossed paths, it wasn’t fireworks or love at first sight or any of that fairytale nonsense. It was a slow build, a series of exchanges that started as friendly competition and escalated into something neither of you could ignore. You pushed him; he pushed back. You taunted; he laughed. And when the time came, he showed up for you the way you didn’t even realize you needed.

The arena hums with energy, a pulsing beat of chatter, sneakers squeaking on hardwood, and the occasional blare of the PA system announcing players warming up. You’re on the court, loose-limbed and laser-focused, bouncing a ball between your hands as the Liberty logo gleams under the bright lights. The crowd’s a blur, faces blending together, but you know exactly where Luka is without looking.

He’s courtside, leaned back like he’s sitting on his own throne, wearing that damn smile that always means trouble. He’s dressed low-key—a hoodie and jeans—but the way he carries himself, you’d think he was the one suiting up to play.

“You look nervous,” he calls out, loud enough for half the court to hear.

You roll your eyes, dribbling lazily as you make your way toward him. “Why would I be nervous? You’re not the one guarding me.”

He raises an eyebrow, feigning offense. “That’s a shame. I’d shut you down in five minutes.”

“Five?” you fire back, smirking now. “I’d have you in foul trouble in two.”

The assistant coach whistles sharply, breaking the moment as you’re called back into the fold. You turn, already putting him out of your mind, but not before Luka leans forward, his voice following you.

“Just don’t get ejected, okay? I want my money’s worth.”

You don’t look back, but your grin gives you away.

The game starts, and it’s clear from the jump that they’re gunning for you. You’re no stranger to being a target, but tonight it feels personal. Every time you touch the ball, there’s a defender glued to you—sometimes two, sometimes three. They’re in your face, hands swiping, shoulders digging into you on every drive.

It’s annoying, but you don’t let it show. Not yet.

You’re still finding your rhythm when the first cheap shot comes—an elbow to your ribs during a fast break. You stumble, barely, and the ref doesn’t call it. Luka is on his feet instantly, arms raised as he shouts something in Slovenian that’s definitely not family-friendly.

You wave him off with a quick glance and grit your teeth, setting up on the next possession. They want to frustrate you, throw you off your game. Fine. Two can play that.

By the second quarter, it’s obvious they’re not letting up. A hard screen sends you sprawling, and when you get up, your expression is thunderous. The forward who set the screen smirks, muttering something you can’t hear but understand perfectly. You take a step toward her, jaw tight, but your teammates pull you back before the whistle can blow.

From the corner of your eye, you catch Luka laughing, leaning into the drama like it’s his own personal soap opera. He’s clapping now, shouting something about “that’s my girl!”

It’s all fuel. Every shove, every sneer, every comment—you take it, you feed on it, and you channel it into the next play. You cut through the defense with surgical precision, drawing fouls and making them pay. By halftime, you’ve put up enough points to silence most of the chirping.

But Luka? Luka’s louder than ever.

When the buzzer sounds, you jog off the court toward the locker room, passing by Luka on your way. He’s waiting, still grinning like he’s enjoying this more than anyone else in the building.

“Having fun yet?” he teases, leaning over the railing.

You stop, towel slung over your shoulder, and level him with a look. “Oh, I’m just getting started.”

He throws his head back, laughing, and for a second, you forget how much your ribs hurt.

By the time the third quarter starts, you’re running on pure adrenaline. Your body aches, your jersey clings to your skin, and the defenders are still swarming you like vultures over a carcass. But you’ve got that look in your eye—the one that tells everyone, including Luka, that you’re done playing nice.

They keep testing you, and you keep answering. Elbow jabs in the paint? Fine, you’ll fight through them. Double teams in the corner? Bring it on. But there’s only so much a person can take before they hit their breaking point.

And that point comes when you drive to the basket, slipping past one defender before the next one—a towering forward with about four inches and twenty pounds on you—steps into your path. She doesn’t go for the ball. Instead, she throws her shoulder into you with enough force to send you stumbling back.

The ref blows the whistle, finally calling the foul, but you barely hear it over the rush of blood in your ears.

The forward grins, smug, like she’s gotten away with something. And that’s it. You snap.

Without thinking, you shove her—hard. Hard enough that her sneakers screech against the hardwood as she stumbles back a few steps, eyes wide with shock. The crowd erupts into chaos, the kind of noise that rattles your bones.

She comes back at you immediately, barking something that you don’t catch because your teammates are already between you, dragging you back while her team does the same. The refs are blowing their whistles like it’s a lifeline, trying to regain control.

And Luka? He’s on his feet, losing his mind.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” he yells, clapping his hands so loud you can hear it over the chaos. “Push her again! She deserved it!”

You glance his way, and the sight of him is almost enough to make you laugh. Almost. He’s leaning so far over the railing it looks like he might climb onto the court, his hoodie halfway off, gesturing wildly as he yells something in Slovenian that probably translates to “start the fight!”

The announcers are having a field day. The crowd is on their feet. Social media is already typing up their captions.

But you? You’re still locked in, eyes blazing as you stare down your defender, silently daring her to come at you again.

The refs eventually restore order, handing out double techs for good measure, but the damage is done. The entire arena is buzzing, and you can feel the shift in momentum.

You walk back to the bench, chin high, and when you sit down, Luka catches your eye again. He’s grinning like he’s never been prouder in his life.

“You really gave them their money’s worth,” he calls out, voice practically dripping with pride.

You grab a water bottle, smirking despite yourself. “You’re welcome.”

The rest of the game plays out like a blur. The other team never quite recovers, and the Liberty take the win. By the time the final buzzer sounds, your name is trending, along with Luka’s, under the now-iconic title: Crash Out Couple.

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