#wnba imagines

[delusional-day-dreamer]

Reflections - e.e

‣ emily engstler x reader

‣ wc: 2958

‣‣ synopsis: emily had no choice but to bail on your planned day together, so you decide to get a little revenge, leaving your reflection as the only thing on her mind all day.

‣‣‣ a/n: sorry this took SO LONG to release, i was a little nervous to write smut for the first time so hopefully this isn't too bad! i'm still working on more fics and hopefully i can still follow my plan to release one a day!

You adjusted the position of your body in front of the mirror, lifting Emily's shirt to reveal just a sliver of your boobs as you posed for your selfie in your lacy thong. You weren't posing for a social media post or anything of the sort, you were just trying to torture your poor girlfriend a little bit.

The two of you had planned a day-long date today, as she wasn't supposed to go in for practice or any sort of team events, but her coaches had changed their mind, calling the team early in the morning for mid-day practice, followed by a workout session, ice baths and checkups with their athletic trainer, and a film session to end their packed day.

Unfortunately for you, the text had come in during an early morning makeout session, causing Emily to leave the comfort of your bed to eat breakfast, get ready, and head out for her long day. Leaving you a needy, pleading mess for her in the process. You knew the change in plans wasn't her fault, nor was it in her control.

You were just seeking revenge for the fact that she chose to leave you orgasmless before heading out, promising to finish what the two of you had started later in the evening.

Grinning as you finally got the perfect shot, you sent off a text to Emily, containing both the selfie and a short text that read, can't wait for you to get back Em. Now, all you had to do was wait for her response, which you knew wouldn't come until a little later, when she finally got the chance to check her phone during a water break.

To your delight, Emily's response came in sooner than you had expected, not even ten minutes after you had sent the text, your phone pinged with a new text. you better find a way to wait, don't you dare touch yourself without me.

You knew that was one of Emily's "rules", if she wasn't away for a game, your pleasure was hers and hers only. And usually, that was always enough for you, as you had no need to get yourself off either by hand or with any of the toys hidden in your shared closet, Emily was always there to take care of you. But today, you found yourself struggling to hold off on relieving the deep ache that had settled in your core.

You swear you did everything in attempt to pass by the time that Emily was gone. You ate breakfast, dusted nearly every surface in your apartment, wiped down every mirror, scrubbed down the bathrooms, ate lunch, cooked dinner for you two to enjoy later, took an everything shower, and finally settled down in on your bed to watch t.v. around four in the afternoon, knowing Emily would be home before six.

Just as your eyes began to shut, drifting off into a light sleep, you heard the front door open as Emily entered the apartment, dropping the keys in the little ceramic bowl you had bought for the apartment and taking off her shoes, walking towards your bedroom.

You shot up in bed, eager for Emily to walk through the door so you could capture her in your grasp and lure her into bed, finally able to relieve the throbbing between your legs. She greeted you as she entered the room, dropping her practice bag over by the laundry hamper before making her way to you, not that you were paying attention.

You leaned in and grabbed the back of her neck, smashing your lips onto hers the second she was close enough. She climbed onto the bed with you, laying her body over yours as you continued to make out, her tongue intertwined with yours as her hands moved up and down, from kneading your braless tits to squeezing your waist, the two of you just couldn't get enough of each other.

You whined as she pulled away from your kiss, she chuckled before ducking her head down to kiss across your jaw to your ear, "missed me that much baby?" She questioned smugly as she moved her lips under your ear, alternating between sharply nipping at your skin, open mouthed kisses, and soothing licks over the trail of reddish-purple marks she left behind.

"Please Em, don't tease. Been waiting for you all day," you begged, arching your chest into her, hoping she would get the hint. She popped her lips off your neck with a smirk, gazing at your needy expression before moving her hands to pull her t-shirt off your body, uncovering your perky nipples, begging for her touch.

Her lips began a trail of kisses, licking, biting, and sucking her way down from the base of your neck to your chest, leaving hickeys at the very tops of your breast before finally latching her mouth onto your right nipple, her hand coming up to twist and tug at the other.

Your hands flew to her ponytail, gripping it as you moaned at her teasing, urging her head to continue its descent down to where you needed her the most. Thankfully, she continued to kiss down your abdomen, stopping at the edge of your lace thong to nip at the fat of your hips. She continued to tease you, leaving hickeys around the perimeter of your inner thighs as you whimpered the arousal continuing to pool within your panties, yet Emily purposely avoided your throbbing pussy.

“God Em, please I can’t take it anymore, need you so bad,” you propped yourself up on your elbows to look down at her as you pleaded, your mind far too hazy to feel embarrassed of how desperate you sounded. She propped herself, perching herself to the perfect position in between your thighs as she finally ran her fingers up and down your lace-covered slit, feeling the wetness that had begun to soak through.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this baby,” she hummed, “Wanna try something different with you, that okay?” She asked as she pulled your thong down, a strand of your slick sticking to the fabric. "You're this wet for me and I haven't even touched you yet baby," Emily rose to lean back on her knees, moving her hands to rest upon your thighs.

“Please Em, do anything, I just need you,” you whispered back, sitting up as you watched her rise from the bed, walking over to the floor length mirror you had taken the picture in. She picked it up and adjusted it so that it leaned against the wall in front of your bed, such that you were now gazing at your own naked reflection.

Your attention, however, was quickly drawn back to Emily, who had now stripped her t-shirt and sweatpants off her body, leaving her in just a plain black sports bra and a matching pair of boxers. She walked back over to the bed, settling against the headboard and planting her feet flat on the bed to take a seat behind you.

"Come here baby," she requested, and with such a low, sultry tone, how could you resist for even a second? You quickly turned onto your hands and knees, crawling up the expanse of your California king bed to kneel in between her thighs, capturing her lips once again.

You took the chance to tease Emily back a bit, taking control of the kiss by biting and dragging out her bottom lip before slipping your tongue back into her mouth, moaning eagerly into her as your hands tugged at the straps of her sports bra.

She didn't allow you to continue for long, grabbing your waist and manhandling your back into her front before you could take off her bra. She traced her hands down your body, grabbing the back of your thighs to rest them over her bent legs, spreading you open in front of the mirror.

"You see how wrecked you are for me?" She mumbled into your ear, you watched as her tattooed hands kneaded at your hickey covered tits, pinching and tugging at your nipples once again. "Mhm," you nodded, biting your bottom lip to hold back the moans threatening to spill from your lips.

Emily, however, wouldn't accept that as an answer. She grabbed your jaw firmly with her right hand, using her thumb to pull your lip out in between your teeth. "None of that tonight ma, I wanna hear you properly, whether your answering me," she spoke softly, beginning to suck hickeys into the unmarked side of your neck, "swearing," she flicked her tongue out to soothe a particularly rough area, the skin already turning purple, "or moaning my name, begging me for more," she whispered into your ear.

Your brain turned to mush at her words, which meant you didn't notice how her left hand dropped from massaging your breast to reach your cunt as she was whispering filthy things into your ear, turning you on even more. A borderline pornographic moan tore from the back of your through as Emily finally pressed her middle and ring fingers onto your clit, rubbing small circles at first.

You threw your head back against her shoulder as your body arched against her, desperate moans spilling from your lips as your hips moved upwards to search for more friction in her touch. Her right hand wrapped around your waist, holding down your bottom half before she quickly lifted her fingers from rubbing circles on your clit to lightly slapping it, not nearly hard enough to hurt, but the pressure was enough for your head to shoot up at the sparks it sent through your core.

"I want you to watch yourself in the mirror, you stop looking and I stop touching you, okay baby?" Emily insisted, her fingers only moving down from your clit to trace your folds after you agreed, dragging her fingers to collect the arousal dripping from your entrance back up to your clit, this time adding more pressure onto your clit.

Your body squirmed in her hold, your mouth emitting a near constant stream of desperate whines, begging Emily for more. "C'mon ma, tell me what you want from me," she murmured, her breath warm against the bruised skin of your neck. "Fuck me, please Emily, need you to fuck me so bad I," your words were cut off by a guttural moan leaving your mouth as she plunged two fingers into your sopping heat, the prolonged foreplay had made you so wet she slipped in without any discomfort.

Your eyes fluttered, as your body melted into hers, illegible pleas, swears, and cries of ecstasy continuously fell from your lips, all the while maintaining eye contact with Emily through the mirror. Her fingers increasing their speed as she plunged a third into you, continuing to pump in and out of you, curling into you with such precision you preened her grasp, rolling your hips forward to meet her thrusts. In the process, the heel of her palm brushed against your clit, causing you to writhe in her arms, all the while Emily ducked her head down to suck at your sweet spot.

Her name fell from your lips repeatedly, the coil in your abdomen was so close to snapping, you could almost taste how close your orgasm was. Sensing this from how tight your cunt was squeezing her fingers, she moves her unoccupied hand up to your nipples, roughly tugging at them while she moved her lips up to whisper filth into your ear.

"Just like that baby... see how pretty you look while taking my fingers, my dirty little slut getting off on being finger fucked in front of a mirror, thought about fucking you like this all day... such a good girl for me," her continuous praise and encouragements, combined with the sensation of her playing with your tits, her fingers curling so deep inside of you, and her palm providing friction to your clit was all too much for you to withstand any longer.

Your moans turned into near screams as you finally came, your orgasm hitting you full-force as your legs shook on top of Emily's, full body shudders coursing through you as Emily continued to fuck into you at the same pace, insistent on having you ride out the full extent of your orgasm.

As your orgasm finally began to subside, your body going limp against hers, Emily slowed the pace of her fingers until they stilled within you. To distract you from the emptiness she knew you felt as she withdrew her fingers from your soaking cunt, she peppered kisses along the side of your face and placed a few gentle pecks on you lips accompanied with soft praises as you tuned to face her.

She brought her fingers up to your lips, shoving them into your mouth so you could clean off your own slick, humming as she felt your tongue swirling around her fingers. After popping your mouth off her fingers, you removed your legs from on top of hers, twisting your body around in her grip to face her as your hands reached upwards to cup her face, pulling her mouth down to yours in a searing kiss, all the while your knee pressed into her core.

You were acutely aware of the fact that you hadn't even touched Emily yet, and as stubborn as she was, you could feel the throbbing of her pussy against your knee, and you would be damned if you didn't get her off after the earth-shattering orgasm she gave you.

Your lips continue to move roughly against hers, attempting to establish dominance and only separating when you tugged her sports bra over head. Your lips met the soft skin of her neck, peppering gentle kisses as you knew you couldn't leave hickeys on such a visible area just two days before her next game.

You continued placing kisses to her chest, circling her nipple with your tongue as right hand reached down to cup her warm cunt through her boxers, forcing an airy moan from her. You were able to feel through the fabric how aroused she had gotten from making you cum.

You paused your ministrations to retract your hands from her body, moving to grab at the waistband of her boxers, the only material still separating the two of you. You looked up at her glazed over eyes, nonverbally checking for her consent. Emily's past relationships and hookups always had the same dynamic, she gave a lot more than she received, if they even made an effort to reciprocate her pleasure.

With you, that was never the case. You were just as concerned with Emily's satisfaction as she was yours, despite her having the more dominant personality, you almost never allowed her to leave without at least one orgasm.

With her approval and the slight lift of her hips, you discarded her underwear, laying down on your stomach and spreading open her thighs to be eye-level with her glistening cunt. "All this just from watching my reflection Em?" You teased, your breath warm against her inner thighs as you sucked and nipped at the skin closest to her center, knowing no one would be able to see the bruises left there.

"Yeah baby, it's all for you," she breathed our, grabbing your tousled hair into a makeshift ponytail, using it to guide you closer to her sopping pussy. Even now, she still Deciding she had waited long enough, you dove your tongue into her, licking a long stripe from her entrance up to her throbbing clit, causing her to throw her head back into the headboard as she moaned deeply.

"Right there ma, just like that," she encouraged as you devoured her, running your tongue through her folds to lap at her leaking arousal like a woman starved. You gather her wetness to move up and press your tongue flat against her clit, sucking and lapping at her bud. "Oh fuck baby, doing so good for me," her hips moving up to meet your mouth.

She groaned loudly as you began to hum against her clit, holding her hips tighter as moved down to her entrance again, dipping your tongue to curl into her as your nose moved against her clit, her orgasm quickly approaching from the friction you provided. You moved back up to her clit, knowing just what she needed to be pushed over the edge.

You latched onto her nub, sucking and slightly grazing her with your teeth, humming and pressing into her as she came with a throaty moan, pushing your head deeper into her to draw out as much of her orgasm as possible.

You continued to suck at her for a few moments after, slowly reducing your touch to a few soft kitten licks as her body went limp against the headboard, relaxing fully as you detached your lips from her, rubbing your hands up and down her thighs.

Her thumb wiped the slick that covered your lips and dripped down your chin, grinning at your wrecked state. “Worth the wait ma?” Her smug but somehow genuine demeanor took in the blissed out expression on your face, exhausted from your previous activities.

“Well worth Em, should mess with you more often if this is what happens,” you beamed, only half joking. “Yea right, try that again and I won’t be so nice next time, I could barely make a single shot at practice,” she grumbled, leaning in to place a gentle kiss on your lips, crawling off the bed to grab a washcloth from your joint bathroom. Your reflection had truly served you well today.

[droopycoquette]

Late || Sue Bird x Reader

Summary: Sue finds it hard to keep her hands off of you

Warnings: smut, needy!sue

Word count: 1.1k

|*|

"Look at you," your girlfriend smiled, coming up behind you. "Where are you going looking that good?"

You smiled as you continued to lean over the counter, puckering your lips to apply more gloss, giving Sue a perfect view of your ass against your dress.

"Oh, you know," you giggled, indulging the older woman. "Just a party."

Both you and the older basketball player had been invited to a party hosted by Sue's friend, Breanna Steward. Not having an excuse to dress up in a while, you decided to have fun and go all out.

And tease Sue in the process.

"Is it too late to convince you to stay in," Sue asks, her large hands coming to hold your waist, bringing your ass to her pelvis. "Please?"

You huff out a laugh as you continue to touch up your makeup, making sure everything was perfect while your girlfriend rubbed up and down your waist, hips, and ass. Eventually, she wrapped her arms around your waist, kissing your nape and your neck.

"Stop it," you sighed. "You're distracting me, love."

"Mmm, good," Sue responded, nuzzling her nose into your neck.

Her hands wandered up from your hips to your abdomen, holding you impossibly close to her. They continued up until she was cupping your breasts. You could feel her smirk into your skin as you gasped.

"Sue," you whine, feeling her palm your breasts through your dress. "Stop it, we're going to be late."

Your words didn't match your actions as you grind against her.

"Well, let's not be late," Sue said, turning you around and grabbing the heels that you wanted to wear off the counter.

You were speechless as you watched Sue drop to her knees helping you step into them. Her fingers expertly slid the straps of your heels into place before her hands softly grazed your calves, leaning down to place a kiss on your thighs. Her lips traveled to your inner thigh and you found yourself unable to stop the moan that left your lips.

"Tell me to stop, baby," she purred up at you. "Please tell me to stop."

You held onto the counter to keep yourself upright as her lips got closer and closer to your core.

"Don't stop," you whispered.

"Hmm," the older woman smirked. "I couldn't hear you."

You felt Sue blow on your heat, making you shiver and grip the counter even harder. She was so close you could feel her lips softly grazing where you needed her most.

"Please," you begged louder. "Don't stop."

You felt the warmth of Sue's tongue flick over the lace of your underwear, forcing you to lean against the counter. You let your head fall back as you began to grind your clothed clit onto her mouth.

Sue loved getting you like this. Hot and bothered, forgetting about everything except her. She was selfish with you.

You were so wet and so ready for her. She knew exactly how to make you desperate. Her fingers crept up and hooked on the hem of your underwear, pulling them down your legs as she looked up at you.

"Sue," you whimpered.

"You're alright, baby," she whispered, pushing you onto the counter.

Seeing you in heels never failed to make Sue heat up. Feeling them against her back as your legs rested on her shoulders was everything.

Your head fell against the mirror behind you as Sue's lips reconnected with your heat. Your hips bucked forward, your dress hiked up around your hips, and you found yourself completely vulnerable to what she wanted to do to your body. She didn't waste any time taking the initiative and sucking your clit into her mouth, pushing two fingers inside as well.

Sue's grip on your thighs began to tighten, her need to see you come undone increasing. She pulled you towards her, her grip unforgiving.

"Come on baby," she groaned into your heat. "You know what I want."

Your grip on the counter loosened as you quickly lost yourself to Sue's ministrations.

"Are you going to give it to me?"

Your fingers moved to her curls as you felt a pressure building in the base of your spine. Sue's eyes met hers and you saw your effect on her. Her freckle-littered cheeks were a light shade of pink and her eyes were glossed over with lust and need. Her usual clean ringlets were now frizzy, sticking up in random places.

You couldn't help but smile. It was exactly what you wanted.

"Ohhh," you moaned, your head tipping back once more. "Fuck, I'm close. I'm so close."

"I know, baby," Sue said, her fingers frantically pumping you. "You know what to do."

Your body moved in tandem with each thrust of her fingers in you. Taking your hand from her hair, you leaned back and looked down to watch her. Her eyes met yours again, her own desire and need clear to see.

"I need to see you cum," she said, her lips kissing your thigh. "I want to feel you cum on my fingers."

Your back arched at the sound of her voice as your body continued to move with her.

"Sue," you breathed.

"That's it," she said, looking up at you. "That's it, baby"

You gasped and moaned as she took everything you had to give, sucking and licking while continuing to pump her fingers in and out.

"Sue," you whimper. "Please."

The older woman smirked against you as she continued her ministrations. She took you to the edge easily and didn't stop until she pushed you over it. You cried out as you fell over the edge, grinding against her tongue. She took everything you gave her, lapping at your core until you had nothing left.

She loved the sounds you were making, the whimpers, and the gasps. You satisfied her in ways she couldn't describe. There would never be a moment she didn't crave you.

Sue's cheek rested against your thigh as you both caught your breath. She groaned as your nails raked through her hair, cleaning up the curls and scratching her scalp.

Sue took in the quivering of your hips and the shakiness of your breath, it made her happy. Happy that she could give you this pleasure.

Sue stood, rising above you and forcing you to look up at her.

"You always have a glow after you cum," she whispers against your lips.

You could feel your cheeks heating at her words.

"Come on," Sue motioned.

"But, it's your turn," you stuttered as she helped you off the counter.

She chuckled as she grabbed you a new pair of underwear and tossed them to you.

"You can get me back when we get home." She smirked. "After all, we wouldn't want to be late."

[cosmopretty]

Paige Bueckers X Fem

synopsis: After a bad game Paige comes home and needs a way to get her anger out and it always helps by fucking you

warnings: smut, nsfw

Tonight was a big night for Paige she had home game, sadly you couldn't make it because you were helping one of your friends go through her breakup. Paige said she understood I mean you went to almost every one of her games she called you "Her good luck charm" because she felt like you were one of the reasons she could win. It wasn't real, it was her talent and hard work that helped UConn win, but regardless she gave you credit.

Instead of watching the game on the TV like you said you would, your friend wanted to watch The Titanic, rolling your eyes you agreed. By the time Paige comes home your friend was long gone, back to her dorm.

Laying down on the bed you flinch hearing the dorm slam shut, getting up you walk over to Paige only to see her with her hand in her hands on the counter. Confused you walk up to her slowly "Paige? Honey are you okay?" you ask her quietly not wanting to upset her further.

She pushes her self off the counter and stands to her full height, her six foot tall frame towering over you "I lost the fucking game, missed the last shot. It was all my fault" she says almost yelling at you.

"Oh Paige- you know-" Before you can finish your sentence she interrupted you "You wanna help me feel better?" she asks you walking closer to you, her hand coming down to hold your hip.

She squeezes the flesh "Of course Paige" you answer her almost immediately.

The tall girl smirks "Then go lay down on our bed naked and wait for me" she says leaning down to kiss the side of your neck before abruptly letting go of you.

Walking away from your you start to take you shirt off as you walk away, your back to her.

Once you get back into your room you strip of the the rest of your clothes. This wasn't the first time Paige came home angry just to fuck the shit out of you.

Before you can even sit down Paige storms in pushing you down on the bed and climbing on top of you. She flips you both over so she’s straddling your waist.

Immediately your body submits to her even if you didn't want to. She knew how to push your buttons and make you hers. After all you were her girl.

"You're my good luck charm and you weren't there, maybe if you were we could have won" She says her hand moving down to your core, rubbing her fingers through your folds.

Before you can even think to reply to her words she shoves two of her long veiny fingers inside of you. Without giving you time to adjust she starts pumping them in and out of you roughly.

Your legs try and squeeze shut but her hand stays between them fucking you. Staring up at Paige as you whine "Fuck P-Paige" you whimper.

The feeling of her fingers abusing your walls so roughly made your stomach tighten, you knew you weren't going to last long. Her voice snaps you out of your thoughts "Come on and cum for me baby" she encourages you her thumb coming to rub your clit.

The sensations of her attack on your clit and fingers pumping into you caused your stomach to tighten so hard you came crashing down on her fingers "FUCK PAIGE" you moan loudly your cum coating her fingers, dripping down.

She smirks sliding her fingers out of your hole before pushing them between her lips, sucking your juices off. Her eyes lock on yours as you watch her suck your cum off of her fingers "Your so hot Paige" you admit accidentally out loud.

The blonde smirks pulting her fingers out of her mouth "I know" she says getting off of the bed and stripping of her clothes. Once she's fully naked she stares at you while she starts harnessing the strap to her hips. You knew you were in for it, she wasn't stopping until she was done, it didn't matter how many times you came.

Paige climbs back on top of your rubbing the strap though your folds collecting your slick

"How bout you ride me baby? Show me you're a good girl and maybe I'll be nice" she tells you flipping you both over so you're straddling her waist. Her back leans against the headboard as her hands hold your waist squeezing the flesh "Go on baby give me a show" she commands pushing you up to hover over her strap.

You slowly push yourself down the strap before falling all the way down, your jaw falling slack as the long strap pushes through your hole into your gummy walls.

She smirks moving your hips with her big hands pushing you up and down on her strap “Such a pretty girl” she whispers her head dipping down into your neck.

Her mouth leaves warm open mouthed kisses down your neck as her strap pushes through your gummy walls. You moan your head dipping back “God P- Paige fuck-“ you whine as she starts sucking on your sweet spot.

“You gonna cum baby” She asks you kissing behind your ear as her hands help speed you up.

Your hands squeeze her shoulders as you nod feeling your stomach tighten “Yes please let me cum P” you beg her. Your hips grind down harder on her strap as it hits your G spot.

Her blue eyes bore into yours “Okay princess go on cum for me” she demands her hands squeezing the soft skin of your hips. Her hips jerk up thrust the strap deeper inside you as she helps you cum.

“F-fuck fuck” You moan pulling Paige into a kiss as you feel your stomach snap and let go, cumming all over her strap.

Paiges lips muffle your moans as she helps you ride out your high. She pulls away from the kiss and embarrassing string of saliva between you both.

You stare at her out of breath the strap still inside you “Your so pretty, all fucked out for me” Paige whispers one of her hands moving up your body to push some hair behind your ear.

“Too bad I’m gonna ruin you” She mumbles flipping you over onto your back faster than you can even think.

You stare at her confused about to say something before she interrupts you “Don’t look at me like that baby, ready for round two?” She asks smirking.

A/N: THE BITCH IS BACKK!!!!

DID YOU MISS ME? I MISSED YALL

[hadesoftheladies]

women's sports is one of the loudest and most successful anti-patriarchy campaigns in human history. what women's sports did and does is prove, over and over again, the excellence, the raw power and strength of the human woman. it completely disrupts ideas on gender.

you have big, powerful women in rugby. fast, endurable women runners. impeccably strong gymnasts. women with strong, large bodies that take up space. that are HEALTHY. they are not RESTRICTED or ladylike. they are free of the stillness/deadness that femininity demands. no corsets. no (aesthetic) thinness. no hourglass bodies for gawking. women's sports screams to society "we are fully human, not objects, not small men. we are not domestic dolls. we are hunters and foragers. fighters."

why do you think men are so vitriolic about it? why don't they want women in football? why don't they want it televized? why do they keep harassing female basketball players? why do they insist on dressing women in sexualized uniforms? why do they now make it taboo to exculde men from women's sports?

i firmly believe it's because women's sports tears patriarchal gender ideology apart so effortlessly. it completely spits in the face of patriarchal political propaganda and shows how null it is. it forces all of us to view women as full, as the beginning of human excellence, as central to human history. not as decorative sexual objects, no matter how men want us to be.

that's why there's so much aggression and derision when it comes to women's sports from men. because women's sports destroys the idea of femininity and depicts women as non-derivative. women must be monsters and cannot afford to play into the childlikeness that femininity demands. the arena of sports forces us to focus on women's physical performance rather than appearance. their strength rather than how attractive they are. their skill and strategy. their humanity. it is a form of entertainment where all female roles are agentive and active rather than passive.

women's sports events are also hotbeds for female and lgb solidarity like you have no idea!

y'all need to start watching women's sports. not only because it is exciting, but it deprograms the patriarchal bullshit out of you so fast. you realize how much is possible. how much we can all achieve right now.

[girlokwhatever]

I would LOVE a makeout sesh with Kate! either hcs or a little smut fic either works 🤪

kate martin x fem!reader making out hcs

✧˖°༉‧₊˚.☁︎𐦍༘⋆‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ kate martin making out with her gf,,

— there is no such thing as space when you and kate are making out

- she holds you so close it’s actually insane

— she’s so whiny and needy for you

— hands are gripping your thighs, kneading them and keeping them pressed against her body

— lowkey kinda sloppy but she can’t help it

- like she’s so obsessed with you

— loves to french kiss the hell out of you

- constant battle for dominance

— will make out with you absolutely anywhere in your apartment

— she’s so out of breath but she’s not a quitter

— if you pull away she’s immediately kissing somewhere else

- neck, jaw, shoulder, collarbone you name it

- will give you an insane amount of hickeys on accident

— the make out sessions start as soon as you put on her favorite chapstick

— can never make out in one position for too long

- will go from sitting down to flipping you on your back

— ESPECIALLY LOVESSS when you straddle her during make outs

- will help you grind on her lowkey

— it always starts out fast and passionate but ends up so slow and languid cause yall have been at it for so long LOL

— refuses to answer the phone during a make out sesh

- “kate, your phone is ringing”

- “it’s fine, just c’mere.”

— if her hands aren’t on your thighs they’re probably up your shirt ngl

— it’s her fav pre-game pastime!!

— will literally beg to take your clothes off cause she just wants to be close

— likes when you tug on her hair

- especially if it’s in a ponytail

— she literally wants to make out at least once a day

- “no kate, i just finished my makeup.”

- “please?”

- “…fine.”

— sometimes she does ask but most of the time is just happens naturally

— loves loves loves her early morning make out sessions with you

— makes jokes about how easily she takes your breath away

- literally only because she won’t let you pull away

— walking around with your lipstick all over her mouth afterwards 🤭

— will start off by giving you little pecks or kissing your neck to get your attention

— sometimes gets your foundation on her nose too LOL

— it’s like tradition now honestly

— “babe, wear that strawberry chapstick today, it’s my favorite.”

- “i thought the lemon was your favorite?”

- “i just said that so you’d kiss me.”

✧˖°༉‧₊˚.☁︎𐦍༘🪐⋆‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

kate and reader are my fav cutie pies tbh

[bueckets]

The Prophecy | Part 2

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

Parts: Part One | Two (you're here) | Three

Description: A weekend in Connecticut changes everything. On the court, you and Paige Bueckers are rivals, a clash of titans in a game where perfection is the only currency. Off the court, it’s different. Walls come down, secrets spill, and for a fleeting moment, hearts connect in ways you never thought possible.

But nothing perfect lasts.

WC: 7.9k

Authors Notes: heavy angst, heavy smut, heavy romance n fluff...... somehow all in one. i'm sorry have not proof read as usual

You wake up slowly, sunlight creeping through unfamiliar curtains. For a moment, disorientation fogs your mind. Then it clicks: Paige's room. Paige's bed. Paige’s sweatshirt draped over your shoulders, soft and impossibly warm. It smells like her—clean and fresh, a little bit like lavender, a little bit like something uniquely Paige.

Your eyes drift to the floor, and there she is, stretched out on her makeshift bed. Her face is half-buried in her pillow, hair spilled in golden waves, catching the light in a way that makes it hard to look away. There’s something unguarded about her, something soft and peaceful that tugs at a place deep in your chest.

She stirs, eyes fluttering open, and for a moment, they’re hazy, unfocused. Then they land on you. The corner of her mouth quirks up, and suddenly it feels like the morning itself is holding its breath.

“Hi,” she whispers, her voice still thick with sleep.

“Hi,” you whisper back, your own voice quieter than you expect.

Her gaze flickers to the sweatshirt, oversized and worn, hanging loosely on you. “You’re wearing my sweatshirt.”

“You gave it to me,” you say, feeling your cheeks warm.

"Looks better on you."

Her smile grows a little, and it’s devastating—soft and genuine, with just the faintest edge of teasing. Your heart stumbles, unsure whether to run away or fall forward.

She pushes herself upright, the blanket sliding off her shoulders. Her hair is a mess, and there’s a crease from the pillow on her cheek, and yet she still manages to make the simple act of waking up feel like poetry.

“I should, um, ” You start to move, unsure of where to go, just knowing the air between you feels suddenly electric.

"Wait," she says softly. You freeze, half-sitting.

Paige hesitates, like she’s searching for the right words, then sits on the edge of the bed. Her knee brushes yours lightly, and it sends a ripple of awareness through you. She’s close—so close you can see the faint freckles across her nose, the tiny scar just above her eyebrow, the way her eyes hold flecks of amber that catch the light.

“I just, ” She starts, then falters, her gaze dropping for a moment. When she looks back up, it lingers on your lips, just briefly, just enough to make your breath catch.

"Paige?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you going to kiss me?"

Her eyes widen slightly, and her breath hitches. “I was thinking about it.”

You lean forward just a fraction, feeling your pulse quicken. “Just thinking?”

“Well,” her voice drops to a near whisper, “I’m also thinking about how complicated this could get.”

Your heart pounds. “What else?”

“I’m thinking,” she leans in the tiniest bit closer, her lips nearly brushing yours, “about how none of that feels as important as this does right now.”

The tension between you is thick enough to drown in, and the world outside fades until it’s just her—the warmth of her body so close to yours, the hitch in her breathing, the slight tremble of her hand as she lets it rest near yours.

“So?” you murmur, your voice barely audible.

“So,” she says, her lips curving faintly, “I’m thinking I really want to kiss you.”

You reach out, your fingers brushing her wrist, and feel the quick, fluttering rhythm of her pulse. “Then why haven’t you?”

Her smile turns soft, almost nervous. “Because once I do, everything changes.”

“Maybe,” you whisper, leaning just close enough to feel her breath, “it already has.”

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s her, maybe it’s you, or maybe it’s both of you at once. But suddenly her lips are on yours, and the rest of the world ceases to exist.

The kiss is tentative at first, gentle and searching, like you’re both testing the waters of something impossibly fragile. Then her hand comes up to cup your face, her thumb brushing your cheek, and you melt into the touch, letting the moment deepen.

She sighs softly against your lips, a sound so intimate it makes your chest ache. Your hands slide into her hair, tangling in the soft strands, and she responds by kissing you harder, deeper.

It’s everything you didn’t know you needed. She tastes like hope and possibility and a thousand stolen glances finally realized. Your heartbeat feels like it’s trying to escape your chest, your breath comes faster, and all you can think is more, more, more.

When you finally pull apart, you’re both breathing hard. Her forehead rests against yours, her eyes still closed, and you feel the faintest smile ghost across her lips.

“Wow,” she whispers, her voice still shaky.

"Yeah," you manage, equally breathless.

She pulls back just enough to look at you, and the way she looks at you—soft, hopeful, like you’re something worth believing in—makes your heart stumble all over again.

“You okay?” she asks, her fingers brushing lightly against your cheek.

You laugh quietly, still trying to catch your breath. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while.”

“Yeah?” Her smile widens, playful now. “How long is a while?”

You hesitate, then grin sheepishly. “Remember that coffee story you posted?”

She groans, burying her face against your shoulder. “That long?”

“Maybe longer.”

You feel her smile against your skin, and she lifts her head to look at you again, her eyes sparkling. “So what you’re saying is I affect your perfect shot percentage?”

“Shut up.”

She laughs, and it’s warm and familiar, and before you can stop yourself, you’re kissing her again.

When you finally pull back, she’s grinning, looking thoroughly disheveled in the best way.

“Still think you affect my game?” you tease, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

“I don’t know,” she murmurs, her fingers trailing lightly against the collar of her sweatshirt you’re wearing. “Guess we’ll find out in March."

And there it is—the future neither of you wants to think about right now. But before you can spiral, she's kissing you again, soft and sure, like a promise.

"But that's not today," she whispers against your lips.

"No," you agree, pulling her closer. "It's not."

Outside, the campus is waking up. Soon you'll have to deal with reality—practice, teammates, the complicated dance of being rivals and whatever this is becoming. But right now, in the soft morning light of her room, with her lips on yours and her hands in your hair, there's only this:

The way she sighs your name.

The flutter of her pulse under your fingertips.

The feeling that maybe, just maybe, some things are worth the risk.

You kiss her again, and again, each one feeling like a new discovery. Like solving an equation you didn't know needed solving. Like hitting a shot you were always meant to make.

Perfect.

You meant to head back to your hotel after breakfast. Really. But then Paige asked if you wanted to see UConn's practice facility ("Just to check out the competition"), and suddenly you're walking into the most storied gym in women's basketball, her fingers brushing yours every few steps.

The team's already warming up when you enter. The balls stop bouncing one by one as players notice you. Even in practice gear—borrowed from Paige, which is definitely not making you feel things—you command attention.

"Well," a familiar voice echoes through the gym. "Look who decided to grace us with her presence."

Geno Auriemma. The legend himself.

"Coach," you nod respectfully.

He looks you up and down, that famous half-smile playing at his lips. "You know, when we tried to recruit you, I told your parents you'd look good in UConn blue."

"Still trying to recruit me, Coach?"

"Can you blame me?" He gestures to the banners overhead. “Though, word is you're making quite a legacy at Harvard."

You catch Paige trying not to smile. "Just trying to keep up with your squad, sir."

"Show us," he says suddenly. "What all the fuss is about."

The gym goes silent. Even the assistants stop what they're doing.

"Coach," Paige starts, but you're already grabbing a ball.

"Any particular spot?" you ask innocently.

Geno's eyes glint. "Surprise me."

You bounce the ball once, twice. The rhythm settles into your bones like it always does. The physics of it all unfolds in your mind—force vectors, arc trajectories, air resistance.

Then you close your eyes.

The gasps echo through the gym before the ball even hits the net. Perfect swish from half-court.

"Again," Geno says quietly.

You hit from the corner. From the logo. Behind the backboard. Each shot more impossible than the last, each one pure silk. The team's not even pretending to practice anymore, just watching in awe.

"One more," Geno calls out. “Make it interesting.” He calls you by your last name.

You lock eyes with Paige, and something passes between you. A challenge. A promise.

"Anyone want to play defense?" you ask.

The gym erupts. Five players step up immediately—all starters except Paige, who's watching you with something that makes your skin buzz.

"Five on one?" Geno raises an eyebrow. "Bold."

You just smile.

What happens next will probably end up on Twitter within the hour. You move like water through their defense, each dribble calculated, each step precise. A behind-the-back that sends Caroline spinning. A crossover that nearly breaks Tessa's ankles. By the time you rise up for the shot, the defense is scattered like bowling pins.

Nothing but net.

The gym explodes. Players are screaming, filming, shaking their heads in disbelief. But you only register Paige's expression—proud and hungry all at once.

"Happy?" you ask Geno.

He's trying not to look impressed. Failing. "You sure I can't convince you to transfer?"

"Sorry, Coach. My heart's already spoken for." Your eyes flick to Paige for a fraction of a second. "Harvard's home."

The practice continues, and somehow you get roped into running drills with them. It's surreal—playing alongside these girls instead of against them. Especially Paige. The way you move together on court, like you can read each other's minds, has even Geno shaking his head.

"God really did create a perfect basketball player," you hear him mutter after you and Paige execute a no-look give-and-go that ends in a reverse layup.

After practice, you're all sprawled on the court, exhausted but buzzing. Your head's in Paige's lap—friendly enough to seem casual, intimate enough to make your heart race. The team's arguing about dinner plans when your phone buzzes.

"Rocket," Sierra's text reads, "stop breaking ankles at UConn and call me. I need details 👀"

Paige reads it over your shoulder and laughs. Her fingers are playing absently with your hair, and you wonder if everyone can hear your heart pounding.

"You know," Caroline says thoughtfully, "you two are either gonna be the greatest rivalry in college basketball."

"Or?" Paige asks, her hand stilling in your hair.

Caroline grins. "Or something else entirely."

Later that night, back in Paige's room, the energy shifts. You're both aware that tomorrow you head back to Harvard. Back to being rivals instead of whatever this is.

"Stay," she whispers against your lips, and this time you don't even pretend to argue about sleeping arrangements.

Her bed is small, forcing you to tangle together, every point of contact electric. You talk in whispers even though there's no one to hear—about basketball, about dreams, about the way this thing between you feels both impossible and inevitable.

"What are we doing?" she asks softly, tracing patterns on your skin.

"Getting into trouble," you murmur back, but you're smiling.

She kisses you then, slow and deep, like she's trying to memorize the feel of it. Like she knows these moments are stolen, precious because they're forbidden.

"Worth it," she breathes against your mouth.

Her lips linger on yours, swollen and glistening from the fervent exchange, but it’s her hands that steal your breath entirely. One traces the curve of your hip, a teasing promise of what’s to come, while the other dips lower, testing the heat between your thighs. 

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” she murmurs, her voice low, husky, vibrating against your collarbone as she kisses her way down, each touch deliberate, reverent.

You can’t answer, not in words. The way your body arches into her touch, the hitch in your breath, the soft sound that escapes your lips—those are your answers, undeniable and raw.

“Good,” she breathes, her fingers curling around the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down slowly, almost torturously. The air feels cold against your bare skin, but then she’s there, her breath warm, her hands firm and sure as they spread your thighs wider.

The first press of her tongue is electric, like lightning racing up your spine. She moves with precision, her fingers parting you as her tongue explores every sensitive inch, coaxing moans from you that you didn’t know you could make. She hums in satisfaction, the vibrations adding another layer of pleasure that makes your hips buck against her.

“Stay still,” she murmurs, though the command is half-lost in the mess of you. Her hands grip your thighs, holding you in place as she dives deeper, her tongue swirling, teasing, her lips closing around your most sensitive spot to suck gently before flicking it again. The rhythm she sets is maddening, relentless, a perfect balance of pressure and pace.

Your hands find her hair, tangling in the golden waves as you try to ground yourself against the rising tide of sensation. She takes it as encouragement, slipping a finger inside you, then another, curling them just so, hitting a spot that makes your vision blur. She moans against you, the sound guttural and raw, and it’s too much, too good.

“Paige,” you gasp, her name a prayer, a plea, as you shatter beneath her, your body trembling, every nerve alight. She doesn’t stop, drawing out every last wave of your release until you’re panting, boneless, completely undone.

Her mouth lingers, slow and insistent, drinking in every gasp and tremor she pulls from you. Paige is relentless, her tongue working you with precision, her fingers curling just right inside you as if she’s memorized every little sound you make, every shift of your hips. When she finally eases up, her lips leaving a final, teasing kiss against your trembling heat, she doesn’t pull away completely. Instead, she slides up your body, her fingers tracing a path up your thighs, over your stomach, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

She’s grinning, a little smug, her lips glistening, her eyes dark and wild. “You know,” she murmurs, her voice low and rasping, “you’re so goddamn sexy when you play. The way you move… the way you take control.”

Her words are a spark, reigniting the fire already coursing through you. You pull her down, kissing her fiercely, tasting yourself on her tongue, a mix of sweetness and salt and Paige. It’s intoxicating, like she’s everywhere, filling every corner of your senses.

“I could say the same about you,” you breathe between kisses, your hands sliding under her shirt, finding the warmth of her skin. “The way you take the court, like it’s yours… fuck, Paige.”

Her laugh is low, breathy, against your lips. “Show me, then. Show me how much you like it.”

You flip her gently, taking her by surprise as she falls back against the sheets, her golden hair fanned out like a halo. She’s stunning, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted as she gazes up at you with a hunger that mirrors your own. You kiss her again, slower this time, savoring the way she melts under you, the way her body arches to meet yours, desperate for contact.

Your lips leave hers to trail down her jaw, her neck, the hollow of her collarbone. Each kiss draws a shiver from her, her hands gripping your back, nails digging into your skin as you take your time exploring her. You pull her shirt up and over her head, baring her to the soft light spilling through the window.

“God,” you murmur, your voice thick, your hands tracing the curve of her waist, the softness of her stomach, the strength in her arms. “You’re perfect.”

She groans softly, pulling you down to her, her legs tangling with yours. “Stop looking at me like that and do something about it.”

You grin, pressing a kiss just below her ear, then lower, your lips and tongue finding every sensitive spot as you work your way down. Her body responds to you like music, every sigh and gasp and moan drawing you further, making you crave more. When your lips finally find her, the sound she makes—half gasp, half cry—is enough to send a fresh wave of heat through you.

“Shit,” she whispers, her hips bucking against you as your tongue moves, deliberate and slow. Her hands tangle in your hair, pulling you closer, and you can feel the way her body shakes under your touch, her breath coming faster, her voice breaking as she pleads for more.

You give it to her, taking your time, savoring the way she falls apart for you, how her voice grows louder, her grip tighter, until she finally comes undone, her body trembling, her cries echoing in your ears like a song.

You kiss your way back up her body, slow and deliberate, her skin warm and flushed beneath your lips. When you reach her mouth, she pulls you into a kiss so deep it feels like she’s trying to claim you, her hands roaming over you, pulling you closer, needing you like air.

“I’m not done with you,” she murmurs, her voice rough but soft, her hands slipping between your thighs, finding you already aching for her again.

“Paige," you whisper, but she silences you with a kiss, her touch unrelenting as she presses you back into the sheets.

Her body moves against yours, perfectly in sync, her touch everywhere at once—gentle and firm, teasing and demanding. The world narrows to just her, the sound of her voice, the feel of her skin, the way her body feels pressed against yours as she takes you apart piece by piece, only to put you back together again with her hands, her lips, her love.

And when you both finally collapse, spent and tangled together, her head resting on your chest, the room feels impossibly still, the air thick with everything unsaid but understood. You stroke her hair absently, your breathing slowing, your heart still racing in tandem with hers.

“Still think I’m sexy when I play?” she teases softly, her voice muffled against your skin.

You laugh, pulling her closer. “I think you’re sexy all the time.”

Her lips curve against your chest in a satisfied smile. “Good. Because I’m never letting you forget it.”

Her breath evens out against your shoulder, her body soft and pliant as she molds herself to your side. The room is quiet now, save for the occasional rustle of the sheets and the distant hum of the campus stirring to life outside. You stroke her hair absentmindedly, the golden strands slipping like silk through your fingers, and she hums softly, her hand draped across your stomach, anchoring you to the moment.

But as the heat of the night begins to fade, something else creeps in—a faint, nagging ache in your chest that you can’t quite ignore. You close your eyes, trying to push it away, to focus on the rise and fall of her breath, the warmth of her skin against yours. But it’s there, stubborn and persistent: the thought of March, of bright lights and roaring crowds, of her on the other side of the court, no longer your lover but your rival.

She stirs, tilting her head up to look at you, her eyes soft and half-lidded, her lips swollen from your kisses. “What’s on your mind?” she murmurs, her voice thick with exhaustion and something sweeter.

You hesitate, your fingers stilling in her hair. “Just thinking.”

“About?” she prompts, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on your stomach.

“March,” you admit finally, your voice barely above a whisper. The word feels heavy in the quiet, like a pebble dropped into still water.

Her gaze sharpens slightly, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she shifts closer, pressing a kiss to your chest, just above your heart. “It’s just a game,” she says softly, but there’s something in her tone that tells you she knows it’s more than that.

You shake your head, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “Not to me. Not to you, either.”

She doesn’t deny it, her silence speaking louder than words. For a moment, you’re both quiet, the weight of what’s coming settling between you. It’s a strange, bittersweet ache—the knowledge that this, whatever it is, will be tested, challenged by the world beyond this room.

But then she lifts her head, her eyes locking with yours, and there’s something fierce in her gaze, something unshakable. “When we’re out there, I’ll play to win. You know that, right?”

“Of course,” you reply, your voice steady, even as your chest tightens. “And I’ll do the same.”

Her lips curve into a small, knowing smile, and she leans up to kiss you, slow and lingering, like she’s trying to hold onto this moment as tightly as you are. “Good,” she whispers against your lips. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

When she settles back down, her head resting on your chest once more, you let yourself relax, let the tension bleed away, if only for a little while. There’s still time before March, before the lights and the pressure and the impossible stakes. For now, there’s only her, her hand in yours, her body warm and safe against your own.

And as sleep begins to pull you under, you can’t help but think that whatever happens—whatever the game brings, whatever the world throws at you—it’ll be worth it. Because for all the risks, all the complications, all the things that might break you, there’s one thing you know for sure: she’s worth it. She always will be.

Sunday morning comes too fast, the sunlight pooling around you, unforgiving in its insistence that the world outside Paige’s room still exists. You stir under the blanket, her warmth pressed against your side, her hand resting on your stomach. You don’t want to move; if you’re honest, you don’t want the day to come at all.

She sighs softly in her sleep, her breath feathering against your shoulder, and it hits you again—how impossibly beautiful she looks like this, messy and undone, tangled in sheets that still carry the weight of last night. You turn your head slightly, pressing a kiss to her forehead, the act so natural it startles you.

Her eyes flutter open, hazy with sleep, but the corner of her mouth curves when she sees you. “Morning,” she murmurs, her voice rough and slow, like gravel wrapped in velvet.

“Morning,” you reply, your hand brushing the wild strands of hair from her face.

Neither of you moves, the silence stretching out, too fragile to break. But it’s there—the inevitable pull of the day, dragging you closer to the goodbye you’re not ready to say. You try to ignore it, try to focus on the way her fingers trace lazy circles on your skin, the way her body fits so perfectly against yours.

“Do you have to go?” she asks finally, her voice soft, but there’s a weight behind it, a quiet desperation that pulls at your chest.

You hesitate, because the truth feels too heavy to say out loud. “Jasmine’s waiting for me.”

She doesn’t argue, just presses her face into your neck, her breath warm against your skin. “Five more minutes.”

You laugh softly, your arms tightening around her. “We said that an hour ago.”

“And yet, here we are,” she teases, but her smile falters as she pulls back to look at you. “Stay.”

Her voice is a whisper, but it carries the force of a command, and for a moment, you’re tempted to throw everything to the wind. Forget Harvard, forget practice, forget the looming storm of March Madness. But reality claws at the edges of the moment, a reminder you can’t ignore.

“I can’t,” you say quietly, and it feels like the words cut both of you.

Her fingers tighten in the fabric of your (her) hoodie, and for a second, you think she’s going to argue, but instead, she leans up, her lips brushing yours in a kiss so soft it feels like it might shatter. It lingers, slow and tender, like she’s trying to memorize the feel of you, trying to hold onto something she knows she can’t keep.

When you finally pull away, her eyes are bright, a mix of emotions you can’t untangle. “Promise me something,” she says, her voice trembling slightly.

“Anything.”

“Don’t let this scare you,” she whispers. “Not what people think, not what’s coming. Don’t let it ruin this.”

You swallow hard, the weight of her words settling in your chest. “I won’t,” you say, and you mean it, even if you don’t know how.

She nods, her smile small but real, and when you kiss her one last time, it feels like a promise.

Later, as you stand in the doorway, your bag slung over your shoulder, the goodbye feels heavier than you expected. Paige leans against the doorframe, her hair a mess, her lips still pink from your kisses, and it takes everything in you not to turn back.

“Text me when you get home,” she says, her attempt at casual missing by miles.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice tight. “I will.”

You make it three steps before you stop, turning back. She’s still there, still watching, and you close the distance in two strides, your lips meeting hers in one last, desperate kiss. When you pull away, her hand lingers on your arm, and for a moment, you’re certain you’ll never want anything as much as you want her.

“Bye,” you whisper, and it feels like the hardest word you’ve ever said.

“Bye, Rocket,” she replies, her smile bittersweet.

You leave before you can change your mind, the burning in your chest growing stronger with every step. The train ride back to Harvard is a blur, your mind replaying every moment, every touch, every stolen glance. By the time you walk into your apartment, Sierra is already waiting, her face lighting up with a mix of excitement and disbelief when she sees you.

But you barely hear her questions, barely register Jasmine showing you the Twitter feeds and SportsCenter highlights. All you can think about is Paige—her laugh, her touch, the way she said your name like it was something sacred.

And as you lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, you can’t shake the thought that March is coming too fast. The court will be the same, the stakes higher than ever, but everything feels different now. Because you know, deep down, that every pass, every drive, every shot will carry the weight of her eyes on you, her voice in your head, her heart in your hands.

And you can’t decide if that makes you stronger—or breaks you completely.

Monday’s practice doesn’t do you any favors. You walk in wearing a neutral hoodie—because you’re not that reckless—but Coach Matthews still gives you a pointed once-over.

“Nice sweatshirt,” she says, her tone dry as Arizona in July.

You open your mouth to deny, deflect, anything—but Sierra beats you to it. “She’s just branching out,” she quips, smirking. “UConn blue really brings out her eyes.”

You’re going to kill her. Slowly. Later. For now, you bury yourself in drills, sinking three after three like muscle memory is your only salvation. Except it’s not, because every damn movement feels like Paige. The way she drives to the basket. The way her passes always find the perfect angle. The way her eyes tracked you during that stupid, unforgettable practice.

The team, bless their nosy little hearts, doesn’t let up either. “Is it true you took on UConn’s starting five?” one asks.

“Did Geno actually try to steal you? Again?”

“Are you and Paige…?”

You hit another three, harder than necessary, and stalk to the water cooler. Sierra sidles up, because of course she does.

“Hey,” she says, not unkindly. “You good?”

“Define good,” you reply, sarcasm sharp enough to cut.

Sierra, annoyingly perceptive, just shrugs. “The team’s just curious. You’re their golden girl, and now you’re maybe-sorta-kinda in love with your biggest rival. It’s a lot.”

“I’m not—” you start, but your phone lights up, and your face does the thing again. The soft, stupid, smiley thing.

“Sure,” Sierra says, smirking. “Keep telling yourself that.”

The texts come later that night. Paige, as usual, doesn’t mince words.

so, how much trouble are we in?

You smirk at your phone, typing back.

none, if you keep your team’s mouths shut.

i can handle them. Can you handle yours?

You glance at Sierra’s empty room, Jasmine’s closed door.

yeah. for now.

Three dots. Then:

good. because i’m not letting this go.

The words make your chest ache, in a good way. In a dangerous way. But for now, it’s just a secret. A sweatshirt in your bag, a name on your screen, a quiet understanding that some things are better kept out of the spotlight.

And if the storm comes anyway? You’ll handle it when it does. Together.

The train hums beneath you, steady and rhythmic, a backdrop to the swirling haze of your thoughts. The sweatshirt Paige gave you is folded neatly on your lap, its scent still faintly there—lavender, sharp cedar, and something else that you can’t quite name but know you’d recognize in a heartbeat.

You should be sleeping. Or staring out the window at the blurred winter landscape, pretending to be reflective and moody, but instead, you’re staring at your phone like a lovesick teenager. Which, technically, you are.

Her last text sits at the top of the screen, smug in its simplicity. 

miss you already. text me when you get home.

You’ve read it so many times, the words have started to blur. Miss you already. Like you’re something worth missing. Like the weekend hadn’t just been everything.

The old lady across the aisle glances at you, her eyebrows furrowing like she can smell the heart eyes from her seat. You flip your phone facedown and pretend to be fascinated by the guy three rows ahead eating a tuna sandwich like it’s his last meal. Anything to stop replaying the way Paige had kissed you goodbye—slow, deep, like she was trying to memorize it.

But then the phone buzzes again, and you’re quick, too quick, fumbling it upright.

also, if you don’t tell Sierra where you were this weekend, i will. and I’ll make it sound worse than it was. or better. depends on the mood i’m in.

You snort, the sound startling the old lady. Her scowl deepens. You type back without thinking:

what, you’re not gonna give me a chance to come up with a good lie?

The reply is instant.

you’re terrible at lying, rocket. stick to shooting.

It’s not fair, how easily she does this—makes you grin like an idiot in the middle of a public space. The train announces your stop, the crackling intercom pulling you out of whatever spell Paige had you under, and you tuck your phone away, the sweatshirt pressed tightly under your arm.

Sierra greets you with a smirk and a raised eyebrow when you walk into the apartment. “You look disgustingly happy.”

“I am happy,” you reply, trying to fight the smile creeping up your face.

“That’s what worries me.” She leans against the counter, studying you. “How was your little rivalry trip?”

“Fine,” you say, brushing past her and heading for your room.

She laughs. “Fine. Sure. Whatever you say, Rocket.”

Inside your room, you toss your bag onto the bed and pull out your phone. Paige’s name stares back at you from the screen, your last conversation still open. You hesitate, wondering if texting too soon makes you seem clingy, then roll your eyes at yourself and type:

made it back. already miss that sweaty gym smell.

Her reply comes almost instantly.

liar. you loved it. miss you more.

You can’t help the stupid grin that spreads across your face, the warmth it brings despite the cold draft creeping through your window. This feels easy. Natural. Like she’s right there with you instead of miles away in Storrs.

You slide onto your bed, fingers poised to type something clever back, but instead, you pause. The sweatshirt is still in your lap, soft and worn, and you tug it over your head without thinking. It’s oversized, hanging loose on your frame, but it feels good. It feels like her.

Your phone buzzes again, and you glance at the screen.

don’t sleep in my hoodie. you’ll ruin it.

You snort, typing back:

already wearing it.

Her reply is almost instant:

figures. good night, rocket. dream of me.

always.

You don’t realize you’ve fallen asleep until your alarm wakes you the next morning, the phone still clutched in your hand and Paige’s name still glowing on the screen.

For the first week, it’s effortless. Every day feels like an extension of that weekend—texts flying back and forth, calls that stretch into the early hours of the morning, your voices sleepy but refusing to let go. She sends you pictures of her sneakers (“new kicks, who dis”), blurry photos of her teammates making dumb faces in the locker room, even a video of her crossing up some poor freshman in practice.

You match her energy, sending her memes, complaining about your coursework, telling her about that one teammate who still can’t figure out a basic pick-and-roll.

It’s easy. Comfortable. Like you’ve been doing this forever.

But then, somewhere in the second week, the rhythm falters.

It’s a Thursday afternoon when you notice it. You’re sitting in the library, a half-empty coffee cup on the desk beside you, when you send her a text.

kill it at practice today?

It takes her three hours to reply.

was okay. tired. you?

You frown at the screen, rereading her words. The response is fine. Normal. But there’s something about it—something flat, like the energy isn’t there.

good. the usual drills. i think Coach is trying to kill us.

This time, the reply comes quicker.

lol. sounds about right.

You stare at the message, waiting for more. A joke, a question, anything. But nothing else comes.

By the end of the week, her texts are starting to feel uneven. Some days, she’s herself again—sending you goofy pictures, teasing you about your shooting form, calling you late at night just to hear your voice. But other days, she’s distant. Replies come slower, shorter, like she’s preoccupied with something she won’t tell you.

You don’t want to push. You know how grueling the season can be, how exhausting the constant practices and travel schedules are. But the unease lingers, settling in your chest like a stone.

One night, you call her. It’s late, almost midnight, and you’ve been staring at the ceiling for an hour, your thoughts too loud to ignore.

The phone rings once. Twice. Three times.

Her voicemail picks up.

You hang up without leaving a message, tossing your phone onto the nightstand with more force than necessary.

The next morning, you wake up to a text from her:

sorry, fell asleep. long day. Miss you, rocket.

The words feel like a balm, soothing the ache from the night before. You tell yourself not to overthink it, to let it go.

But then it happens again.

A missed call. A delayed reply. Another vague excuse.

You start keeping track without meaning to. Three unanswered texts this week. Two missed calls. A growing list of reasons you tell yourself not to be upset:

She’s busy.

She’s tired.

It’s nothing.

By the fourth week, you’ve stopped texting her first. Not because you’re angry, but because you’re tired. Tired of the one-word replies, the half-hearted conversations, the way she always seems just out of reach.

She doesn’t notice. Or maybe she does, and she just doesn’t care.

Either way, the silence grows.

Then, the video hits Twitter on a Tuesday morning.

You’re in Advanced Orbital Mechanics, half-listening as Professor Dillard drones on about transfer orbits and delta-v calculations. His voice is a flat monotone, the kind that barely registers after twenty minutes, but you keep your pen moving, scribbling half-legible equations in your notebook. The classroom is dimly lit, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, and the faint smell of coffee and dry-erase markers clings to the air.

Your phone buzzes once, a sharp vibration against the desk. Then twice. Then again, the rhythm insistent. A few heads turn toward you, their eyes flicking briefly to the offending noise before returning to their own notes. You glance down at the screen, expecting to see the usual: Sierra sending a TikTok link she swears will “change your life,” or Jasmine reminding everyone about the next team meeting.

Instead, the notifications pile up faster than you can track.

Sierra: "don’t check twitter."

Jasmine: "rocket baby i’m so sorry."

Your stomach tightens, unease clawing at your chest. The buzzes don’t stop. One after another, messages flood in—texts from teammates, old friends, people you haven’t spoken to in years. The words blur together, overlapping until they’re nothing but noise.

The team group chat is a wildfire.

"Holy shit"

"Is that really...?"

"When was this?"

"Someone needs to check on Rocket."

You flip your phone over, trying to focus on Dillard’s lecture, but the vibration rattles against the desk, relentless. Finally, you give in, unlocking the screen with shaking fingers.

Twitter opens slowly, the loading circle spinning like it’s mocking you. The first thing you see is the video—top of your feed, trending already.

You don’t want to press play.

But you do.

The footage is shaky, the kind of video that screams “someone was not supposed to be recording this.” The lighting is dim, music pulsing faintly in the background, and it only takes a second for your stomach to drop. You know this place. You know that party. A UConn team event.

You see Paige and Azzi in a dark corner, laughing together. It’s innocent at first—until it isn’t. Azzi’s hand finds Paige’s waist. Paige leans in, her fingers tangling in Azzi’s hair. The way they look at each other—intimate, familiar. Like you’re not even a memory.

And then they’re kissing.

Not a first kiss. Not a hesitant, drunken mistake. This kiss is something else entirely—familiar, practiced.

The caption is almost worse than the video.

"The Prince has found her Princess? 👀 @azzi_35 @paigebueckers"

The phone slips from your hands and lands on the desk with a muted thud. The air feels like it’s been sucked out of the room. The noise draws a glance from the girl sitting next to you, but you don’t meet her eyes. You can’t.

You’re The Prophecy. You’re unshakable. But right now, you’re just a girl who loved someone who made it look so easy to love someone else.

The lecture continues in the background, but it might as well be static. Your mind races, replaying the video in an endless loop, each frame sharper than the last. The way Paige had smiled. The way Azzi had leaned in. The way Paige hadn’t stopped her.

The phone buzzes again.

Sierra: “Where are you? Are you okay?”

Jasmine: “Talk to us, Rocket. Please.”

You don’t reply. You can’t.

Instead, you pack your things in a blur, shoving your notebook and pens into your bag with trembling hands. The professor’s voice follows you to the door, droning on about escape velocity, but you’re already gone.

You don’t cry. The Prophecy doesn’t cry.

Instead, you go to the only place that’s ever made sense: the gym.

The air outside is cold, sharp, biting against your skin as you make your way across campus. You barely notice it. Everything feels muffled, like you’re moving through a fog, the world blurred at the edges. The weight in your chest anchors you, pulling you forward.

The door slams behind you, the echo bouncing off the walls and rattling through the empty bleachers. You don’t bother with the lights. Don’t need them. You’ve made these shots in your sleep.

The air is stale, a mix of old sweat and the faint bite of disinfectant. It settles in your lungs, heavy but familiar. The ball rack sits in its usual spot, the leather scuffed and worn, the only constant thing in a world that’s suddenly upside down.

You grab the first ball you touch, its surface cool and rough under your fingertips. You spin it once, testing the weight. It feels right. Solid.

Your sneakers squeak against the floor as you step to the free-throw line. You take a breath, chest tight, and focus on the rim—a faint outline in the shadows.

Release. Swish.

The sound cuts through the dark, clean and sharp. You grab another ball, your movements quick, automatic. No time to think. Thinking is dangerous.

This time, you picture Paige. Her smile, the way she looked at Azzi in the video—like you weren’t even a memory.

Release. Swish.

Another ball. Her hand in Azzi’s hair. The way they leaned into each other like it was easy. Like it was nothing.

Another ball. Paige laughing, Azzi’s arm around her waist.

Release. Swish.

The way Paige looked at her, like she was her world. Release. Swish.

You move faster, grabbing ball after ball from the rack, launching them with more force each time. Each shot lands clean, cutting through the dark air with sharp precision. The physics is still there, but now it’s powered by something darker. Something raw and jagged.

Release. Swish.

Release. Swish.

Release. Swish.

Your chest heaves, breath shallow, heart pounding against your ribs. You’re not even looking at the rim anymore, just firing into the darkness. Each shot is a missile, and the target is the knot of anger and heartbreak lodged deep inside you.

The rhythm becomes hypnotic: swish, bounce, swish, bounce.

And then it happens.

A memory hits you mid-shot: Paige sitting on the bleachers, chin in her hand, watching you practice. The way she smiled that first time she said, "God, you’re perfect."

Your fingers slip, the ball leaving your hands wrong. You know it immediately. The rotation’s off, the arc’s too flat. For the first time in 1,147 shots, The Prophecy misses.

The clang of the rim is deafening in the stillness.

You freeze. The ball rolls to a stop somewhere in the shadows.

Then something inside you cracks wide open.

The scream tears out of you before you can stop it—raw, guttural, primal. It echoes through the gym, bouncing back at you like the sound of your own heartbreak mocking you. 

The rack of balls goes flying as you shove it over, the sound of them scattering across the court like stars. You’re on your knees before you realize it, fists pounding against the hardwood, your throat raw, your vision blurring with something you promised yourself you wouldn’t feel.

"Rocket!"

The voice barely registers. Then hands are on your shoulders, pulling you back. You twist, trying to break free, but then you hear it again.

"I’ve got you," Sierra whispers. Her arms wrap around you, holding you steady as you shatter into pieces.

Jasmine is there too, her hands stroking your hair, her voice soft and soothing. “We’re here,” she murmurs. “We’ve got you.”

"She—" your voice cracks, breaking apart like glass. "They—"

"We know," Jasmine murmurs, pulling you closer. "We know, baby. It’s okay."

"I missed," you choke out, the words hollow and broken. "I never miss."

Sierra pulls back just enough to cup your face, forcing you to meet her eyes. "You’re allowed to miss," she says firmly. "You’re allowed to break. You’re allowed to be human."

"But The Prophecy—"

"Fuck The Prophecy," Jasmine says fiercely, her voice steady as a rock. "Right now, you’re just our girl, and you’re hurting, and that’s okay."

The words hit you like a lifeline, and finally, you let yourself collapse into them. You let the tears come, let them see the raw, vulnerable part of you that’s been hidden for so long. They hold you there on the court where you’ve been perfect, where you’ve made history, where you just missed for the first time because someone you loved broke your heart.

Later, they’ll help you to your feet. They’ll walk you home. They’ll make sure you eat, sleep, and breathe, even when it feels impossible.

Later, Paige will blow up your phone:

“please let me explain."

“it’s not what you think."

“i never meant to hurt you."

Later, you’ll pick yourself up and turn this pain into something sharper, something unbreakable.

But right now, in the dark gym, in the arms of your best friends, you let yourself break. You let yourself be human. You let yourself feel everything you’ve been trying to calculate away.

Because some things are perfect until they break.

And some things are stronger after breaking.

Proceed to the next part.

[pbnbucks]

Can you do another Paige X Nika X Reader where the reader gets punished please

word count : 1.5k

warnings : cussing, smut, straight filth.

summary : fem flirts with aubrey as a joke.

you and aubrey where on the couch with your hand pinching aubreys cheek as you tell her how she looks like a cute little baby. what you didn’t know was nika and paige watched behind your kitchen island silently observing the interaction.

“yup, very cute isnt she y/n, sorry aubrey but y/n has a bunch of homework to do, isnt that right?” you quietly agree with paige knowing it had nothing to with that, as her unapologetic tone made it clear.

aubrey side eyed you as if she knew what was going on, knowing that as soon the door closed behind her, the twins would be all on you. which she was right because when she left they both looked at you as if you where to step on a puppy’s paw.

“so what the fuck was that all about huh?” nikas defensive town throwing you off as you saw no wrong in what you did. they both where on edge all days assuming it was just there breaking point.

you didn’t take them serious as you shrugged them off leaving them standing alone in the living room which pissed them of more because they stayed on your trail following right behind you into the bedroom.

“fucking answer me” she held you tight to her sizing you down as she had your back pressed against your stomach while her hands laid on your hips. her breath hitched feeling it run down your neck making your back arch at the feeling.

“nika it was nothing and you know that.” nika did know it, but she couldnt help it. paige too, they both would go to war for you and it helped you sleep at night knowing they’re here for the thick and thins.

“get on the bed and strip” nika wouldn’t let her dominant wall fall as she lightly pushed you down on the silk sheets as her large hand pressed down on your lower stomach. nika left to the closet and you knew exactly why.

paige looked at your body with no emotion as her soft fingers tugged at your clothing leaving you in nothing, smiling at the sight of your perky nipples and your semi wet clit as your cunt clenched around air needy for their touch.

“not yet baby, just wait.” paige coos before removing her clothes as well and pushing you to your knees. her wet core sitting in front of you looking up for her approval before gaining it.

with that your lips attached to her clit, swirling her sensitive bundle of nerves with your tongue as her seductive moans filled your thoughts turning you on by the second. nika returned with the pink strap in her right hand with a vibrator in her left hand.

she placed the vibrator next to paige on the bed as her dark pupils looked at you. your tried to ignore her focusing on pleasing paige as your hair was pulled into a make shift ponytail by nika pushing your face closer into paiges core.

“open wider, i can’t see how pretty she looks eating you out” nika practically was drooling at the sight of you both. you watched as nikas lips attached to paige as they both ran their hands roaming each others bodys. nika pulled away grasping for air as her glare returned to you.

“feels so fucking good” paige whined tugging at your hair as her world comes crashing down. her legs tensed around your head as her back arched shoving her sopping cunt closer to you as her juices smeared all over your chin.

“yeah? gonna cum? gonna give it to her paige?” nika adding fuel to paige reaching for her orgasm, with nikas help paiges liquids came down spilling out of her cunt as you licked every bit of her up swallowing what was left over.

“such good fucking girls.” nika coos pulling you to your feet pushing you harshly on your stomach right next to paiges fucked out body before she quickly put her strap on. she flipped you on to your back as paige rolled over to you pressing the pad of her finger harshly on your clit.

you grunt at the feeling which was soon cut off by nika thrusting into your tight cunt breaking through your tense walls that gripped on to the silicone. you reached for her arm to stable yourself only for them to be pinned above your head as her head dipped into the crook of your neck peppering kisses.

“such a fucking slut” she sounded a whisper that was stern before coming back from your neck to look you in your eyes. you tried to kiss her only for her to pull away denying it still obviously upset, which made you whine by her actions. you felt paiges hand run from your clit up to your perky tits teasing your nipples as she circled them with her tongue.

“nika please, kiss me. im so fucking sorry” your embarrassing whines a begs for the girl that is so clearly obsessed with you who’s now punishing your for the most unnecessary thing. paige who was quick to speak up for your grinning with a wide smile plastered across her gorgeous face.

“c’mon, she’s asking you to kiss her so nicely” paige teased earning a glare from nika before moving her head but your sensetive buds planting kisses in your upper breast before pressing your breast against her horny face.

“she doesn’t deserve it and she fucking knows it” nika growled as her free hand came to your lower stomach pressing down on the spot she saw bulging up with each thrust making your walls clench around her cock.

you tried to push her away with your feet only for her hands to be replaced with your thighs as she slapped your inner thigh unpleased with your actions as the pleasuring feeling become to much sending your mind blank with slutty thoughts.

“keep going, you don’t deserve a break" her tone seductive but loving echoed throughout practically the whole building. your crys as her hips met yours burning your sensitive skin with each thrust.

“would aubrey ever fuck you like this princess?” nika trying to push you over the edge to your breaking point, knowing you could do so much better for her, except you were brain rotted with her cock unable to do anything.

“not even fucking close nika” you felt your walls clench around her, while the burning not in your stomach formed pulling closer to your release, while it didn’t slip past nika noticing your actions right away.

“doing so good for me baby" you whined at her words while she continuously pulled you down her toy while your hands roamed over her toned abs leaving you start struck with her gorgeous body as she hovered over you fucking you relentlessly into the bed.

“need to cum so fucking bad nika” you knew with nika it wouldn’t be easy to convince her that easy to let you off without a punishment, you knew she would make you work for it. as with paige she was the obvious nicer one always letting you have your way as long as you gave her the pretty fuck me eyes.

“going to have to beg for it baby.” her words not suprising you but some what annoying you as you didnt want her to think she was in the right about the punishment. you decided to try and tick her off by not taking her serious.

“please nika i need it” paige laughed at your dry response bringing her finger to your clit rubbing slow sweet circles on your bundle of nerves that desperately needed a break from nikas assault on your cunt.

“unt unt, you can do better then that pretty” nika noticing the shift in your mood as you continued to try and edge her on. her rapid pace was a good fit in your cunt as she filled your needy pussy up.

“nika please im so fucking sorry, i need to cum all over you. please” with your attitude not falling as the words practically came out of your ass, because you would do anything you needed to for your pleasure and release.

“good girl, go on. cum on mommy’s cock” her words where music to your ears when you let your liquids spill out and coat the silicone as you chased your release slightly fucking yourself back on to her.

“you going to play in our faces again?” she grabbed your chin holding your face to her as her words sent a shock as she left you empty and in your high as you weren’t expecting her to cut it that short leaving you without cuddles but instead replacing it with a kiss.

“how could this pretty face ever do that?” paige squishing your cheeks together as if you where a toddler, then giving you sweet soft kisses as nika rolled her eyes at you to while you both continued to make fun of her.

[arlertwhore]

pairing: caitlin clark x fem! reader

synopsis: driver, roll up the partition please! — limo sex w loml cc!

warning(s): 18+/nsfw, strap, riding, nipple sucking, clit play, cait is lit the most encouraging girlfriend. word count: 412. Author Note: the clark cravings have been SO intense, i am actually in-love with cait & she is my wife but there's barely good smut fics of her so girly had to come out of hiatus and find this in the vault #cclover4L

"Bounce on it, pretty girl," she whispered against your neck, her long fingers teasing your sensitive clit, driving you wild.

Driving you indeed is Cait's personal driver, who has rolled up the partition at Cait's discreet request. You already know that means to settle on her expansive lap, perfectly shaped and just for you.

You're straddling her, her strap buried snugly in your cunt, little dress hiked up around your waist, and her breath hot against your neck, marking you up so nobody else thinks about how hot you are and tries to get with you tonight at the event. "Too much, C—I-I—fuck..!" you gasp, faltering into her arms as Caitlin hugs you tightly, her hips thrusting into your aching cunt—filling you thoroughly.

"What’d I tell you, baby?" she breathes, thrusts growing more urgent and insistent as she leans closer, "Hm?"

"I can do anything I put my mind to," you reply with determination.

"Good girl... you fuckin' love it when I call you that, right?" she murmurs, and you nod, eager to kiss her as a thank you—Cait teaches you to always show your gratitude. She pulls away, eyes sparkling with a question. "Can you do something for me, babe?"

You nod in agreement. "Can you cum for me? Can you put your mind to that?"

You tilt your face up. "Yeah, I—I wanna give you my cum, Cait, keep fucking me," you plead breathlessly.

She clutches your waist with her big hands, pulling you down hard like a fucktoy. "Like that, princess? Wanna tell me what you're gonna do on my dick?"

Your hands clench her button-down shirt, and within seconds, it's peeled down accidentally to reveal her tits, firm and inviting. You lean forward to lick at them. "I'm gonna cum, Caity..."

"On what, baby, on what? Tell me, gorgeous, c'mon, I wanna hear it." she moans softly, her eyes focalled in on the sight of your tongue pleasing her, both of you neglecting the thought of your driver.

"O-on you—on your dick."

You gasp, and her hands slide back down to your ass, gripping it firmly as she bounces you. "Do it, then."

You do, body shuddering and moans silenced by your mouth against her tits, trembling and sucking uncontrollably. You're almost scrambling to get off her, overstimulated, but Cait is quick to pull you back down, her voice low and steady, "It's a long drive."

And subsequently, it seems it's going to be an even longer ride. MASTERLIST

AUTHOR NOTE #2: please tell me you understood the "longer ride" LMAO, i love my cheeky lil endings i think it rly makes this blog THIS blog yk? speaking of this blog, thank you for 1.2k?! i promise u i was lit just doing this for fun i can't believe yall mfs rly care but ty anyway <33!! inbox me, message me, reply idk i like to force y'all to interact w me lol. bye!

[amesul]

(BLURB) k. martin

► sum. just a blurb of ur girlfriend eating you out/edging you

wc. 405.

warnings. eating out, kinky, dirty talk, overstim, warnings you see in every smut fic

an. first kate blurb… which means im a new kate writer! ive been having that crave to write fics about k because shes so fine and hella underrated still, also beware of how nasty this might be??? just enjoy while ur reading ^^

(practicing my smut skills too)

•••

was it the fact that you couldn’t even gasp? or was it the wet tongue cramming across your entrance that made you feel like you couldn’t gasp?

you couldn’t decide, not when when kate hummed a small, “you taste so..” muffled and faded as she ate you opened, in a reverie and determination to keep you crying her name.

she had you messy.

tears found their path to the bed you found trouble laying on now, the hostile thrusting into your sweet g spot had you arching into her touch.

“roll those hips perfect for me sweetheart,” she murmured, her nose pecking ur clit due to ur tremor motions, “just like that.”

her sexy tone didn’t help your attempt to calm down, only moaning out a cry as you clutch the dirty blonde hair buried in between your sweaty thighs, earning a sigh from kate as she messaged your hips softly; unlike her tongue ramming into you.

it was embarrassing how soaked you were, each time kate slurped you like a slushy, both of you could hear the sound of your juices getting swollen from kate like fresh water.

that was until she lifted you up, laying on her back as she desperately pulled you over to her neck, and then her face.

“fuck!” you moaned, kate already tugging at your spongy clit in a hurried manner. her nails rubbing against your ass in circles slowly, pulling you the slightest closer towards her.

she hummed, twisting her tongue inside you, tilting her head subtly with every inch of audacity to make her pussy beg to cum.

your hands found free sitting on the headboard, trying to keep your back straightened just when kate’s thumb abraded promptly against ur nerving clit, causing you to try to pull away from the torture

but you knew a simple push wasn’t enough.

you knew too well when her grip taunted, a low growl perceiving as she provoked more force into the small, very small and fast circles running around ur bud.

“the fuck you doin’?” kate chuckled, subtly shaking her head in disappointment, “kate! too m-much” you cried out, eyes rolling back as she just hummed, her tongue making sweet contact with your g spot brutally. you were ready to let everything go.

til you felt a hault.

“cmon, ride me now” kate insisted hot against ur core, kissing it politely before backing you down to her lap.

an. any tips would be appreciated!!!

[delusional-day-dreamer]

So High School Part¹- k.m

‣ kate martin x celebrity reader (inspired fully by @ellienator)

‣ wc: 1216

‣‣ synopsis: reader, who has been famous all her life (think mckenna grace or peyton elizabeth lee), reveals her celebrity crush in a Vanity Fair interview with close friend, Sabrina Carpenter.

‣‣‣ a/n: pre write: i'm so obsessed with the wcbb x celebrity trope, also sorry it’s so long but i wanted to use this fic to practice writing more dialogue! after: i started around one a.m. and somehow finished this at almost FOUR AM after writing non-stop... (IT WOULDN'T LET ME UPLOAD THIS, I TRIED LIKE TWENTY TIMES)

"I swear to god, you have to stop touching your hair y/n," my manager, Alyssa, looked up from her phone just to scold me for the second time in the last twenty minutes.

"I'm sorry but I literally cannot help it right now Lyss, you don't understand how nervous I am for this," I insisted to her. "I'm so stupid, out of all the men AND women in the entire celebrity pool world wide, why did I have to say that Kate freaking Martin was my celebrity crush," I whine, albeit childishly, while squirming in the leather seats of our limo.

Three Weeks Ago

"Hi my name is Y/N L/N, and today I am here with Vanity Fair with the one and only..." You introduced yourself to the camera before gesturing to the woman next to you, one of your closest childhood friends.

"Sabrina Carpenter! And today we are going to be testing out a little lie detector test," After growing up on Disney sets together and respectively journeying out of the acting industry into music, you and Sabrina had only grown closer over the years you had known each other.

As the proctor introduces how the interview will go, Sabrina volunteers you to be in the hot seat first, and with some small bickering, you relent.

"So let's start of small just to test it out you know, how old are you?" Sabrina asks you from the other end of the table.

"I actually just turned 23 years old," you respond calmly, happy that your friend was taking it slow. With the proctor's approval, the two of you move on with the questioning.

SMALL TIME SKIP

"What is your biggest ick in a relationship? Wait I think we've talked about this before right?" Sabrina animatedly asks, eager to hear you response.

"No yea we definitely have, but the thing is for me," you start, "I don't have a type, like at all. Man, woman, celebrity, athlete, a totally regular person, I don't really care. To me, if you're attractive then you're attractive right?" Sabrina nodded in agreement to your statement. "So it's not often I get icked out, however, my biggest and literal immediate turn-off is when they start being overwhelmingly jealousy or being possessive about me, even like just being overbearing about my every move is an immediate no for me. It's honestly why I've been single for a while now," You respond thoroughly.

It was no secret to your fans that you were bisexual, considering your last very public relationship was with a woman.

"That's honestly such a valid ick, like if you think you own me then please escort yourself out that's honestly so gross," Sabrina piggybacks off your answer. "But I'm dying to ask and there's no way you expected me to not ask you this question, but, you've been a single lady for quite some time now," Sabrina teases, wiggling her eyebrows repeatedly at you.

"Oh no, I know where you're going with this," You complain, already beginning to feel a flush rising in your face.

"Do you have your eyes on anybody right now? Specifically, do you currently have a celebrity crush?" Sabrina asks you with the widest, most smug shit-eating grin on her face as she watches the blush begin to form on your cheeks.

"Yes I do," you mumble, rolling your eyes at your friend in the process.

"Who is it?" She pushes, knowing that once she asked, you basically had no choice but to answer according to the interview rules.

"Dude that's so not fair I don't wanna tell the entire internet that," you protest weakly.

"Come on! It's not even that big of a deal, besides you're super hot, I'm sure she'll be flattered," Sabrina insisted to you while trying to hold back her grin.

"Sab!" You groan as her big mouth reveals the gender of your crush, automatically giving away part of their identity.

"Oh shoot sorry," She quickly apologizes, covering her mouth with the interview question card in her hand. "But like, you're gonna tell them who it is either way so I'm not sure it matters," She adds in slyly, reveling in the red flush that had now visibly engulfed the entirety of your face.

"Okay fine whatever, it's Kate Martin," you mumble under your breath looking down at your shoes, attempting to escape the embarrassment burning inside of you.

"No that's definitely cheating, you have to actually say her name," Sab giggled at the state you were in.

"Oh my gosh fine," you exclaimed while waving your face with a paper from the desk, trying to lessen the appearance of the blush on your face. "It's Kate Martin alright? She plays basketball at the University of Iowa, has just declared for the WNBA Draft, and she's incredibly attractive, so literally sue me." You end the mini rant with both hands in the air, embarrassed and mildly annoyed at the fact that your friend had coaxed you into admitting your crush.

Sabrina laughed in delight, smacking her hand excitedly on the table in front of you to in response to your confession.

"OH MY GOSH, OH MY GOSH, tell me you've seen the edits of her on tiktok because there's no way you don't have any favorited or saved on your phone," Sabrina wheezed through her bout of laughter.

"Obviously I've seen them but I haven't favorited any of them," you defended weakly.

"That's a lie," the proctor informed you two, which sent Sabrina into a second round of wheezing laughs.

"NO WAY, how many? Like a hundred? Two hundred? More than that?" She exclaimed, somehow managing to tease you while still being out of breath with laughter.

"Like two or three maybe, like at most," You lied, despite knowing that they would find out.

"Still lying," the proctor slightly smiled, only furthering Sabrina's howling laughter to the point she nearly fell out of her chair.

"My god, you could at least pretend to be a little less overjoyed at this," you grumbled, attempting and failing to hide the giggles beginning to spill out of you at the sound of your friend's infectious laughter. You eventually gave up on trying to pretend being annoyed and joined Sab with her maniacal laughing, unable to control yourselves for the next few minutes.

"I hope you realize I'm so getting you back for that," You teased Sabrina as the two of you switched seats to continue the second half of the interview, your questions and Sabrina's answers.

END OF FLASHBACK

"Y/n it's not even that big of a deal, you just said she was attractive, it's not like you professed your deep-profound love for her," Alyssa insisted.

"I practically admitted to favoriting tiktok edits of her Alyssa, I'm literally doomed," you sighed dramatically leaning your head to the cool glass of the limo window.

"Yea well," Alyssa began, texting on her phone once again, "You're just gonna have to put on your big girl pants and deal with it because we're almost there and they wanna interview you on the red carpet and right when you enter the theater, and it’s quite literally the WNBA Draft, so there's no way they're not gonna bring up Kate," she informed you.

"I'm actually gonna die," you declare.

Thanks for reading all the way through! I'll be coming out with part two very soon!!

[caitified]

Hi can you please try to do Paige x reader wife. Where in they both want to have kids so they do IVF and after a year of trying reader is finally pregnant and Paige is so thrilled. Also, can it please be like first trim, second trim, and last trim until she gives birth? I hope you try this one out please. Thank you so much! And I just want to say how I love your witting!🩷

beginning

paige bueckers x reader

warnings:none, this will be the start of my new paige family series! feel free to drop ideas in my inbox. hope this is ok for you, i can into more detail if you’d like!

the first time you see the positive pregnancy test, you don’t believe it. after months of negative results, doctors’ appointments, and so many nights spent comforting each other when it felt like nothing was working, it doesn’t feel real.

but it is.

you call paige into the bathroom, your hands trembling as you hold the stick. “paige,” you whisper, your voice breaking.

she looks at you, confused for a second, before her eyes fall on the test. when she sees the two pink lines, her face lights up like you’ve never seen before.

“oh my god,” she breathes, taking the test from your hands and staring at it, her lips curving into a shaky smile.

“it’s happening,” you whisper, tears spilling down your cheeks.

paige pulls you into a tight hug, burying her face in your neck. “we’re having a baby,” she murmurs, her voice thick with emotion.

the first trimester is a mix of excitement and nerves. paige is constantly hovering, making sure you’re eating enough, resting enough, and not lifting anything heavier than a pillow.

“babe, i can carry the groceries,” you laugh one afternoon as she insists on hauling every single bag into the house.

“not a chance,” she replies, grinning. “our baby’s in there, and i’m not taking any risks.”

she spends hours reading parenting books, bookmarking baby names on her phone, and talking to your growing belly even when it’s too early for the baby to hear.

“hi, little one,” she whispers one night, her hand resting gently on your stomach as you lie in bed. “it’s me, your mama. i can’t wait to meet you.”

you can’t help but fall more in love with her every day.

by the second trimester, your bump has started to show, and paige is obsessed.

“look at you,” she says one morning, her hands gently cupping your belly as you get dressed. “you’re glowing.”

“i’m sweating,” you reply, rolling your eyes, but her grin is contagious.

she goes with you to every doctor’s appointment, holding your hand during the ultrasounds and tearing up when you hear the baby’s heartbeat for the first time.

“that’s our baby,” she whispers, her voice full of wonder.

she also becomes extremely protective. when a random person at the grocery store tries to touch your belly, paige steps in with a polite but firm, “please don’t.”

“you’re like a guard dog,” you tease later, and she shrugs, unapologetic.

“i’m just taking care of my girls,” she says, pressing a kiss to your temple.

the third trimester is harder. your back aches, your feet are swollen, and you’re more exhausted than ever. but paige is there for you through it all, rubbing your feet at night, running out to get your weird cravings, and reminding you how beautiful you are even when you don’t feel like it.

“you’re amazing,” she says one night as she helps you settle into bed, her hand resting on your belly. “i don’t know how you’re doing this.”

“because i have you,” you reply, your heart swelling as she leans down to kiss you softly.

she’s the one who sets up the nursery, carefully assembling the crib and decorating the walls with soft colors and tiny basketball decals.

“our kid’s going to be a baller,” she says proudly, and you laugh, knowing she’s probably right.

when the contractions finally start, paige is a mix of nerves and excitement. she holds your hand the entire time, whispering words of encouragement and brushing your hair out of your face.

“you’re doing so good, baby,” she murmurs, her voice steady even though you can see the tears in her eyes. “i’m so proud of you.”

and when your baby is finally born—a tiny, perfect girl—paige is the first to hold her, her hands trembling as she cradles your daughter against her chest.

“she’s perfect,” paige whispers, tears streaming down her face as she looks at you. “thank you. thank you for her.”

you smile, exhausted but so full of love, watching as paige presses a gentle kiss to your daughter’s forehead.

“we did it,” you say softly, and paige nods, her eyes never leaving your baby.

“yeah,” she whispers, her voice full of awe. “we did.”

[taurasiluvr]

okay but mean caitlin PLEASE I NEED HER like she is putting brat reader in her place or like it was a bad game or smth!!! i just neee mean cc. But i love your writing and i may or may not re-read your writes everyday🤗👀 ANYWAY THANK YOU AND BYEEE

hii love, i read this request a few weeks ago and i couldn't get it outta my head, i had to write it as soon as i got home from vaca. may be a little rusty but i hope yall enjoy nonetheless!

she's so sassy in this clip i had to use it

you knew you fucked up once you'd met caitlin's dark gaze.

the entire night was spent teasing your girlfriend, flirting a little too much with the other girls, making snide remarks, and giving her those doe-eyed looks that you knew would rile her up. you had been bratty all night, and now, you were about to pay for it.

as soon as the front door closed behind you, caitlin's patience snapped. she grabbed your wrist, pulling you roughly towards the bedroom. her grip was firm, her eyes narrowed with a dangerous glint that sent a shiver down your spine.

"you think you can act like that and get away with it?" caitlin's voice was low, almost a growl, as she pushed you up against the wall. "flirting with them like that, throwing me those little looks... acting like a desperate little slut,"

your heart pounded in your chest, a mix of fear and excitement coursing through you. "was just playing around, cait," you tried to defend yourself, but the smirk on your lips betrayed your enjoyment.

caitlin's eyes flashed, and she stepped closer, her body pressing against yours as she grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at her. "oh yeah?" she hissed. "i'll wipe that fucking smirk right off your face, princess, don't test me."

before you could respond, she spun you around, pushing you down onto the bed. you barely had time to catch your breath before she was on you, her hands yanking at your clothes, stripping you bare with a roughness that left no room for argument.

"but you like testing me, don’t you?" she muttered, her voice laced with anger as she positioned herself between your legs, hearing the familiar click of her harness. "i've been too nice recently, huh, baby? you don't deserve that shit, especially when you act like a fucking slut."

you whimpered as she grabbed your hips, pulling you closer and aligning the strap-on with your entrance. there was no teasing, no gentle buildup—caitlin thrust inside you with a force that made you cry out, your body arching off the bed in shock and pleasure.

"o-oh, fuck!"

"this what you wanted?" she growled, setting a punishing pace right from the start. "wanted to be fucked like this, like a fucking slut?"

you moaned, the words caught in your throat as she continued to pound into you, each thrust more intense than the last. "yes," you finally managed to gasp, your hands gripping the sheets as you tried to hold on. "please, cait... ’m sorry."

but caitlin wasn’t in a forgiving mood. her grip on your hips was bruising, her pace relentless as she drove you closer and closer to the edge. "sorry isn’t good enough," she snapped, her eyes blazing with dominance. "you’re going to take everything i give you tonight, and then maybe—maybe—i’ll think about letting you cum."

you whimpered, the pleasure almost too much to bear as she continued her assault on your body. cach thrust sent shockwaves through you, your senses overwhelmed by the intensity of it all. you could feel the tension building inside you, your body teetering on the brink of release.

"please, caitlin," you begged, your voice desperate as you looked up at her with wide, pleading eyes. "can’t take it anymore, please let me cum."

caitlin smirked, her thrusts never faltering. "no," she taunted, her voice dripping with authority. "you’re going to hold it until i say so, understand?"

you nodded frantically, tears of frustration and pleasure forming in your eyes as you fought to obey her command. every nerve in your body was on fire, your need for release becoming almost unbearable. but caitlin wasn’t done with you yet.

she leaned down, her lips brushing against your ear as she whispered, "gonna fuck you stupid, like the fucking slut you are,"

with those words, she reached between your bodies, her fingers finding your clit and rubbing it with a precision that made you scream. the combination of her thrusts and her fingers was too much—you were on the verge of exploding, your body trembling with the effort of holding back.

"now," caitlin finally growled, her voice dark and commanding. "cum for me, now."

her permission was all you needed. with a broken cry, you came hard, your body convulsing as the orgasm tore through you. It was overwhelming, the intensity of it leaving you gasping for breath as you clung to caitlin, your nails digging into her skin.

caitlin continued to move, drawing out your pleasure until you were a shaking, sobbing mess beneath her. only then did she slow down, her movements becoming gentler as she guided you through the aftershocks of your release.

if you enjoyed, any interaction is greatly appreciated!

with love, rylin 𝜗𝜚

[cosmopretty]

꣑୧ summary— Just Paige fucking you dumb on her strap after you had a bad day and gave her attitude

warnings— smut, taking strap, choking

Her hands hold your hips as she slams into your cunt with her strap over and over “taking me so fucking good baby” she groaned. Her head bends down into your neck, kissing, biting, sucking leaving dark marks on your pretty skin.

Tears stream down your face, your mouth only letting out moans and whines. The pleasure was too much, you already came two times before and you can feel the third building up. Your mind filled with nothing as you stare up at Paige, your mind blank as you only feel pleasure.

You look up at her through your lashes with glossy eyes, she looks down at you “What you need baby? Come on use your words” she coos leaning down to press a kiss to your lips.

“I- I want- I” you whimpered not being able to talk with her strap thrusting into you hitting your sweet spot over and over.

Paiges hands squeeze your hips pulling you up and closer to her. She thrusts into you at a new angle one of her hands coming down to rub your clit “That’s it huh baby? Just needed to get fucked” she whispers to you looking down at you knowingly with her blue eyes.

You nod dumbly at her only focused on the pleasure going through your body, you can’t think anymore not with her fucking you so good.

“So pretty for me, yeah? All pretty and dumb on my cock just for me huh only I can make you feel like this” Paige tells you, your thighs starting to shake a bit around her.

You nod, her words going in one ear and out the other, you whine and her hand that was rubbing your clit moves up to your neck. She wraps her hand around your neck forcing you to look at her “Who makes you feel this good baby? Come on use that dumb brain of yours” she breathes out looking down at you.

“Y-you Paige, on- only you— Paige” you moan your stomach tightening, her hand squeezes around your neck as she thrusts into you faster.

The strap pumps in and out of you faster than before, your gummy walls tighten around the strap, your thighs shaking “mm go-gonna” you whimper not able to finish your sentence pleasure over taking your body.

“I know baby come on, cum on my cock princess” She coos her hand letting go of your neck to cup your cheek, her thumb caressing your cheek.

Your legs shake as the band in your stomach snaps, your eyes roll to the back of your head as your toes curl, your juices flowing down her strap. Paige smirks down at you “My dumb girl” she coos her hand moving from your cheek to push some hair behind your ear.

Staring up at Paige your nod, your mind blank “mhm” you nod at her words. She smiles and pulls out of you slowly, you whimper at the emptiness between your legs and she coos, shushing you.

“I know my girl let me take care of you now, my sweet girl”

[foreingersgod]

Kiss Me ? . CC

pairings: caitlin clark x reader

synopsis: caitlin should be focusing on practice, but she finds it incredibly hard to take her focus off of you

“please baby can we just go home?” caitlin groaned from the gymnasium floor, the ball that was once in her hands now bouncing carelessly on the ground.

you rolled your eyes with a brief chuckle, moving your eyes from your phone to look at her pleading expression. you adjusted yourself in your seat as you watched her drag over to your spot on the sidelines.

caitlin had been in and out of the gym, going to practices and running drills nonstop recently, and it was starting to drive her crazy. she loved basketball and she felt more than comfortable when she was playing, but damn did she miss you even more. the longer she spent at the gym was more time spent away from you, and lately it was taking a toll on her. most days she just wanted to stay in bed with you and never leave. and even though you would absolutely love that, you’d feel guilty if you were the reason she wasn’t sticking to her schedule.

you tried to be a supportive and motivating girlfriend by doing everything you could. you'd do homework on the bleachers and come to practice with her to keep her company, packing her a small lunch and making sure her water bottle was filled. and, on days you couldn't attend, you'd write her a small note and put it in her duffle bag for a small pick-me-up.

but unlike you had hoped, your company had only made it more difficult for her to stay focused. caitlin found every excuse in the book to wander over in your direction. sometimes it was to tell you joke, other times she claimed she wanted to help you with homework, and most of the time it was just to touch you in some sort of way. kiss your cheek, rest her head on your shoulder, rub her hand along your thigh...any sort of touch, you name it and she'd abandon her drills just to do it.

"cait, we've only been here for like 20 minutes" you chuckled when she sat down in front of you, her head lolling back to rest in your lap "you need to practice"

"but i miss you" she whined with a pout "i'll practice tomorrow"

"yea you said that yesterday. and the day before that...and the day before that..." you teased as your hands instinctively came up to play with her hair, fingers toying with her head band and ponytail. she laughed at that, shaking her head although she knew it was true. you were her weak spot, that was clear "come on babe, just a little while longer and we can go home. what can i do to motivate you?"

"i dunno" she shrugged as she sat up, pulling up her socks and hoisting herself up. she pondered for a moment, eyes traveling across the room in deep thought before her face lit up excitedly "oh, i think i have an idea"

"hm?" you questioned, expecting her to ask you to run drills or pass her the balls to shoot.

"kiss me" she said, hands on her hips proudly, sly smirk tugging at her lips.

"kiss you?" your eyebrow quirked up, letting her know that you were beyond confused "how's that gonna get you to focus on practicing?"

"okay okay hear me out-" she defended, but you were still skeptical. hearing her out probably didn't entail anything good, you thought.

"alright, i'm listening" you egged her on "let's hear this idea of yours"

"so i'm thinking," the smile on her lips now even bigger "that every time i make a shot...you reward me by kissing me! it's a win-win, really, you know cause i get a kiss for doing a good job, and you get to kiss a basketball superstar"

that earned a dramatic eyeroll from you, although you couldn't suppress the lovesick grin that formed as well. she was quite creative, you knew, but you hadn't expected this sort of ploy from her. through an infectious fit of laughter, you saw her waiting for a genuine response with the repetitive tapping of her foot on the varnished floor. as corny as it was, you couldn't help but give into her plan.

"okay fine, you dork" you sighed playfully as you stood up, walking over to her "but only if you make it, no distractions"

"yes ma'am" she saluted, rushing over to her discarded ball to get started as quick as possible.

and so it started, a pattern consisting of deep kisses and effortless three pointers. you'd watch her take her position at the curved line, knees and elbows bending ever so slightly before she shot the ball straight through the net, she was flying through each shot with ease. then, after retrieving the ball, she'd jog over to you giddily, lips puckering as she waited for her promised kiss. and each time you'd smile as your arms looped around her neck and your lips pressed into hers. that feeling would never get old.

time seemed to fly by as you two continued your little routine, 20 minutes soon turned into 40 and then into over an hour. it felt as though you could have done this all day long, missing the feeling of her lips every time she ran back to the three-point line. and maybe you could have, but cailtin began to get tired, her shots getting sloppier with each passing minute. you knew that the both of you were ready to head home and get some much-needed rest.

caitlin slumped down into a seat, wiping her forehead with her exceptionally sweaty gatorade towel before pulling a spare hoodie over her head. meanwhile you helped her collect her things to make it a little easier for her. with a comforting hand on the small of her back, you guided her out of the gymnasium and made your seemingly long trek out to the car.

you got behind the wheel with an exhausted slump, caitlin already buckling herself up in the passenger's seat. you turned on the a.c. to a medium setting, just the way cailtin liked it, and turned the radio to her favorite station. she hummed, heart swelling as the fact that you knew her so well. the cold air emitting from the vents soothed her almost instantly, causing her to flutter eyes shut in content.

"babe?" you called out to an oddly quiet car, normally she was a chatter box after practice, never letting you get a moment of silence. you never complained, you loved everything she had to say "baby?"

still there was no response, only the soft buzz of a taylor swift song in the background. you shifted your eyes off the road for a quick second to look to your right to inspect the situation. you could have sworn your heart exploded in that moment, seeing her sleepy state in her seat. she had sunk deep into the leather fabric, one arm propped on the center console to hold up her head. her lips were parted ever so slightly as soft breathes escaped her, one of her hoodie strings caught between her teeth. she was completely knocked out. if your hands weren't steering, you would have taken a picture. she looked so soft and sweet, the perfect depiction of your girl.

in the public eye, she was most known to be strong and resilient no matter what was thrown at her. and it was more than true, caitlin was the toughest person you knew. but what most people didn't get to see, was this side of her, gentle caitlin who let her guard down. the caitlin who snores and drools when she sleeps, the cailtin that would turn down practice just to be with you.

the cailtin that can't help but smile when you reach over, eyes still closed as you run your thumb across her cheekbone, wanting the feeling of your touch to last forever.

[martinluvrr]

OUR THING | PAIGE BUECKERS

⋅˚₊‧ paige bueckers x rivals!reader

⋅˚₊‧ summary: you just can't come between them, they got their own thing.

⋅˚₊‧ duayaps; in honor of 'whore anon'. ( i'm in my gracie abrams era ). enjoy.

⋅˚₊‧ warning: 18+ , smut, degrading terms.

⋅˚₊‧ nav ||

"There is absolutely history there" Diana Taurasi said, you sighed closing your laptop. Another opinion you didn't need. Two days ago was one of the most intense games you've had in your college career.

Number 5 and you weren't exactly buddies with each other, once upon a time you were. In high school, you both were attached to the hip, best friends. At the end of Paige's senior year, you had grown a small crush on her. Of course you didn't dare act on it.

When Paige committed to Uconn, you were so happy for her. This is was just a step closer to her dream, a small part of you knew that her and you would have distanced between each other, but you never knew that that it would end with you and paige having no contact.

It just stopped slowly, she was getting distant and you assumed she was just busy.

But when you faced your first game as a rookie against Uconn, you got a rude awakening of how Paige was going to treat you for the next 4 years. No talking, like literally not even a glance from her. And if she was going to treat you like that, you would return her behavior.

Of course, after that, USC and Uconn had a lot of games after. So it became more intense, more aggressive. While you were guarding her, you got more fouls than you would ever get in normal games. And then she started trash talk, and while you knew she wanted a reaction out of you, you didn’t give her one.

But after one hard hit on the floor, which led you to stepping out of the game, she talked to you normal , for the first time in 2 years.

“You okay?”

“Yeah”

After that short conversation , you started getting confused. She was still the Paige from your freshman year, but now, when you would hit the floor, she was the first one to come to your aid and help you. Even when she was the reason you were down in the first place, she would place her hands on your waist and help you up.

This was weird, one minute you’re trash talking and pushing each other, and the next she was picking you up from the floor.

Of course, everybody wanted an answer. An answer that you didn’t have, and you were sure that Paige didn’t have one either. It was natural for Paige to help you. Almost like a reflex.

Two days ago, you stood on the Uconn court. An army of students chanting behind you, you could feel your nerves getting agitated, this one random guy kid would not stop yelling the most disrespectful things at you, you knew he was a fan in adrenaline but still. It started out small, which you didn’t mind because that just motivated you more, but then it turned south. "you got nothing on us" , "can't even hoop" , "you can't play for shit" , “we’re too good for you” , “get back in the kitchen” .

You ignore him, in hopes that he would leave you alone, but nope. He didn’t, just kept on going. While you finally tuned him out, you turned to your opponent. Paige was glaring daggers at you.

“bunny” She teased. You only returned her cold stare with one of your own. Her nickname was used to mock you, your soft and sensitive demeanor was known through college basketball. After Paige started calling you bunny, everyone did.

The game started, things were going okay, your team was only down by a couple points. Halfway through the game, you didn’t her the annoying voice and let out a breath of relief. That’s before…“Whore” he screamed out.

You let out a frustrated sigh, before taking a few more steps away from him, but while you ignore him. Paige didn’t, and she was pissed.

“What the fuck did you just say?” She stepped out of the court, the referee blew his whistle. Everybody was watching this exchange. But people were also watching you, and you stood there frozen, totally didn't expect this to happen. From the corner of your eye, you saw both teams coming your way, while Kk gripped Paige's elbow trying to get her away from the scene. Paige didn't budge, her angry eyes still laid on the guy.

"I said what the fuck did you just say to her?" She repeated again, the guy stood there, cheeks red by embarrassment, not a word out of him now. You felt yourself move to her, before gently tugging her elbow. She snapped her head to look at you, when she saw your worried face, she turned to the silent guy. "That's what i thought"

You, Paige and Kk returned to the court, you heard Paige behind you mutter "You okay?"

"Yeah" you whispered, nodding your head. After Paige explained the situation to both Geno and the referee, the guy was escorted out, and the game was back on.

Protective Paige was off and rival Paige was on, unfortunately.

☆

The game made headlines. It was all over tik tok before the game was even over, to the point that even Tana and Brooke talked about it. You tried to block out the videos, but they still showed up, it made you even more nervous. While you appreciated Paige sticking up for you, you knew that this was going to be on every press or media that you were going to be involved with.

Speaking of press.

"Paige, we heard a little argument that you had with one of your own fans in regard to a comment they made about your former teammate now rival Y/n, what was the comment ?"

"I'd rather not say, but former teammate or rival doesn't matter nobody deserves that kind of treatment and I just couldn't handle not saying something when i know that's not something that the team or Uconn stands for"

You re-watched that 15 second clip about 7 times before you turned your phone off. You admit , when you re-watched the game on your hotel rooms TV, it was kinda hot to see Paige sticking up for you. But you knew that the same similar treatment, your teammate experienced on your last game against Uconn, while it wasn't that degrading, you knew Paige heard, she was next to her.

So why did she continue to stick up for you? Why push me when you're gonna pick me back up? Why? Why? Why?

And forgot to mention, that people did notice that Paige didn't back off until you told her to. The whole 1 minute and 16 second exchange had been monitored and watched by millions in the span of 2 days.

"Her teammate couldn't get her on the court again until Y/n came and told her to let it go, like literally can't come between them, they have they're own thing, so cute tho biggest shipper of them..." You heard Brooke Schofield explain to her co host.

☆

"This is it" Juju said, removing her seat belt, you did the same. You were still in Storrs due to your flight being delayed so you and your best friend decided to make the most out of it. A bar was your first option,Teds looked cozy ,comfortable and small so you hoped it wasn't filled with people.

It was, Uconn students, to be more specific. When you and Juju first walked in, the first people you saw were the Uconn womens basketball team, great. While you tried to hide behind Jujus tall frame, Azzi Fudd was already making her way towards you, Paige trailing behind her.

"Hey, what are you guys doing here?" Azzi said, pulling you both into a hug, you heard a chuckle behind her. When you both pulled away from the hug, you heard Paige greet your teammate before turning towards you.

"Hey bunny"

"Hi"

You both stood there as your teammates were talking, Paiges eyes never left you. Even though you didn't look up from the floor, you could feel them from a miles away . When you finally got the courage to look at her, you saw a small smirk on her face. A cocky and confident one, it was your fault really, Paige knew she had this affect on you, and it made her want you more.

"Yeah were down" You heard Juju agree with Azzis invite, before the four of you made your way to the table, you told them you were going for a quick bathroom trip.

5 minutes later , the quick bathroom trip was turned into a quickie when Paige walked in and pushed against the wall while kissing you.

You felt yourself try to close your thighs, her hand slipped between them, stopping you. "Nah they stay open" you felt her say against your neck, her kisses started from your neck before she started making her way down your body.

When she made it her way to your pussy, you felt her place a teasing kiss on your inner thigh. "Paige please" you groaned, frustrated and gripped the bathroom sink.

"Please what princess?"

"Please... please..." you pleaded.

"Please wha-" she mocked you, the grip on your thighs tighten.

"Please lick my pussy" you cut her off. When you finally felt her tongue on you, you let out a breathless moan. She looked up at you, watching your expression, hearing your moans and when you finally looked down at her.

"Oh, oh" you moaned, her tongue now going fast and her kisses turned sloppy. Your hand was on her hair, your hand tightening on the hold.

"Yeah you like that?" she chuckled when you let out a groan, after having a taste of you, she was sure you were a drug, and she was addicted.

When she felt you arch your back, she sped up, her hand now rubbing your clit, you felt a pit form on your stomach.

"Oh P" the old nickname slipped out, Paige looked up at you, a small smile on her face.

"Cum for me baby" she commanded, her voice sent you over the edge, you let out a groan of pleasure, before feeling yourself release on her tongue.

After a long pause of you trying to regain your breath, she placed a small peck on your pussy before pulling your lace purple thong back up, not before placing another kiss on your inner thigh. As she appeared back to your face level, you couldn't help yourself and pulled her into a kiss. You felt her groan and smile against your lips. "I love how you get with me" . Your hair was a mess, you still couldn’t regain your breath and your lips were swollen.

When you pulled back, you looked at each other, the next seconds were spent with you both looking at each other adoringly. You couldn't help but ask "Why did you do that?" the mystery waited to unveil itself.

"Because no ones going to mess with you, not when i'm there" Your heart melted. This was Paige, while she messed with you, no one else can. Simply, you were hers.

You both were aware that the both of you looked like a mess when you went out of the bathroom, but neither of you cared. This was your thing, no one else mattered.

☆

thank you for reading <3333

[bueckets]

Prophecy | Finale

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

Parts: Part One | Two | Three (you're here)

Description: Following the viral video of Paige and Azzi, you spend the next three months redefining what perfect means. Each shot becomes a statement, each swish echoing with something colder than precision. Your teammates watch you stay late every night, turning heartbreak into headlines, until even UConn's dynasty seems breakable.

The game approaches like destiny. Harvard versus UConn in the Final Four, a collision course that ESPN calls "The Game Women's Basketball Has Been Waiting For." Twenty thousand tickets sell out in minutes. The whole sport holds its breath.

You haven't spoken to Paige since that night in the snow. Haven't read her texts or opened her letter. Instead, you let your game speak - 47 against Princeton, 51 against Yale, perfect shooting in both. They call it The Revenge Tour, though you never bother correcting them.

Now Dallas looms like a storm on the horizon. One game to prove that some things break you, and some things make you unbreakable.

This is the story of which one you become.

WC: 11k

WEEK ONE

After that night in the gym, you don’t miss. Not once.

Every shot is a calculation, a release, a fury of physics and heartbreak. Each arc is perfect, each swish feels like vengeance. The ball obeys because it has to. Because it’s the only thing left that makes sense.

Paige’s texts come in like a storm. Desperate, raw, and relentless:

Monday (3:47 AM): please just let me explain.

Monday (4:15 AM): it wasn't what it looked like.

Monday (4:22 AM): i miss you.

Monday (4:45 AM): please answer.

You sit on your bed staring at the ceiling, the blue glow of your phone lighting the room like a taunt. Sierra grabs it from your hands and sets it face down on your desk. “Nope.”

By Tuesday, the messages get sharper, more frantic

Tuesday (2:13 AM): i know you’re mad. i’d be mad too.

Tuesday (3:01 AM): rocket, please. you mean everything to me.

Tuesday (3:45 AM): i never meant to hurt you. i’d do anything to take it back.

By Wednesday, she calls. Seventeen times. Sierra’s thumb hovers over the block button. Jasmine glances at you, but you just lace up your shoes and head for the gym.

Thursday, the texts shift to something softer, almost pleading:

"i know you're reading these."

"just tell me you're okay."

"god, i miss you."

"please just talk to me"

Sierra and Jasmine take turns deleting the messages before you can see them, but you know. You always know.

“She’s hurting,” Jasmine says carefully one night, her voice soft like she’s walking a tightrope.

"Good," you respond, and sink another three.

WEEK TWO

The texts get longer, more rambling.

"i know i screwed up. i don’t even know how to start fixing it. all i know is that i want to."

"i miss how you made me feel like the best version of myself. like i could do anything."

"i miss you solving equations while watching film. i miss your voice. i miss you."

"rocket, i love you. i don’t care if you don’t believe me right now, but it’s the truth. i love you."

"please just tell me to fuck off or something. anything is better than this silence."

You don’t read them, but Sierra does. She updates you with clipped summaries: “She’s still apologizing. Still desperate.” You just nod, focusing on your form. Release. Swish.

“She says she loves you,” Sierra says one day, her voice careful.

“Doesn’t matter,” you reply, grabbing another ball.

WEEK THREE

Thursday evening, it snows. Heavy, wet flakes that stick to the ground and blanket campus in white. You’re in the gym, as always, the only sound the steady rhythm of the ball hitting the floor, then the net.

Sierra bursts in, out of breath, snowflakes clinging to her jacket.

“She’s here,” she says, voice strained.

You pause mid-shot, the ball resting heavy in your hands. “What?”

“Paige,” Sierra says. “She’s outside. Just standing there. She’s not leaving until you talk to her.”

You blink, your pulse quickening. “In the snow?”

“Yes. In the snow,” Sierra snaps. “Want me to handle it?”

You glance at the door, at the faint glow of the snowstorm through the windows. Your chest feels tight.

“I’ll do it,” you say quietly.

Sierra looks surprised but doesn’t argue. “You sure?”

You nod, dropping the ball onto the rack. “Yeah. I’ve got it.”

You push open the gym door, and the cold hits you like a slap. The snow is coming down hard now, heavy flakes swirling in the wind and catching in your hair, on your lashes, melting instantly on your skin. The air bites at your face, sharp and unforgiving, and you pull your sweatshirt tighter around you as you step into the storm.

Paige is there.

She’s standing under the dim glow of the parking lot light, a lone figure against the blanketed white. Her coat is too thin for this weather, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as if that could keep the cold out. Snowflakes dust her hair, her shoulders, even her lashes, sticking there like delicate glass. Her nose and cheeks are red, raw from the wind, and her breath comes out in uneven clouds that catch the faint light before disappearing.

Your heart pounds as you take her in. It’s not fair, how seeing her still makes your chest tighten, how her very presence feels like it could knock you off balance. You feel your feet ache against the frozen pavement, the sting of cold air in your lungs, but it’s nothing compared to the burn in your chest.

She looks up as you approach, her eyes locking onto yours immediately. They’re red, glassy, the unmistakable sheen of unshed tears making them glisten. She uncrosses her arms, her hands trembling, and takes a single step forward.

“Rocket,” she says, and her voice cracks. Just that one word, and it’s enough to make your knees threaten to buckle.

You stop a few feet away, planting your sneakers firmly into the snow to keep steady. Your throat feels tight, your tongue heavy. For a moment, you can’t speak. You just stare at her, the silence between you as thick as the snow falling all around.

“What are you doing here?” you manage finally. Your voice is sharper than you intended, but the lump in your throat makes it hard to sound anything but cold.

She shifts, wiping her hands on her coat as if that’ll stop them from shaking. “I—I had to see you,” she stammers. “You weren’t answering, and I just—” Her voice breaks again, and she swallows hard, trying to steady herself. “I just needed to try.”

The words hang in the air, weighty and raw. You bite the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to stay grounded, to not let your emotions spiral. The wind picks up, whipping snowflakes against your face, and you blink hard against the sting.

“You’ve said enough,” you say, your voice flat.

“I know,” she says quickly, stepping forward again. Her boots crunch against the snow, and the sound feels deafening in the quiet. “I know I’ve said everything wrong. I don’t even know if there’s anything left to say. I just—” She takes a shaky breath, her hands balling into fists at her sides. “I need you to know how sorry I am. How I got into my head leading up to it. I was scared. I’m sorry. For everything. For ruining us.”

Your breath catches at that, and your chest tightens even more. Her words hit like a weight, heavy and suffocating, and for a moment, you don’t trust yourself to respond. You feel the sting in your fingers, the way the cold air pinches your ears, the dull ache in your feet from standing still too long.

“It wasn’t just a mistake, Paige,” you say finally, your voice trembling despite your effort to sound steady. “It was trust. It was everything we had.”

She nods quickly, tears finally spilling over. She swipes at her face with the sleeve of her hoodie, trying to hide it, but her hands are shaking too much. “I know,” she whispers, her voice barely audible over the wind. “I know I broke it. And I hate myself for it. I hate myself for hurting you.”

The tears keep falling, streaking down her red cheeks, and she doesn’t bother wiping them anymore. Her shoulders shake, but she doesn’t look away from you. You want to turn away, to stop seeing her like this, but you can’t. Your eyes burn, your throat feels raw, and the weight in your chest only grows heavier.

“I loved you,” you say softly, the words slipping out before you can stop them. Her breath catches audibly, and you see her shoulders slump further, like the words are knives she’s been bracing for.

“I love you,” she says, her voice breaking entirely. “I still love you. I’ll always love you.”

The snow falls harder now, coating everything in a thick, suffocating white. You feel it collect on your shoulders, your hair, melting down your neck. Paige shivers, wrapping her arms tightly around herself, her breaths coming out in ragged clouds.

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat threatening to choke you as you stare at Paige. The snow falls heavier now, landing on her lashes and melting against her flushed cheeks. Her nose is red, her hands trembling as they clench at her sides. The cold bites at your skin, your ears pinching, your feet aching, but none of it feels as sharp as the weight in your chest.

“Go home,” you say, your voice cracking slightly despite your attempt to sound firm.

Paige doesn’t move. Her wide, red-rimmed eyes stay locked on yours, brimming with fresh tears. Her lips part, but no words come, just a soft, shaky breath. Then:

“Please,” she whispers, barely audible over the wind. Her voice is raw, broken, and it hits you like a punch. She takes a step closer, her boots crunching in the snow, her hands twitching at her sides like she wants to reach for you but knows she can’t. “Please,” she says again, the word shaking with everything she’s trying to say but can’t.

You inhale sharply, your chest tightening as you force yourself to stand your ground. “Paige,” you say, softer now, almost pleading yourself. “Go home.”

She flinches, like the words physically hurt, but she doesn’t argue this time. She nods slowly, blinking hard against the tears streaming down her face. Her shoulders slump as she turns away, her steps hesitant, dragging in the snow like she’s leaving pieces of herself behind with every step.

You watch her walk toward the far end of the parking lot, her figure blurry through the curtain of falling snow. She stops once, just for a moment, her back to you. She swipes at her face with the sleeve of her hoodie, but the motion is weak, almost futile. Then she moves again, trudging toward the lone car parked under the faint glow of a streetlamp.

The driver’s side window rolls down as Paige approaches, and you see KK leaning out, her face a mix of concern and frustration. KK says something—low and sharp, the words lost in the wind—and Paige shakes her head, opening the passenger door and climbing in without another glance in your direction.

The car idles for a moment, exhaust puffing into the frozen air, and you catch a glimpse of KK glancing your way, her gaze hard but questioning, like she’s debating whether to come out and say something. But she doesn’t.

The brake lights flare as the car shifts into gear, and then they’re gone, disappearing down the snow-covered road.

You stay rooted to the spot, the cold seeping through your clothes, the sound of their departure fading into silence. You don’t move for a long time, staring at the empty space where they’d been, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath.

You stand there long after the car disappears into the swirling snow, the cold seeping into your bones. Your feet ache from standing still, your fingers sting from the frost, and your chest feels like it’s caving in on itself. You force yourself to turn, your legs heavy as you walk back toward the gym, the door looming like a safe haven you don’t feel like you deserve.

The moment you push it open, the heat rushes out to meet you, thick and suffocating. It hits your face like a wall, and suddenly, you realize how cold you were—how raw your skin feels, how your ears throb with the warmth sinking in. You blink against the hot air, your vision blurring, and that’s when you feel it. The damp streaks on your cheeks, the burning in your eyes.

You were crying.

The thought stuns you for a moment, but there’s no time to process it. Your feet move automatically, carrying you deeper into the gym. The echo of your footsteps bounces off the empty court, the sound sharp and hollow in the stillness. You make your way to the locker room, the familiar scent of sweat and rubber hitting you like a memory you didn’t ask for.

Inside, Sierra and Jasmine are waiting. They’re sitting on one of the benches, their expressions tight and unsure, like they don’t know what to say—or if they should say anything at all.

Your eyes meet Sierra’s first, and the look she gives you is soft, pitying, like she’s trying to hold you together with just her gaze. Jasmine looks away quickly, her hands fiddling with the strings of her hoodie, her shoulders tense with unspoken guilt.

Neither of them says a word.

You don’t either. You don’t have the energy.

You walk past them, your legs threatening to give out, and sink onto the bench in front of your locker. The cold from outside is still in your body, lingering in your muscles, making everything ache. You press your hands to your knees, trying to ground yourself, but the weight in your chest is too much.

It breaks.

You bury your face in your hands, your shoulders shaking as the sobs finally come. They tear out of you, raw and uncontrollable, and you can’t stop them even if you wanted to. The locker room fills with the sound of your crying—ugly, unfiltered, and nothing like The Prophecy at all.

Sierra shifts behind you, and for a moment, you think she’s going to say something. But she doesn’t. Neither of them does. They just sit there, giving you space to break apart, their quiet presence the only thing holding you from completely falling apart.

Your tears soak into your palms, your breath coming in gasps, and for the first time in weeks, you let yourself feel the full weight of it all. The cold, the betrayal, the way her voice cracked when she said, “I love you.” It crashes over you, relentless and unrelenting.

And you let it.

Because in this moment, you don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to calculate the pain away or turn it into fuel.

For now, you just let yourself break.

WEEK SIX

Her last attempt comes in the form of a letter. Handwritten. Twelve pages. Sierra finds it slipped under your door one gray morning, the paper just slightly bent, as though it had been clenched tightly before being left there.

“Want me to burn it?” Sierra asks, holding it up like it’s fragile, like even touching it too long might do damage.

You don’t answer at first, your eyes fixed on the envelope. Your name is written in Paige’s handwriting, unmistakably hers—soft, looping, careful. It looks like she spent a long time on just that one word. The ink is smudged in places, faint blotches where you know she must have paused, maybe wiped her eyes.

“Rocket?” Sierra asks again, her voice gentler this time.

You reach out, hesitating before your fingers brush the paper. The weight of it feels heavier than it should, like it’s holding every unsaid word she couldn’t force into those desperate texts, every plea she couldn’t voice the last time she saw you.

“No,” you say quietly, your voice firm despite the knot in your chest. “Don’t burn it.”

Sierra doesn’t press. “What should I do with it?”

You swallow hard, still staring at the envelope like it might crack open on its own. “Keep it,” you murmur finally. “For after March.”

The corner of her mouth twitches in a faint, understanding nod. She tucks the letter carefully into her bag without another word.

Because that’s what this has all been about, hasn’t it? Every ignored call, every perfect shot, every breath you’ve taken since that night in the gym has been leading to one thing: March.

Two weeks later, the bracket drops.

Harvard vs. UConn. Sweet Sixteen.

You hear whispers everywhere—teammates speculating, reporters asking veiled questions about how you feel about the matchup. You stay quiet, dodging the noise with an unshakable focus that keeps the world at bay.

Paige doesn’t text. She doesn’t call. But one night, you see it.

It’s subtle, so subtle you almost miss it: a photo on her Instagram story.

She’s sitting on the floor of her dorm, the soft golden light of a bedside lamp pooling around her. Her knees are drawn to her chest, her head resting on her arms. There’s no caption, no obvious sign of you. But in the corner of the frame, hanging off the back of a chair, is your Harvard hoodie.

The air leaves your lungs.

It’s so small, so quiet, but it feels loud in your chest.

Sierra notices you staring at your phone and gives you a sharp look. “Don’t,” she warns.

“I’m not,” you reply, locking your phone and sliding it across the table.

And you aren’t.

Instead, you lace up your sneakers and head to the gym.

30 DAYS TO MARCH MADNESS

The bracket predictions start rolling in. Every analyst has the same storyline: Harvard and UConn are destined to meet in the championship.

ESPN calls it "The Game Women's Basketball Has Been Waiting For."

You don’t watch their coverage. You don’t need to. You just shoot.

Paige’s last text comes at 2 AM:

“i still miss you.”

You delete it without reading. (Sierra tells you about it later anyway.)

25 DAYS

“Did you hear?” Jasmine says as she slides into the locker room after practice, her voice quieter than usual.

You don’t look up. “Hear what?”

“Paige was at some party last night. Someone saw her with... someone.”

You pause mid-lace, your fingers tightening. “And?”

“She’s... moving on. Or trying to.”

Later, Sierra shows you the photo: Paige with her arm around a tall blonde, both laughing like the world doesn’t hurt them.

You close your phone, drop it in your bag, and hit the gym for 200 straight shots. Each one lands, clean and precise, but your chest tightens with every swish.

At midnight, Sierra finds you still there. “She’s doing this on purpose,” she says softly.

“Doing what?”

“Trying to make you feel what she’s feeling.”

You grab another ball, square your shoulders. “Bold of her to assume I still care.”

(You do. God, you do.)

20 DAYS

Your game is evolving. Whatever limits you thought existed don’t anymore. You’re not just making shots—you’re erasing boundaries.

Reporters ask Coach about it after Harvard crushes Penn by 30 points. “Have you ever seen anything like it?”

She shakes her head, her voice filled with awe. “She’s playing like someone who has nothing left to lose.”

Because you don’t.

15 DAYS

Another photo surfaces: Paige dancing at a club, the same blonde close enough to blur the line between friendly and intimate. The image spreads through whispers, not headlines, but it’s enough to reach you.

The next morning, Jasmine deletes all your social media apps. “Focus on what matters,” she says, her tone leaving no room for argument.

So you do:

47 points against Princeton.

51 against Yale.

Perfect shooting in both games.

The whispers around you grow louder. People call it The Revenge Tour, though you don’t bother correcting them.

You let your game speak for itself.

10 DAYS

Harvard enters March Madness ranked #1 for the first time in school history. UConn is #2.

The narrative writes itself:

Ice vs Fire.

You hear the buzz but tune it out. Paige posts a hype video for the tournament. There’s no sign of you in her clips, but you don’t need to be.

That night, you shoot until your arms shake. The sound of each swish reverberates through the gym, the echoes cutting through your chest like heartbreak.

5 DAYS

The tournament begins, and you burn through the first two rounds like wildfire:

45 points against Florida State.

52 against Tennessee.

You still haven’t missed.

UConn advances too. Paige plays like she’s on fire, dropping 38 against Duke and 41 against LSU. But she misses. She stumbles. She’s human. She’s flawed.

You tell yourself that’s why she couldn’t keep you. Because perfection is lonely.

2 DAYS

The Final Four is set: Harvard vs. UConn. The matchup everyone’s been waiting for.

Your teammates feel the weight of it, the buzz of history swirling around them, but you stay quiet. Focused.

“Are you ready?” Coach asks after practice.

You glance at her, your expression steady. “Always.”

1 DAY

The press conference is brutal. Every question is a thinly veiled attempt to dig into the drama. Paige. The rumors. 

You give them nothing.

“I’m here to play basketball,” you say flatly. “Nothing else matters.”

Later that night, alone in your hotel room, you stare at the letter Sierra saved weeks ago. It sits on the desk like it’s daring you to open it.

Your hands shake as you unfold the pages.

The first three lines hit harder than you expect:

"I know I don’t deserve forgiveness. I know I broke something perfect. I know I lost the best thing that ever happened to me."

You stop reading. You don’t need to see the rest.

The paper burns easily in the sink, the edges curling in on themselves like the words are folding into ash.

Tomorrow isn’t about forgiveness.

It’s about proving that some things break you.

And some things make you unbreakable.

Time to show her which one you are.

THE FINAL FOUR: HARVARD VS UCONN

The arena in Dallas feels alive, like it has a pulse of its own. Twenty thousand fans pack the stands, and the roar of the crowd is more than sound—it’s energy, crackling in the air, vibrating through the floor. You can feel it in your chest, in the way your heart beats a little faster as you stand in the tunnel, waiting.

This is the game. The one people will talk about for decades.

“Harvard vs. UConn,” ESPN’s voices echo faintly from the screens overhead, carrying over the din “The Game Women’s Basketball Has Been Waiting For.”

“Harvard’s perfect season against UConn’s dynasty.”

“Two programs. Two stars. One unmissable collision course.”

You don’t look at the screens. Don’t let the noise creep in. You focus instead on the rhythm of your breathing, the weight of the ball in your hands, the perfect arcs playing out in your mind. Force vectors, trajectories, momentum. The physics of what’s about to happen.

Sierra steps up beside you, her face all business, her game face as sharp as you’ve ever seen it. “You good?”

You nod once. She doesn’t ask if you’re sure. She’s seen you these past weeks—seen the extra hours, the obsession, the way you’ve turned heartbreak into something almost unrecognizable. She’s seen you rewrite what’s possible when perfect turns to steel.

“They’re out there,” Jasmine says quietly, stepping up on your other side.

Your stomach tightens, but you don’t let it show. 

“You’re sure you’re good?” Sierra presses, glancing at you out of the corner of her eye.

“I’m perfect,” you say flatly, the word cold and sharp.

The crowd’s roar deepens, and you know UConn must be taking the court for warmups. You can picture it without looking: Paige leading them out, her stride confident, her expression poised. She feeds off this energy, always has, like she was built for these moments.

You think about everything—every ignored text, every late-night practice, every time Paige’s name appeared on your phone screen and you turned away. You think about the letter, folded and burned, its words turned to ash: "I know I broke something perfect."

“I’m ready,” you say, voice steady.

Coach nods. “Good.” She turns to the team. “Ladies, listen up. Everything we’ve worked for comes down to tonight. They’re bigger, they’re stronger, and they’ve got more banners in their gym than we’ll ever see. But we’ve got something they don’t.”

She looks at you, and there's something fierce in her eyes.

"We've got perfect."

The team huddles up, hands in. But before they can do their usual chant, you speak. It's the first time you've addressed them all day.

"When we take that court," your voice is quiet but carries weight, "you're going to hear a lot of noise. They're going to talk about everything except basketball. But that's not why we're here."

Your teammates lean in closer.

"We're here because I made you all a promise three years ago. That we'd make history. That we'd show the world what Harvard basketball really is. That we'd be perfect when it matters most."

You look each of them in the eye.

"Tonight, we keep that promise."

The tunnel erupts in fierce agreement. Your teammates are ready for war.

"One minute!" calls the official.

You close your eyes for a moment, center yourself. Think about all the shots that led here. All the nights in empty gyms. All the physics problems solved between free throws. All the moments that built The Prophecy.

And yes, you think about her. About early mornings in her dorm. Late nights watching film. The way she said your name like it was something precious. The way she looked at someone else the same way.

The anger rises, cold and precise. You use it, let it sharpen your focus until everything else falls away.

The tunnel lights flicker as the official signals. It’s time.

"Ready?" Sierra asks one last time.

You step toward the light of the arena, toward the noise, toward destiny.

"Perfect," you say.

And then you emerge into madness.

The sound hits you like a wave the second you step onto the court. It’s not just noise; it’s a force, a physical thing that presses against you, vibrating in your chest.

"THE PROPHECY! THE PROPHECY! THE PROPHECY!"

The chant rolls through the arena like thunder, swelling as the crowd rises to their feet. Signs wave above the sea of faces:

"PERFECTION WEARS CRIMSON"

"847-2: THE PROPHECY SPEAKS"

Your entrance stops UConn's warmups cold. Every player freezes mid-drill, even the legendary Geno Auriemma turns to watch. You catch Paige's reaction in your peripheral vision—the way she stumbles slightly, ball slipping from her fingers. But you don't look at her. Won't give her that.

The Harvard section is delirious, but it's more than that. The neutral fans, the media, even some UConn supporters are on their feet. This is what happens when you spend three months turning heartbreak into headlines, when you take "perfect" and make it look easy.

Your teammates hit the court, their warmups sharper, fueled by the energy of the crowd. But your routine is different. Quieter. Singular.

You start at the three-point line, the ball resting in your hands. The noise fades as you focus, your heartbeat steadying. One shot.

Swish.

The explosion of noise is deafening. You don't react. Just catch, shoot, swish. Again. Again. Again.

On the other end, UConn's trying to maintain their composure, but you can feel their eyes on you. Feel the way their usual swagger has been replaced by something else. Something that looks like doubt.

Your teammates are feeding off the energy now. Sierra drills a corner three, the ball cutting through the net with a satisfying snap. Jasmine blocks one of Taylor’s layups in a mock defensive drill, both of them grinning fiercely.

"Focus on our game!" Geno barks, but even he keeps glancing your way.

The media's having a field day. Every camera in the building is trained on you, catching every perfect shot, every ice-cold expression. ESPN's commentary carries over the speakers:

"We're watching something unprecedented here, Rebecca. The Prophecy isn't just perfect anymore—she's transcendent. Look at the way UConn's players are watching her. They're supposed to be the dynasty, the standard-bearers, but right now they look shook—"

And still, you don’t look at Paige.

The crowd's volume keeps building, impossibly louder with each perfect shot you make. NBA players sitting courtside are shaking their heads in disbelief. Olympic champions in the stands are filming on their phones. This isn't just a warmup anymore—it's a statement.

Finally, mercifully for UConn, the buzzer sounds to clear the court for final preparations. As the teams head to their benches, you allow yourself one glance at their side. Just one.

Paige is standing near the sideline, her hands resting on her hips, her gaze fixed on you. For a split second, your eyes meet. Her expression shifts—shock, pain, something that might be regret.

You hold her gaze for a beat longer, then turn away, your face unreadable.

You turn away, face impassive. But inside, the cold fire burns hotter.

Because this isn’t about her anymore.

This isn’t about heartbreak or revenge.

This is about showing the world what happens when perfect stops trying to be loved.

And starts trying to be legendary.

The starting lineups are about to be announced, and the arena hums with anticipation, the kind of energy that makes the hair on your arms stand on end. It’s not just loud—it’s electric, like the walls themselves are holding their breath. Every cheer, every chant, every flash of a camera feels sharper, brighter, heavier. History is about to be made.

The announcer’s voice booms, reverberating through the cavernous space, calling out names that blur into the roar of the crowd. You barely hear them—don’t need to. You’re locked in. You can feel the ball’s weight in your hand even though you’re not holding it, the phantom rhythm of your dribble steadying your pulse.

The Prophecy is about to speak.

And everyone—Paige, UConn, the world—is about to listen.

Sierra wins the tip with authority, the ball snapping to Maria like it’s been rehearsed a thousand times. Harvard’s ball. The crowd leans forward collectively, the sound dropping to an expectant hum as you cross half court, their energy feeding into the moment.

UConn’s defense is already set. You see it as soon as you step over the timeline: box-and-one. Four players sagging into a tight zone, leaving Paige on you.

Of course they’d make her guard you. Of course.

She’s close, closer than you expected, the kind of tight defense that borders on personal. Her eyes flicker for a moment, uncertainty bleeding through her usual focus.

“Please…” she whispers, so quiet it almost gets lost in the noise. “Can we just—”

You don’t let her finish.

A crossover—quick, precise, lethal—cuts her off mid-sentence. The crowd gasps, a collective intake of breath, as Paige stumbles, her footing faltering for just a second. But a second is all you need.

You rise up from 25 feet, the motion as natural as breathing. Perfect form. Perfect rotation.

Swish.

The crowd detonates.

3-0 Harvard.

"THE PROPHECY STRIKES FIRST!" The announcer can barely contain himself. "ICE COLD FROM DEEP!"

UConn pushes the ball upcourt fast, their transition game as polished as ever. Paige has that look now—the one that used to make your chest tighten, the one that once made you believe she could do anything. Now, it’s just data to process, another variable in the equation you’ve already solved.

She drives hard to the right, her speed and body control flawless. She’s counting on you to back off, to avoid contact, to give her just enough room for the pull-up jumper she’s perfected.

But you don’t.

Your body stays with hers, every step mirrored, every shift anticipated. When she rises for the shot, your hand is already there, contesting at the perfect angle. The ball leaves her hands, spinning slightly off-axis.

Clank.

The sound of the ball hitting the rim feels louder than it should, the miss reverberating through the arena like a misstep in a symphony.

“REJECTION!” The crowd erupts again, their voices rising to a fever pitch. “THE PROPHECY WITH THE PERFECT DEFENSE ON THE PRINCE!”

Maria grabs the rebound and pushes the break. You trail deliberately, your movements fluid, waiting for the play to unfold. The ball swings to you on the wing. Another catch. Another perfect release.

Swish.

6-0 Harvard.

Geno Auriemma doesn’t hesitate. Timeout, 47 seconds in. His voice carries across the court, sharp and commanding as he pulls his players in, trying to steady a ship that’s already rocking.

The ESPN commentators are incredulous. “I’ve never seen anything like this! The Prophecy isn’t just scoring—she’s controlling the entire game. And having Paige Bueckers guard her it’s psychological warfare at its finest.”

In the huddle, Coach Matthews stays calm, her voice steady amidst the chaos. “Keep executing. They’re rattled.”

Your teammates nod, feeding off her composure. You don’t say anything, don’t need to. The look in your eyes says enough.

Back on the court, UConn shifts their defense. KK Arnold takes over guarding you, her physicality immediately apparent. Paige shifts to Jasmine, but you feel her eyes on you anyway, like a weight pressing against your back.

You make her pay for it.

A quick backdoor cut—sharp, timed to perfection—leaves her a step behind. Maria sees it instantly, the lob arcing perfectly into your hands. You lay it in cleanly, barely breaking stride.

8-0 Harvard.

The UConn section is restless now, the nervous energy rippling through their chants.

From the crowd you hear, “She's not that special! Lock her up!"

The next time down, you catch the ball at the top of the key, KK’s hand pressing into your hip. You rise anyway, unfazed. The ball barely brushes the net on its way through.

11-0 Harvard.

Geno is furious, calling out defensive adjustments. But there's something different about UConn's energy—they're not just trailing, they're shook.

Paige tries to take over, driving hard to the rim with an intensity that feels more desperate than controlled. Her first step is sharp, her movements calculated, but there’s something frantic in the way she moves—like she’s trying to match you shot for shot, trying to prove something to herself as much as to the crowd.

Her floater arcs high but catches the back iron and rolls out.

The crowd groans, the sound rippling through the UConn section like a wave of disbelief. Paige’s jaw tightens as she sprints back on defense, but you’ve already moved on, focused, untouchable.

On the next possession, she pulls up for a three. It’s a clean look, her form textbook, but the ball rims out again, drawing a gasp from the fans and a loud clank that echoes through the arena.

Then she drives again, barreling into the paint, trying to force her way through Sierra’s perfect positioning. The ball pops loose, Sierra’s quick hands stripping it clean, and the Harvard section explodes in cheers.

Meanwhile, you’re somewhere else entirely.

Athletes talk about it, but few ever get there: the space where time slows, where the game feels less like competition and more like art. The roar of the crowd fades into a low hum, the edges of the court softening as everything sharpens around the ball in your hands.

It’s not just instinct—it’s control, precision, the physics of perfection in every step. Each shot feels inevitable, each movement unfolding like an equation you’ve already solved.

On defense, you can feel the tension radiating from UConn, their movements tighter, their communication louder. When Emma finally scores off a put-back—muscling through a sea of Harvard defenders—the UConn section celebrates like it’s a game-winner.

11-2 Harvard.

You glance at the scoreboard, then at your teammates, your calm focus unshaken. They know what’s coming next.

You show UConn what victory really looks like.

KK Arnold presses into you as you bring the ball up the court, her hands swiping aggressively, trying to throw you off balance. You shift your weight left, plant your foot, and cross over so quickly it sends her stumbling, her arms flailing for balance as the crowd gasps.

You take one step back, rising effortlessly over Caroline’s outstretched arms as she contests, her fingertips barely brushing the air beneath the ball.

Swish.

16-2 Harvard.

The Harvard bench leaps to their feet, arms raised, while the UConn section sits frozen, unsure of how to react. Geno is pacing now, barking orders to his team, his sharp voice cutting through the tension.

"We're watching history," the announcer's voice trembles with excitement. "The Prophecy isn't just winning—she's rewriting what's possible in this sport."

Paige is pressing harder, trying to shoulder the burden of momentum, but it’s slipping through her fingers. She forces another drive, this time straight into Sierra, who holds her ground like a wall. The whistle doesn’t blow, and Paige stumbles as the ball goes loose again, Maria scooping it up and feeding you on the wing.

The moment your hands touch the ball, you already know what’s going to happen.

Perfect rhythm. Perfect form. Perfect swish.

UConn tries everything: double teams, traps, full-court pressure. Nothing works. You split defenders like they're standing still, find teammates for open shots when they sell out to stop you, and when they give you any space at all.

The quarter ends with one final dagger. UConn tries to hold for the last shot, but you read Paige's eyes—you always could read her eyes—and jump the passing lane. The steal leads to a breakaway with three seconds left.

Most players would lay it in. Safe. Smart.

But The Prophecy isn't most players.

You take off from just inside the free-throw line, rising up as the buzzer sounds. The ball leaves your hands at the perfect angle, with the perfect spin, following the perfect arc.

Swish. As time expires.

29-10 Harvard.

The arena absolutely detonates. Your teammates mob you as you walk calmly to the bench. Even Coach Matthews cracks a smile.

In their huddle, you can see Geno gesturing frantically, see Paige's head hanging.

But none of that matters.

Because this isn't about them anymore.

This is about perfect.

And perfect is just getting started.

The second quarter opens with UConn desperate to change the momentum. Their energy is sharp, frantic, the kind that comes from a team not used to being punched first. Geno has abandoned the box-and-one, switching to a triangle-and-two defense. It’s designed to suffocate you—two defenders shadowing your every step, cutting off your air, daring the rest of your team to beat them.

You glance at Paige and KK as they close in, their feet shuffling in sync. Paige’s jaw is tight, her expression unreadable, but there’s tension in her shoulders, the kind you’ve seen in every film session this week. KK is louder, her movements brash, barking orders at the rest of the defense.

The first possession, you take the ball at the top of the key, waiting for the defense to swarm. KK gets there first, her hands low and active, trying to force you left. Paige closes in immediately after, her presence suffocating.

You don’t flinch. You shift just enough to pull both defenders with you, then flick a no-look pass to Sierra cutting baseline. The ball drops into her hands, and she lays it in cleanly, untouched.

31-10 Harvard.

"The Prophecy showing she can dominate without scoring!" ESPN's excitement builds. "This is basketball genius at its finest!"

Then it happens.

Four minutes into the quarter. Harvard up 37-15. You shake loose from the double team, slicing through the defense like a knife through fabric. Sierra's screen creating the perfect angle of separation (47 degrees, optimal for catch-and-shoot scenarios), your feet set precisely shoulder-width apart, knees bent at the textbook 110-degree angle.

The ball feels good leaving your hands—perfect, even. The rotation is clean, the arc flawless, the trajectory straight out of a physics textbook. It’s the kind of shot you’ve made thousands of times. The kind of shot you don’t even need to watch to know it’s good.

But sometimes, the universe has other plans.

The ball hits the back rim, bouncing straight up, a little too high, a little too slow. It hovers for an agonizing second.

The entire arena holds its breath. Twenty thousand people frozen, watching the impossible happen. The ball hangs there, defying gravity for one more precious second, before falling away.

You’ve missed.

The UConn bench explodes, their cheers wild and unfiltered, like they’ve just won the championship. Their fans echo the celebration, chants swelling and overlapping.

"SHE’S HUMAN! SHE’S HUMAN!”

Paige takes a step toward you, instinct guiding her more than logic. It’s the same look you’ve seen in practices, in dorm rooms, in quiet moments when her guard was down. She wants to reach out, to say something, to bridge the gap between who you were to each other and who you are now.

But she stops herself. Her foot hovers for half a second before she steps back, her hand falling limp at her side. She remembers where she is. Who she’s supposed to be to you now.

And still, everyone waits.

Your teammates glance at you nervously. They’ve seen what happens when you miss. They know the last time you broke. They know why.

But you're not the same person who broke in that dark gym.

Instead of shattering, you do something no one expects.

You smile.

It’s small, controlled, more ice than warmth, but it’s enough to send a ripple through the arena. The silence shifts into something sharper, heavier.

The message is clear: Missing doesn’t break me anymore.

Nothing does.

"Oh my," the ESPN announcer’s voice is barely above a whisper. "That might be the scariest smile I’ve ever seen in basketball."

Next possession.

You take the ball at half court, KK and Paige closing in again. Their energy is different now—more cautious, less certain. They’re waiting for you to pass, waiting for you to hesitate, waiting for the doubt to creep in.

But it doesn’t.

You glance at the defense sagging just slightly, expecting hesitation, and then you do the thing no one else would.

You rise from the logo, the shot pure and effortless, the ball spinning through the air like it was destined to fall.

Swish.

40-15 Harvard.

The arena erupts.

Your teammates are screaming, their hands raised in disbelief. Coach Matthews stands for the first time all game, clipboard forgotten, her face a rare mix of awe and pride.

"THAT'S HOW YOU RESPOND TO ADVERSITY!" ESPN's voice cracks with excitement. "The Prophecy isn't just perfect anymore—she’s unstoppable!"

UConn calls timeout, but it's too late. They've lost whatever psychological edge they thought they'd gained. The rest of the quarter becomes a masterclass:

You hit threes over double teams.

Thread passes through impossible angles.

Turn their defense into a highlight reel of broken ankles and shattered hopes.

By halftime, the score is 52-27 Harvard. You've got 31 points, 8 assists, and a message that's louder than any perfect streak:

Some things break you.

Some things make you unbreakable.

And sometimes, becoming unbreakable is better than being perfect.

The teams head to their locker rooms, but the story of the second quarter isn't the score. It's the smile after the miss. The logo three that followed. The moment when The Prophecy proved that she's not just a perfect player.

HALFTIME

The locker room feels like it’s vibrating, the energy practically bouncing off the walls. Your teammates are loud, voices overlapping in a chaotic chorus of disbelief and celebration. Sierra’s pacing, too hyped to sit, while Jasmine reenacts your logo three for the tenth time, miming your shooting form with exaggerated flair.

"DID YOU SEE THEIR FACES?" Sierra's practically dancing. "When you smiled after that miss? I thought they were gonna pass out!"

"That logo three was DISGUSTING," Jasmine adds, mimicking your shooting form. "The disrespect!"

You let their voices wash over you, grounding yourself in the chaos without joining it. Sitting on the bench, you pull a water bottle to your lips, its coolness a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from your skin.

But Coach Matthews raises her hand for quiet. "They're going to come out desperate. Geno's never been down this much in a Final Four. Expect everything."

You nod slightly, her words steadying you. She’s right. The storm is coming. You can feel it brewing beyond the walls, the hum of the arena like distant thunder.

Through the locker room door, the halftime show filters in faintly. ESPN’s voices carry over the noise of the crowd:

“Harvard leads UConn 52-27 in the most lopsided first half of a Final Four in recent history…”

“31 points, 8 assists, 12-of-13 shooting, 5 steals. These aren’t just numbers; they’re history in the making…”

“And it’s not just the stats. That smile after the miss? That was the moment The Prophecy stopped being perfect and became something more. Something immortal.”

Sierra catches you listening and grins, holding up her phone. “You’re trending worldwide. Again.”

You wave her off. You don’t care about that. You’ve never cared about that.

But then Jasmine nudges you, her expression shifting from playful to serious as she shows you another text. This one’s from KK.

Paige is crying in the bathroom. Whole team’s shook. 

Good.

THIRD QUARTER

The second you see UConn retake the court, you can tell they’ve changed. There’s a new energy to them—sharper, more desperate. Paige’s eyes are slightly red, a telltale glint betraying her earlier tears. But there’s also something dangerous in her expression, the kind of desperation that makes even the best players reckless.

Geno’s thrown everything at the wall. UConn opens with a full-court press, their defenders swarming like bees, aggressive and chaotic.

It’s laughable.

You slice through them on the first possession like they’re standing still. A quick pass to Maria in the corner. Perfect release.

55-27 Harvard.

Paige tries to respond immediately, driving hard to the basket with her head down. The play is pure determination, her shoulders hunched as she barrels into the lane, but you’re ready.

Sliding over, you plant yourself perfectly, your feet set, your body immovable. When she crashes into you, the impact reverberates through your chest, but you don’t budge.

The whistle blows. Offensive foul.

Paige hits the floor hard, her hands slapping against the hardwood. For a split second, instinct kicks in—the memory of a hundred practices where you’d help her up, offer her a hand, a joke, a smile.

But that was then.

Now, you simply turn and walk away, your expression colder than the ice under her feet.

“Ice. Cold,” the announcer breathes, the disbelief palpable.

On the next possession, Paige picks you up full court, her body language bristling with frustration. She presses in close, practically stepping on your toes, her voice low and cracking.

“Please,” she whispers. “Just look at me. Just once.”

You don’t respond.

Instead, you hit her with a combination that feels less like basketball and more like poetry:

Crossover right.

Behind the back left.

Through the legs.

Step-back three.

The crowd doesn’t even wait for the ball to hit the net. The moment Paige stumbles backward, they’re on their feet, screaming.

The shot, of course, is perfect.

58-27 Harvard.

The UConn section is dead silent now. Even Geno has stopped pacing, his arms folded as he stares helplessly at the court. Paige glances toward their bench, her eyes briefly meeting Geno’s, but he has no answers either

Next possession, you wave off the screen, motioning for everyone to clear out. The court feels impossibly wide as Paige crouches in her defensive stance, her body coiled with tension. You can see the tears threatening at the corners of her eyes, the way her breathing hitches as she exhales.

Time slows.

Can see the tears threatening at the corners of Paige's eyes.

Can feel twenty thousand people holding their breath.

Perfect isn't about not missing anymore.

Perfect is about what you do next.

The move is pure poetry.

Crossover so quick the cameras barely catch it.

Through the legs at half speed, letting her think she's got you.

Then the acceleration – zero to legendary in a heartbeat.

Paige lunges, trying to stay in front.

The crowd rises as one.

But they don't matter.

Nothing matters except the physics of this moment.

You rise up from 30 feet, Paige's hand right in your face.

Time stops.

The ball arcs through the air like destiny.

Swish.

The arena detonates.

Your teammates mob you as you jog back, their faces alight with disbelief. Even the referees exchange glances, one shaking his head like he’s just witnessed the impossible.

61-33 Harvard.

Paige doesn’t move. She stays rooted to the spot where you left her, her head bowed, her hands on her knees. The weight of the game—of the moment—presses her into the hardwood.

The UConn bench looks like a graveyard.

Perfect breaks back.

The quarter ends with Harvard up 73-41. You've got 45 points on a shot chart that looks like abstract art. Each bucket more impossible than the last. Each move designed to teach them all the same lesson.

FOURTH QUARTER

Ten minutes left in the biggest game in women’s college basketball history. Harvard up 73-41. The crowd buzzes with anticipation, sensing the inevitable.

Paige opens the quarter like someone with nothing left to lose. Her movements are sharper now, more fluid, like she’s untethered from the weight of expectation. There’s desperation in her eyes, but also glimpses of what made her special.

What made her yours, once upon a time.

She hits a deep three. Then another. Her teammates respond, pressing full court, fighting for every inch, clawing for one last stand.

On the next possession, UConn doubles you at half court, but you see the opening before they do. A quick bounce pass threads the needle, hitting Sierra in stride for an uncontested layup.

75-44 Harvard.

The press comes hard again, but you stay poised, letting it collapse around you before sending a no-look pass over your shoulder to Maria in the corner. She drains the three, and the crowd explodes.

78-44 Harvard.

Paige tries to answer with a contested jumper at the other end, and it rattles in. She’s pressing now, forcing every play, trying to drag her team back into a game that’s already slipping away.

Back on offense, you hesitate near the arc, drawing in the defense before flipping a behind-the-back pass to Jasmine cutting baseline. The ball barely touches her hands before it’s in the net.

80-46 Harvard.

Coach Matthews calls timeout to sub you out with 1:32 left. The ovation is deafening—every single person in the arena on their feet, cheering until their voices crack. You’ve got 34 points, 15 assists, and 7 steals, but the numbers barely scratch the surface of what just happened.

You jog to the bench, your teammates mobbing you, their hands slapping your back, their voices a chaotic blur of celebration.

As you pass Paige one last time, there are no words. No need.

You both know what this moment is.

The final buzzer sounds: Harvard 89, UConn 51.

Confetti falls, a blizzard of crimson and gold, as your teammates tackle you in a storm of laughter and tears. Cameras flash everywhere, their lenses capturing history in real time.

You stand at center court, calm amidst the chaos, the weight of the moment settling over you.

Because you did it. You won.

The locker room is a storm of joy, the kind that only comes from rewriting history. Music blasts from a speaker in the corner. Sierra’s leading a conga line with the championship trophy hoisted high. Jasmine and Maria are filming every second, screaming into their phones about being “FINAL FOUR CHAMPIONS, BABY!”

You should be reveling in it. You are, to an extent—smiling as Sierra shoves a bottle of sparkling cider into your hands, laughing as Jasmine accidentally sprays half the team with the foam.

But deep down, there’s an itch you can’t scratch.

You made the statement. You dominated the game. You won the war.

But the battle inside you—the one that started long before tonight—is still unresolved.

Later, when the celebration starts to wind down, you find yourself leaning against a corner of the locker room, still clutching the now-empty bottle of cider. The room feels quieter, though the energy still hums faintly in the air. Your teammates are scattered—some FaceTiming family, others sprawled on benches in blissful exhaustion.

Sierra catches your eye from across the room. She doesn’t say anything, just tilts her head slightly, a silent question.

You shake your head. Not yet.

An hour later, you’re back in your hotel room, the championship hat still perched on your head, your phone buzzing endlessly with texts and notifications. Most are from reporters, friends, family. A few from Jasmine and Sierra, who are probably still partying somewhere downstairs.

You scroll through them aimlessly, not sure what you’re looking for until you see her name.

Paige.

She hasn't texted. Not since before the game. Her name sits there like a ghost in your messages, daring you to make the first move. To break the silence that's grown between you like a wall.

For a while, you just sit there, staring at the empty message thread. You replay every moment of the game in your mind—the way her voice cracked when she guarded you, the way she pressed harder and harder as the score slipped further out of reach. The way she nodded, warrior to warrior, as if she knew what you’d just written into history.

And yet, it doesn’t feel complete. Not entirely.

Before you can overthink it, you start typing.

you can come by if you want

The message is simple. No explanations, no context. You don’t even wait to see if she reads it before tossing your phone onto the bed and heading to the bathroom to wash off the night.

When you come back, the screen is lit with her reply:

where?

Your heart stumbles over itself as you type the room number. You sit on the edge of the bed, fingers playing with the hem of your sweatshirt, trying to ignore how your pulse picks up with each passing minute.

The knock, when it comes, is so soft you almost miss it.

For a second, you just stare at the door, your pulse thudding in your ears. The part of you that has spent months building walls tells you not to answer, not to let her in.

But tonight isn’t about walls.

You open the door.

She’s standing there, still in her UConn travel gear, hair tucked under a beanie. Her eyes are tired, rimmed with dark circles, but there’s something in them—something vulnerable, tentative—that catches you off guard.

“Hi,” she says softly.

“Hi.”

You step aside to let her in. She moves hesitantly, as if unsure whether she belongs here.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The room feels heavy with unspoken words, with everything the game couldn’t settle.

“You played…” Paige starts, then stops, biting her lip. “You were unbelievable.”

“Thanks.” You cross your arms, leaning against the desk. “You weren’t bad yourself.”

She lets out a breathy laugh, the sound awkward and raw. “I tried.”

Silence stretches between you again. The words you want to say stick to the back of your throat, stubborn and heavy. You watch her hands fidget with the strings of her hoodie, a nervous tell you used to find endearing. Now it just makes your chest ache.

Finally, it’s Paige who breaks the tension.

“I thought it would feel better,” she admits, her voice cracking slightly. “Losing, I mean. Seeing you win. It’s like I needed you to win. I needed you to be okay without me. But it didn’t make it hurt any less.”

Her honesty feels like a gut punch. You unfold your arms, suddenly unable to stay distant. “Paige…”

“I’m sorry,” she rushes out, words tumbling over themselves.“For all of it. For hurting you, for not fighting harder, for—”

“I know,” you cut her off gently, your voice quieter now. “I know.”

She looks at you, her eyes shiny with unshed tears. “Do you?”

You nod, stepping closer. “Yeah. I do. And I…” You take a shaky breath. “I’m tired of being angry. I don’t want to carry it anymore.”

Her shoulders slump, the tension leaving her body all at once. “I don’t either.”

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, the weight of everything unsaid filling the room.

And then, slowly, you reach out, your hand brushing hers. She looks down at the contact, her lips trembling, and you feel something shift.

Forgiveness isn’t instant. It’s not easy. But it starts here, in this quiet room, with the two of you trying to find your way back to something that feels whole.

“Sit,” you say softly, gesturing to the bed.

She hesitates, then sits down, and for the first time in months, the space between you feels less like a chasm and more like a bridge.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re ready to cross it.

She sits on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her shoulders hunched like she’s bracing for something. You grab a water bottle from the mini-fridge, needing something to do with your hands.

“Want one?” you ask, holding it up.

Paige glances at you, nodding slightly. “Yeah. Thanks.”

You hand it to her, and your fingers brush—just for a second. It’s such a small, fleeting touch, but it makes the air between you feel charged, like something fragile and important is hanging there.

She twists the cap off the bottle but doesn’t drink, just stares at it like it holds answers. “I wasn’t sure if you’d actually let me in,” she says softly.

“Neither was I,” you admit, sitting down beside her. The bed dips slightly under your weight, and for a moment, you’re hyper-aware of the small space between you.

Her lips curve into a faint, rueful smile. “Fair.”

The quiet stretches, not uncomfortable but heavy with unspoken things. You look at her out of the corner of your eye—the way her hands tremble slightly as she holds the water bottle, the way her hair falls messily over her shoulders, the way her shoulders rise and fall with each shallow breath.

“I meant what I said earlier,” Paige murmurs, breaking the silence. “You were… unbelievable tonight. I mean, you always are, but tonight…” She trails off, shaking her head like she can’t find the words.

“Thanks,” you say softly.

“I wasn’t just talking about the game,” she adds, her voice quieter now. “The way you handled everything—the pressure, the expectations, even me. It was like watching someone I didn’t even know existed.”

You glance at her sharply, caught off guard by the rawness in her voice. “You know me better than anyone.”

“I thought I did,” she says, her lips twitching into something that’s not quite a smile. “But I think I only knew the parts of you that let me in. And I don’t think I earned the rest.”

Her words hit something deep inside you, something you’ve been trying to bury. You look down at your hands, twisting the cap on your water bottle. “You didn’t need to earn it,” you say quietly. “It was always yours.”

She turns her head to look at you, her eyes wide and vulnerable, and you can feel her staring, feel her trying to read between the lines of your words.

“I should’ve fought harder,” Paige whispers. Her voice cracks, and she drops her gaze back to her lap. “For us. For you. I should’ve—”

“Stop,” you interrupt gently, surprising even yourself with the softness in your tone. “You don’t have to keep apologizing. I’ve already forgiven you.”

She lets out a shaky breath, her shoulders slumping like a weight has just been lifted. “Really?”

You nod, your throat tightening. “Yeah.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The sound of her breathing fills the room, slow and uneven, and the faint hum of the city outside filters in through the window.

“It’s weird,” you say after a while, breaking the silence. “I thought beating you tonight would feel like closure. Like I could finally move on. But it didn’t.”

Paige looks up at you, her brows furrowed. “What did it feel like?”

You hesitate, the words catching in your throat. “Like I was still waiting for something.”

She doesn’t ask what, doesn’t press, but the way she looks at you tells you she knows.

The silence stretches again, but this time it feels different—like the space between you is slowly shrinking, like the air is shifting.

You shift slightly on the bed, your knee brushing hers. The touch is small, accidental, but neither of you pulls away.

“Do you want to stay?” you ask suddenly, the words tumbling out before you can overthink them.

Paige blinks, her eyes widening in surprise. “What?”

“Stay,” you repeat, your voice steadier now. “Just for tonight.”

She looks at you, searching your face for something—hesitation, doubt, anything that might make her say no. But she doesn’t find it.

“Okay,” she says finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

You nod, standing up and grabbing a spare blanket from the closet. “You can take the bed. I’ll—”

“No,” she interrupts quickly, shaking her head. “I mean, we can… share. If that’s okay.”

You hesitate for a moment, then nod again. “Yeah. Okay.”

The bed feels impossibly small as you both lie down, the silence stretching between you like a fragile thread. You’re on your back, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about how close she is. Paige shifts slightly, the mattress dipping under her weight, and you catch the faint scent of her shampoo.

You try to focus on anything else—the faint hum of the city outside, the muffled sound of someone laughing in the hallway, the rhythm of your own breathing. But your mind keeps circling back to her.

“Hey,” Paige whispers after a while, her voice tentative in the dark.

“Yeah?”

“Can I…?” She trails off, and you turn your head to look at her. Her eyes are wide, uncertain, the soft light from the window catching the gold flecks in them. “Can I hold you?”

The question catches you off guard, but only for a second. Then you nod, shifting onto your side to face her.

She hesitates, like she’s still waiting for you to pull away, and then she closes the space between you. Her arms wrap around you carefully, like she’s afraid you’ll break, and you feel the warmth of her body settle against yours.

You exhale slowly, your head resting against her shoulder, your hand curling slightly against her chest. Her heartbeat is steady, grounding, and for the first time all night, you feel your own racing pulse start to calm.

“Is this okay?” she asks softly, her breath warm against your hair.

“Yeah,” you murmur, letting your eyes close. “It’s okay.”

For a while, neither of you speaks. The quiet hum of the room wraps around you like a cocoon, the world outside fading into the background. You focus on the small details—the way her fingers trace absent patterns against your back, the steady rise and fall of her breathing, the way her cheek brushes against your temple.

“I missed this,” she whispers, the words barely audible.

You don’t answer right away, your throat tightening with emotions you’re not ready to name. Instead, you shift closer, tucking your face into the crook of her neck. “Me too.”

Her arms tighten slightly around you, and you feel the faintest press of her lips against your hair. It’s not a kiss, not really—just a gentle, fleeting touch, like she’s afraid to ask for more.

You stay like that for what feels like hours, the weight of everything unsaid hanging in the air. But for now, it’s enough. Enough to share the silence, to let yourselves be close again, to let the cracks start to heal.

“I don’t want this to be the end,” she says quietly, breaking the silence.

You open your eyes, your gaze meeting hers in the dim light. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be.”

The faintest smile tugs at her lips, hopeful and tentative, and you let yourself smile back.

For now, it’s enough.

For tonight, it’s everything.

The End

A Note from the Me

Thank you for following The Prophecy's story through these three parts. Your comments, messages, and support have meant the world to me. You've helped shape this story of what happens when perfect meets human, when physics equations meet matters of the heart, when being unbreakable becomes more important than being flawless.

Thank you for being part of this journey (cornball moment lol). If enough people want I can do a 6 year time jump as a short story where they're married.