๠࣠âă ¤ đđđđđđđđ . . . ellie creates a fake facebook account to mess with her best friend, dina. then you add her. she has quietly liked you for years, yet never had the courage to talk to you in class. when you start messaging her, ellie panics. you think youâre talking to a boy. she knows youâre straight, but telling the truth feels like the fastest way to lose the only version of you that ever chose her first.
â¸â¸ 869 words ă fluff . modern au . college au
10 missed calls.
12 text messages.
ellie woke up to the sound of her phone vibrating itself off the nightstand.
ellie groaned, letting her head fall back against the pillows as her phone buzzed again beside her. she didnât need to check the screen to know it was you.
then she rolled over.
4:22 pm.
ellie shot upright so fast the room spun.
âno, no, no,â she muttered, pushing herself upright and scrolling frantically through your messages.
"wowww"
"guess i got stood up"
"should i order without you or is that rude"
"i look like an idiot"
"ellie. i swear."
"i hate you"
despite herself, ellie smiled. that was definitely you.
she had just got back from her last class, checked her watch 3:20 pm. she only meant to lie down for a minute. power nap. her shoes still on, hoodie pulled over her hand, jeans on.
apparently her body had other plans.
"overslept baby"
she typed quickly, fingers clumsy. "iâm so sorry. please donât be mad."
the response came instantly.
"mad? no."
"deeply offended, actually."
"you hate me"
ellie huffed a quiet laugh, already standing, running a hand through her tussled up hair.
"five minutes away" she lied. "maybe seven."
"uh huh." you type. "you owe me." you sat in the coffee shop, your mood already sour. you've been waiting for her for fifteen minutes, which doesn't seem long, but for you, it was.
you watch the time on your phone, five minutes pass. you dial her number. she lets it ring a little too long, too busy jogging all the way down her dorm before she answers it.
"baby! hi. hi. sorry, i'm on my way already." ellie says, out of breathe.
"i'm so mad at you. i can't evenâ i told you four o clock."
"i know babygirlâi know. i overslept. i was tired from my last class."
"yeah, right."
"it's on me. i'll make it up to you."
you scoff, hanging up on her and going back to scrolling on your phone, looking out the window every so often to look for ellie.
the bell over the cafĂŠ door chimed, and ellie stepped inside, slightly out of breath, hoodie wrinkled, hair sticking up in a way that definitely proved sheâd just woken up.
your eyes flicked up immediately.
you rolled your eyes then you looked away.
on purpose.
she slowed down, walking over to the back of the coffee shop. she stopped in front of you, a sheepish grin on her face. she ducks down a bit, kissing your cheek, not once but twice for good measure.
"hi honey." she said softly, sitting beside you in the booth, hands immediately coming up to your waist as she kisses your neck.
you shut your phone off, unimpressed.
"wow. this is what feels like to be forgotten."
ellie winced, but she was smiling. âi didnât forget you.â she continues peppering your neck with soft kisses.
"oh?" you glance at her, then at your watch. "because it's been..twenty five minutes actually."
"thirty actually."
"so you counted? don't get smart with me ellie." you said, nudging her with your shoulder softly.
"yes ma'am."
that got you to look at her properly, lips twitching like you were fighting a smile. you held out your half empty cup.
"this got cold by the way."
"i'll get you another one, don't worry."
"i really wasn't."
"fine, so you don't want one?" she says, looking up from your neck to give you that smart ass grin that she knows gets under your skin.
"ellie, i swearâ" she cuts you off with a soft peck.
"i was kidding, i'll get you one." she stands up from the booth, hand still attached to yours as she pulls her wallet out.
"with oat milk." you say softly, holding onto one of her fingers. "with oat milk." she repeats, smiling softly.
you leaned back in the cushion, watching her with open satisfaction. âand the muffin?â
ellie glanced at the plate. âthat oneâs still whole.â
âyeah, because itâs yours,â you said. âyou overslept. you eat the consequences.â
ellie laughed, quiet and fond, then bent down slightly so she was closer to your face. âyouâre evil.â
âyou love it.â
she did. god, she did.
ellie came back, fresh coffee in hand, chocolate muffin in the other. she grins, as she sits in back down beside you. you push the other muffin to her, and sip your coffee.
she takes a bite of the muffin, eyes glued to you with the most fond, genuine smile ever.
"so. apology." you said in a calm, quiet manner, swirling your coffee.
ellie swallowed, then leaned forward, elbow on the table as she faced you. âiâm really sorry i overslept baby. i wanted to see you. i swear.â
you hummed, unconvinced. âthatâs it?â
she smiled, soft and real. âi missed you, really. i missed you a ton babygirl.â
that did it.
your expression cracked just a little, bratty edge melting into something warmer. you reached out, hand holding hers under the table.
ânext time,â you said, âiâm calling you until you answer.â
ellie squeezed your ankle gently. âiâd like that.â you rolled your eyes, but you were smiling now, wide and easy.
bratty or not, she was exactly where she wanted to be.
WEDNESDAY NIGHT INTERLUDE. â paige b. x fem!reader
â°â⤠đ´đśđŽđŽđ˘đłđş. you and paige were always designated fuck buddies. just you and her. after your greediness gets the best of you, she proves that you know better.
â°â⤠đŹđŚâˇâˇ đ´đąđŚđ˘đŹđ´. WELL HELLO. i have returned from the infamous writing break to give you this blurb for (way after) new years cus yall r my babies and i luv you oh so much (teeheeeee) i hope all of you achieve your new yearâs resolutions and leave all negative shit in 2025! expect more from me since they cuttin a bitch work hoursâŚđŠđ˝âđť
âBeen a minute since we slept together, gotta get myself together.â
âIâve been thinking about everything⌠I donât know if itâs because Iâm lonely?â
âLonely on a Wednesday night.â
â PARTYNEXTDOOR.
It was a dark, and very boring Wednesday night. Your phone was on do not disturb, and the blunt in your hand was freshly rolled. The room was lit up ever so slightly, the brown floor lamp dim in the corner of your living room. The netflix show you decided to binge had been off for a whileâthe noise of the air blowing out of your Playstation was loud, signaling that it was time to get a new one.
All you had on was a white camisole, that clinged to your braless tits, making your nipples hard in the below freezing living room. Your black lace panties had just been slipped back on, considering the session you just had with yourself before you rolled this blunt.
Your necklaces clung to your sweaty skin, the mixture of sweat and your Prada perfume creating a different kind of smell, one you didnât mind. It smelled like sexâin a good way.
You felt so lonely on nights like these, fresh out of a situationship with the one girl you thought was your ânumber-one-sex-candidateâ, Paige Bueckers. The two of you cut it off after she caught you fucking around with other peopleâbut man, do you regret it. You thought about the way she felt inside you, which was the cause of your panties being long gone a while ago. It was to the point you bought a dark blue dildo to match her strap, just so it could feel like she was dicking you down all over again. You screamed her name, spelled her name out when your fingers were inside yourselfâfor a situationship, you were clearly obsessed with her.
The amount of times you wished you could just pick up the phone, tell her you needed her, wanted to make her head so big, that she would come over and fuck you just to prove a point. You had all this weed to yourself, and you felt like you needed the company. She was pissed when you went to someone else to get off, fucking all her anger out before blocking you on everything completely. She hit every angle inside of you, fucking you so deep while you were in missionary, forcing you to tell her that nobody could fuck you like she could.
And she made you feel how stupid you were for fucking someone else.
The girl was a random, it was an honest mistake, really. The one night your body craved another body on top of it, the temperature rising every time you climaxed. You were impatient. Paige was on a trip with her team, all the way in Turks and Caicos, without you. Out of the couple conversations the two of you did have, you vividly remember her telling you she wouldnât be back for at least a weekâbut you couldnât wait that long to be fucked.
You needed it now.
But being greedy gets you nowhere, because that nightâthe night you went out on a solo date, so bored and horny⌠just aching for Paige to come back home to youâthere was this girl, not only was she charming and sweet, she looked just like Paige.
You seduced her with ease, downing a couple shots back to back, tipsy enough to feel on her with every thing being reciprocated. You could tell she liked you, and that made things so much easier on your end. After a couple more shots between the two of you, you took her back to your apartmentâher tongue was deep inside of your mouth as soon as you hit the door, and before you knew itâyour back was arching off the fabric of your couch, with her head between your legs, slurping every drop of your pussy.
She dicked you down good, too. But it was never how Paige did you. Paige knew exactly what angles to hit, how to curve it inside you just rightâand she knew how to make you cum in under five minutes, tops. She knew how to make you loud, and keep you quietâand when she fucked you⌠it sent you to a whole different dimension.
This one night stand knew how to fuck, but you missed Paige. You missed the way her voice got all low when she was inside, whispering to you like other people could hear her. It was like some type of love spell, and at one point you almost told her you loved her mid-stroke. Sometimes you used to think that if you ever did, she just might say it backâand that sat just fine with you.
The night she had living proof you fucked someone elseâshe was furious. It was past midnight, a little after your âone-night-standâ, and you tried your best to hide how fucked out you were. Your hair was messy, clothes all over the floor. You tried to play it off as just being lazy when Paige came over, since she knew you had been busy with all the things you were juggling at the moment. But Paige doesnât forget anything. Not a single thing.
That night she arrived at your apartment, she stripped you of everything immediately. She was craving you like crazy, so much as ripping the new pair of Victoria Secret panties she had just bought you, and kissing down your hips slowly. Her lips were so soft, and the very lightly tinted lip balm she had on left marks on your thighs. The way her lips pecked against you made you wet, as she did nothing but speak absolutely reckless in your ear.
She was making her way back up to your titsâwhen she saw things she never wanted to see. There was a fresh hickey on your right boob, not even bruised all the way yet. One thing about Paigeâshe never forgot what she left on your body. Didnât forget not a single mark, hickey, scratchânothing. Paige had a system when it came down to fucking youâit was a job only she did, she could leave whatever she wanted on you, and youâd beg for moreâEvery. Single. Time.
But this right here, it set her off completely. Of course she was madâyou were giving her pussy up this easy, acting like every time she fucked your brains out, it meant nothing. She made you pay for it that night too, and it puts you in the same predicament every time when you think about itâstripping yourself naked, lying on the plush mattress with the same vibrator you seemed to use six times out of the seven days of the week. You couldnât resist her, reallyâthat sexiness in her voice was so addictive, and donât even start on the tapes you made. They were still in your hidden album inside of your camera roll, and you found yourself visiting that album tonight.
So here you were, a fresh blunt after completely obliterating yourself, over a girl you didnât know even wanted to fuck you again. But nothing was impossible. So much so, that you lit your blunt, took a puff, and picked up your phone. It mightâve seemed like you were the only obsessed one between the two of youâbut in reality, it wasnât just you. See, Paige had every right to keep you blocked on every platform, but she didnât. She blocked you for a little while, then all of a sudden, she re-saved your contact, unblocked you on all her socialsâjust to make sure she could watch you closely. Better yet, watch you suffer without her.
You were tired of being a pussy, so you went to your contacts, and scrolled all the way down to the âPâ sectionâpassing some family members with the same letter, and seeing her name. Her contact picture was the two of you in her mirror, her standing behind you in nothing but a black tee and boxers, and you, in one of her t-shirts and your own pantiesâyour bra across the room. You loaded the messages between you two, the last thing that was said was her calling you a âgreedy slutâ, since apparently, you were so desperate for sex.
come over?
please?
Radio silence.
You sat your phone back down on your couch, and after about twelve minutes passesâyou felt the small vibration of a notification. You knew it wasnât just any notification though, knowing your do not disturb didnât let anything through. It was Paige.
What happened to your other bitch
She must couldnât make you cum
Yeah ik đ
Her ego turned you on so bad. More than anything. The way she knew you couldnât live without her touch, her kisses, her fingers, her pussy, her strap. Little did you know, she was craving you too, and thinking about your body turned her on too. There were so many nights sheâd snatch her boxers clean offâquickly pulling up one of your old sex tapes, moaning your name softly, pumping her fingers in and out of her pussy. Paige wasnât even the type to feel this way about any girl, especially when they went out fucking other girls. But you, you were something differentâout of her comfort zone. Not only did she fuck you good, you fucked her good, too. She never let anybody else touch her body like you did, never let anyone below her belt, unless she was in control completely.
A couple minutes passed once again, and your phone started buzzing. You turned it over, screen faced up, and watched the bold letters appear. It was Paige, and you picked up the phone, trying to process the thought of her even wanting to contact you again.
You let it ring a couple more times, finally clicking the green button.
*Hello?â*
*...*
*âYou still stay inna same apartment?â
*âRent too good to leave, Paige. Why you ask?â*
*âYo address still 926?â*
*âMhm.â*
*âIâm onna way.â*
And right after that, Paige hung up the phone. You didnât know what to do, the two of you hadnât seen each other in two weeks, let alone spoken to each other. But her voice, that raspy, sexy, sound had your panties hanging on for dear life. You missed that voice, bad. And that same voice, along with Paige Bueckers herself, was on the way to your apartment. Who knows what she was gonna do to you? Was she there to argue? Make up for lost time? Kiss you? Hug you? Fuck you?
It was all intriguing to you, but that little voice inside your head was slightly frightened. The last time you two saw each other, she fucked your guts crazy. And if she was down with fucking you senseless while you two were beefing, who knows what sheâd do when itâs been a while. A while since sheâs seen your body, been a minute since sheâs kissed and held it. You didnât know what you were getting into tonight, but you were prepared for whatever there was to come.
You got up from your couch, and quickly ran some hot shower water. You scrubbed your body down, and went over the hairs you missed on your legs, making them smooth as butter. You dried off, rubbing all the special and expensive body oils all over your body. You smelled heavenly, your body absolutely radiant under your vanity lights. You applied your skincare, making all your face slick and shiny, with the smallest swipe of lash serum on both of your eyelids.
You didnât know if you wanted to be casual or sexy, even though you figured you knew what she was coming over forâyou didnât want to assume. You threw on something simple, a big tee and the cutest panties you had. Throwing your hair up, you strutted back to the living room to re-light your blunt. You wanted to seem more relaxed, and the smoke you blew out was doing just that. You inhaled, exhaled, and repeated. Your body felt calm and collected, and ready for any and every thing.
You knew Paige lived decently far from your apartment, and thatâs why she insisted on driving to see you every time you two linked. It was easier on her. It took you a good hour to get all the way ready, and for a second you thought Paige was flaking to get back at you once more. But your doubts were shut down right after they popped in your head, because a couple seconds later, there was the faintest knock on your front door. You dusted your shirt off, and kept the blunt in hand. You sashayed over to the door, and you took a peek into your peephole. It was her, in all her glory.
Her hair was in a low bun, with a black beanie over it. She had on her glasses, and you had a feeling she remembered you told her you liked them on her. Her gray Essentials sweatpants were low on her hips, with the drawstrings untied. Her Calvin Klein boxers peeked ever so slightly above her waistband. She had her keys in between her fingers, and the veins throughout her hands were popping out like she was ready to get her blood drawn. You took a breath, and unlocked the door.
The door clicked, and all Paige could do was stare up and down your body. You leaned on the doorframe, and took a hit of your blunt in front of her. A small smirk creeped upon her face, and she reached her two fingers out to take a hit from it as well.
âYou gotta come inside, if you wanna smoke my weed.â You said, the tone in your voice causing Paige to lick her lips.
âThatâs the only reason you want me to come inside?â Paige asks, stepping past you and setting her keys down on your granite countertop.
âIs there any other reason youâre at my apartment this late?â You tease, handing her the blunt. She takes a long drag, maintaining eye contact while she exhales. She made everything look so sexy to you, the smallest things had your pussy tingling through your panties. She handed your blunt back to you, and sat manspread on your couch. Her long arm was extended across the back of it, and her hand rested on her thigh.
âYou look pretty.â Paige huffed, that smirk popping back up on her tanned face.
âThank you, Paige.â You giggled, but you wanted to know the real reason she was here. Was it sex? Or to sit around and tease all night? Because you could easily do both.
âWhyâre you here, Paige.â You say, inhaling the substance from your blunt once more. You dipped it in the ashtray and got comfortable in your spot.
âI canât come see you?â She asks, throwing her hands up in defense.
âDidnât know you still wanted to see me, P.â You sigh, dropping your head down in disappointment.
Paige picked your chin up, and looked you straight in your eyes. Your eyes were tinted pink, and your lashes drooped low on your eyelids. The weed was getting settled in your systemâand Paige could tell. She stroked your jaw, and brought you into her lap. You let her do whatever she wanted with you, and it always worked out in your favor. She held on to your hip, and took the blunt from out of your fingertips. She took a drag, and pulled your bottom lip down with her finger.
âOpen.â
You opened your mouth, and she blew the smoke into your mouth so you could inhale it. Then as you take it all in, her lips connected with yours, and all you could feel was her tongue fighting against yours. You pulled away and stared at her, but all she could do was smile at you.
âI can show you I still fuck with you, mama.â Paige whispers, grabbing any of the meat of your bare ass that wasnât covered by your panties, and just rubbing it to her liking.
âI missed this ass too, baby.â Paige says, her voice low, making you smile.
You took the blunt back from her, inhaling, and exhaling into her mouth. She stuck her tongue in your mouth, and saliva dripped down from both of you. Paige was groping your ass harder each kiss, forcing your hips to grind down on her lap, leaving your panties damp. She hooked her long fingers on your panties, tapping your legs to lift them up, so she could take the fabric that was covering nothing, right off of you.
She threw your panties on the floor, and felt on the slick of your pussy.
âYou get wetter every time I pull up to this apartment, I see.â She teases you, and makes circles around your clit. She rubs and rubs, stimulating every inch of your body until you canât physically take it anymore. That was her signature. She wanted to overstimulate you every chance she got, because watching you fall apart was heaven on Earth. She slowly slides two fingers in your pussy, pumping in and out so she could watch you squirm.
She was whispering all kinds of shit in your ear, and that was one of your favorite parts. She knew how to talk you through every position, every angle, every orgasm.
âRide these fingers, baby. Câmon.â Paige whispers, moving your hips back and forth against her digits. The sound of your pussy was ungodly, and it was music to Paigeâs ears. âHow could you have given all this away so easily?â You thought to yourself. Paige was the only one who could make you fold like this, and you were so stupid to have given up her pussy like that. And so here you were, riding her fingers like your life depended on itâwaiting for her to tell you to cum at any second.
But all of a sudden, her fingers stop moving inside of you. All the passion came to a halt. She pulled her fingers out of your pussy, her fingers halfway soaked. She maintained eye contact, and sucked her fingers clean. Paige kissed you, hard. Her tongue was back in your mouth, and the two of you were fighting for power. But Paige needed this right now. She needed your body.
She pulled away from your mouth, and lifted you up right from her lap. She looked down at your pantless body, and took your hand. She led you to your own bedroom, the same room she fucked you in so many times. It was a room she missed.
You made it to the door, and Paige stood at the doorframe, admiring the room she once fucked you over eight times in one night in. You were so shy all of a sudden, seeing her tall frame standing against the door. Her boxers showing, her eyes low and droopyâit was like a wet dream.
She walked towards you, looking down at your bodyâscanning it like the rough draft of an essay. She got so close to your face again, with the stench of weed and her Valentino perfume flooding your nose.
âArms up.â Paige demands, lightly massaging your shoulder. You lifted your arms up, and she took off the oversized shirt that covered your body. She couldnât do anything but bite her lip at the sight of you, your beautiful plush tits, and the small tattoo on your collarbone. She bent down, grabbing your chin. She turned your head, and kissed down your neck while the two of you stood there.
âYâknow how you can make all this up to me?â Paige asks.
âMmm..how, baby?â You moan quietly, your hands tangling in the wavy strands of her hair.
âLet me use you.â Paige mutters, while leaving a fresh hickey on the side of your neck.
She stopped kissing your neck, and grabbed your hips. She backed you into your mattress, and pushed you ever so slightly. You were completely naked, looking up at her. You squeezed your legs together, every single movement you made, any type of pressureâit was all getting you closer to cumming.
âTake emâ off me.â Paige directed, gesturing to the sweatpants clinging to her long legs. You blinkedâgetting all shy on her again. You stared up at her once more, brushing the loose strands of hair out of your face.
âIâm not gonâ ask you again, mama.â She grabbed your jaw, and it made you moan instantly. You pulled down her sweatpants slowly, watching her thighs twitch from the cool air. Her pants reached to her ankles, and your heart was beating so fast, you couldâve sworn Paige could hear it thumping. Then came her boxers, they were navy blue with the Calvin Klein logo on the waistband, and once you pulled them down, you could feel your mouth salivating at the sight of Paigeâs pussy.
She was practically dripping, the wetness was hidden away in her discarded boxers. You took one look at how wet she got for you, and completely lost any sense you had left. You gripped her thighs, and dipped your head into her crotch. You lapped at her pussy, using your tongue to pleasure the woman who always had the nerve to look this good.
âFuck, mama. Eat this pussy, baby.â Paige moaned, gripping the back of your head, and pushing it deeper and deeper between her legsâforcing your tongue further inside her pussy. The veins were practically popping out of her hands, and she was pulling your hair so hardâbut it felt so good. She moaned and moaned in your ears, practically riding your face. Her face was scrunched up, and you could tell she was reaching her limit.
You broke free from her, slowly retracting your tongue from inside of her. Her head was thrown back, until she felt you coming to a stop. She looked down at you, her anger slowly fading into her face. She jerked your head back, looking at you with her eyebrows furrowed.
âThe fuck is you doinâ?â She exclaimed, her voice raspy from never holding back when she moaned, and bending down to look at you, eye-to-eye.
You bit your lip at the sightâher face red, and her plush lips pink from all the kissing the two of you did.
âLay back.â You told her, standing up before her, and switching spots with her. She was sitting on your bed, her pants and boxers laid out on the floor. She scooted back against your headboard, and snatched her white tee off in the process. She threw it across your room, planning on never putting it on again for a while. She slouched slightly, and watched as you slowly rubbed on your body, and crawled across your bed to meet her.
She looked up at you in amazement, casing and staring at your body like it was a champions trophy. She missed all of you. You placed yourself on her lap, and the small moan that erupted from her mouth was sinful. You grinded on her good, the two of your pussies connecting with so much ease. She grabbed your hips, and started pushing you down on her lap further and further. The sound was ridiculous, the squelching between the two of you echoed throughout the roomâyour pussies wetter than they had ever been before.
âYou missed this pussy, baby?â You moaned out, Paige giving a head nod.
âTell me you missed it, donât nod.â You demanded, moving your hips faster.
âOkay. Okay, babyâfuck. I missed this pussy, mama. Damn.â Paige yelled out, her face growing pinker every grind. Her pussy was wet, and it felt so soft against yours. This is what felt right. You smiled at her, grabbing her shoulders, and slapping your body against hers. Her eyes were rolling back, and her mouth was slowly opening. Moans couldnât even form anymore, it felt so goodâthat no sound could escape Paigeâs mouth.
âYâclose, baby?â You whispered, before throwing your head back from the sensation of your pussy taking over your whole body.
âSo, so, close. Lemme⌠fuck. Lemme hold you, mama.â Paige said, holding your back, and pressing herself against you. You slammed your pussy against hers, until the both of you came undone together. It was everywhere, on your stomach, her thighs, your sheets.
You kissed her sloppily, then eventually slowing down. The two of you laid on the side of your bed that wasnât wet, and stared at your apartmentâs popcorn ceiling. Paige looked down at the mess you made, and turned over to look at you.
âDo you love me?â She asks, brushing a strand of hair out of her face.
âI do love you.â You answer, turning and facing her.
âYou not gonâ give my pussy up to no lame again, are you?â She asks sternly, biting her jaw.
âNever.â
âAight, well. I love you too, then.â Paige says, smirking.
She pulled your body closer to hers, and you drifted into a deep sleep shortly after.
The next morning, Paige gathered her things, and you woke up to an empty bed. You figured she would just play you again, since fucking someone else obviously made her mad. A couple hours passed, and you made right with your feelingsâassuming Paige wouldnât be back, and the conversation last night was just an âafter-sex fantasyâ.
There was a knock on your door, and when you answered itâshe smiled at you. Backpack on her back, and an extra bag in hand.
when i tell you i havenât stopped thinking ab that vid of paige and t since it came out i mean i zone out at work staring at the wall THATs how fuckin hot paige looks
in which youâre the biggest husky fan in the world
wc - 17.6k
You were six months old the first time your parents took you to a UConn womenâs basketball game.
It was snowing the way it only snows in Connecticutâfat flakes thick and wet and falling like theyâre on a mission. The windshield wipers thudded in rhythm, clearing the view of the highway as your mother turned around in the passenger seat to check on you. You were bundled up like a marshmallow, cheeks red and nose runny, a navy blue knit hat barely staying on your head. Your father joked that you looked like a baby blueberry. He said it again to make your mom laugh. You didn't know what a blueberry was.
You donât remember anything about that day, of course. But your parents tell the story like itâs folklore. The way your eyes stayed wide the whole time. How you flinched at the first buzzer and cried through the first half, but fell asleep in your momâs arms during the third quarter, lips curled around your pacifier while the arena roared around you. You wore a onesie that said âHusky Babyâ in sparkly white letters. It was too big. You drooled on it.
They say Diana Taurasi hit a game-winner that night. Your dad still has the program tucked into a shoebox with your birth bracelet and a print-out of your first ultrasound. On the cover, sheâs mid-dribble, eyes locked forward like she already knows what the defense is about to do. He says the crowd lost its mind when she let that last shot fly, that your mom stood up and screamed so loud you startled awake, blinking up at the scoreboard like you were trying to understand.
They tell that story every year on your birthday.
Your childhood unspooled in quarters and halves. Seasons marked not just by holidays or school breaks, but by game days and rankings, by conference titles and March. You lived in Hartford, close enough that Gampel Pavilion and the XL Center both felt like second homes. You learned the names of the players before you learned to spell. There was no question who your favorite team was. No debate. No compromise.
You were always in the standsâfirst as a bundle in your parentsâ arms, later in a booster seat with your legs swinging above the concrete floor. When you were two, your mom bought you your first jersey. Number 3. Red, white, and navy. âThatâs Diana,â your dad told you. You didnât know who Diana was, but you liked the way the fabric felt and how the crowd would chant when anyone wearing that jersey touched the ball.
Eventually, you knew them all by heart. Not just Taurasi but Bird and Moore and Charles, names that hung from the rafters like prayers. You could trace the line of greatness with a finger, like a constellation. At night, youâd sit at the kitchen table with your dad and rewatch recorded games on VHS, rewinding big plays over and over. Heâd freeze the frame to show you the footwork, the spacing, the cuts. You didnât play basketball yourself. Not once. But you understood it. You loved it.
When your parents couldnât take you, you took the bus. That started around age ten. They were hesitant at first, but you convinced them. It was just a few stops. You packed your bag like it was a mission. Portable charger, extra snacks, schedule printout folded neatly in the side pocket. You became a fixture in the student sections, though you were nowhere near college age yet. People started recognizing you. Security guards waved. Some of the ushers called you âCoach.â You wore that like a badge of honor.
Your room at home was a shrine. Posters taped unevenly to the wall. Ticket stubs lined up on your cork board. You made your own stat charts, color-coded by player. Your mom shook her head affectionately every time she caught you annotating a box score like it was sacred text.
âYou know this isnât your homework, right?â sheâd tease.
âIt is,â youâd say without looking up. âItâs just not graded.â
The years passed like quarters on a scoreboard. The names on the jerseys changed. The banners got higher. You grew into your voiceâasking questions, reading scouting reports, predicting lineups before the broadcast even caught up. You had favorite broadcasters and hated when the national coverage got it wrong. You screamed at missed calls like you were courtside.
But you stayed in the stands.
You never crossed that line. Never picked up a ball. Never dribbled or practiced a layup or joined your schoolâs rec league even when they begged you to come. It wasnât that you didnât want to playâit just wasnât you. Watching was enough. Worshipping the game was enough. Being there, living it from the bleachers, was enough.
At least, thatâs what you told yourself.
Freshman year of High School doesnât begin with a bang. It starts with a 5:45 a.m. alarm, the one you set to make sure you could catch the local bus from your side of Hartford to school on the east side before the sun even clears the tops of the houses. You sit by the window, hoodie up, earbuds in, knees pressed to the seat in front of you. Youâre not listening to music. Youâre rewatching last nightâs UConn game. You know every stat already, but you still want to see it again. The offensive set with the double screen. The baseline jumper off a late inbound. The missed free throw that almost cost the win. Youâre already thinking of how to write about it.
Youâve joined the school paper. It's a small operationâtwo seniors, one overworked English teacher, and a Google Drive that hasnât been organized since 2009âbut you see it as your way in. You're not interested in the lunchroom drama or the debate team blurbs. You pitch a weekly column, âThe Husky Report.â Your teacher hesitatesâsays it's niche and not everyone follows college sports. But youâre already drafting the first one in your notebook before he finishes saying no.
You publish under your initials. Youâre not sure why. Maybe because it makes you feel older. Or more professional. Or because it hides the fact that youâre a freshman with braces and a UConn keychain dangling from your backpack like a badge of honor. Still, people start reading it. At first, itâs just your teachers. Then your history class group chat starts circulating your write-ups. One day, a senior stops you in the hallway and says, âYo, you really watch all the games?â You nod. He fist-bumps you. Keeps walking. Thatâs it. But it stays with you all day.
At home, your roomâs changed a little. Your parents painted it two summers agoâa cool slate blueâand youâve taken down most of the cartoon posters. But the basketball wall remains. Jerseys hung carefully. Ticket stubs pinned like battle ribbons. Your cork board's filling with clippings now. The front page when UConn won its eleventh title, your own printed columns from the school site, even a grainy photo of you standing courtside at a youth event Geno spoke at. He signed your notepad. Itâs in a plastic sleeve like itâs holy.
Your parents still go with you to some games, but they donât need to anymore. You've memorized the bus schedule, the student discounts, which gates have shorter lines, which hot dog vendors won't overcharge. You keep a little journal in your pocket at all times. Game notes. Quotes. Impressions. Nothing gets past you. Not a missed defensive rotation. Not a refâs bad angle. You tweet updates too, tagging players and throwing in gifs. Occasionally a like. Once, a retweet from the UConn WBB official account. You ran downstairs to show your mom like it was an Olympic medal.
By sophomore year, your name starts circulating a little.
The UConn student-run paper reposts one of your longer recaps with a short line, âBetter coverage than most pros.â You print it. Frame it. Your journalism teacher calls you the âresident UConn oracle.â Your parents joke about building you a press booth in the garage.
Still, thereâs something that lingers in your chest. A kind of ache you canât name yet. It hits when youâre watching warmups from the second row, alone in a sea of fans. When you see the team huddled together, laughing, bumping shoulders, drenched in sweat and confidence. When the lights dim and the intro video plays and your pulse jumps like itâs your name on the Jumbotron. But it never is.
Youâre always watching. Always writing. But youâre not in it.
Thereâs a moment, sometime that winter, when you start wondering what it would feel like to be known by them. Not in a creepy way. Not in an I want to be part of the team type of way. But⌠something else. To be seen. To be a fixture, not a fan. To have one of them look up after a win and spot you. Smile. Wave.
You tuck that thought away. You donât write it down. You barely admit it to yourself.
In sophomore year, you get serious.
You start studying tape more deliberately. Not just for recaps, but for yourself. You keep spreadsheets now. Advanced stats. Scouting notes. You teach yourself analytics from online videos and a couple of free courses online. Your teacher offers to help you apply to a summer sports journalism camp in Boston. You get in. You're the youngest person there. Also the only one who never played any sport. But your mock articles get handed around. You make a couple of connections. A woman who used to work at ESPN gives you her card. Says you have an eye for the game. That your writing âmoves.â
That night in your dorm room, you pull out your notebook. You scribble one sentence on the cover, Theyâll know who I am one day, and underline it.
Not in a cocky way. Not even in a hopeful way. Just a truth you believe with your whole chest.
Junior year begins differently.
It starts not with the usual chill of October or the ritual of printing out the UConn schedule and taping it beside your desk, but with an email.
Subject: The Husky Report
Sender: Leah Moore, Assistant Director of Strategic Communications, UConn Athletics.
You read it four times before moving.
At first you think itâs a prank. A scam. Something fake or automated, even though the signature is too specific and the greeting says your full name. You check it on your phone. You check it again on your laptop. You Google her name just to be sure. Sheâs real. And she works for UConn.
Hi Y/N,
Iâve been following your weekly columns and Twitter threads this season. Your eye for detail and storytelling stands outâespecially for someone still in high school. I showed your piece on the Baylor game to our department lead and she said, âWho is this kid?â
Would you ever be interested in shadowing a game day with our media team this season? No pressure. Just thought it might be something youâd enjoy. Let me know.
â Leah Moore.
You sit frozen, the cursor blinking in reply. For two whole minutes, you donât move. You donât even breathe right. Your fingers hover over the keys, and something builds inside youânot panic or excitement, but something steadier. Quieter. Like gravity.
The game day you choose is against Notre Dame. It's a non-conference classic, always personal, always dramatic. Youâve written about it the last three years, circling the same themes of legacy and rivalry and bloodlines. Youâve never missed it. But youâve never seen it from this side.
Leah meets you in front of the loading dock behind Gampel. Youâre wearing your cleanest jeans, a tucked-in UConn polo you had to borrow from your dad, and a pair of sneakers you scrubbed the night before. She gives you a lanyard and a smile and walks you through it like youâre a new hire, not a high school junior who still needs a parent signature to leave campus some days.
It feels surreal, like walking into the dream youâve been watching from the outside for sixteen years.
Inside the media room, people are pacing. Laptops out. Screens open. Everyoneâs in motion but not rushed, like theyâve done this dance so often they donât have to think anymore. Leah walks you around the control desk, the social media monitor, the tunnel access screen. Youâre not allowed to post anything live, but she says you can shadow their content guy for pregame media.
When the team walks in, you stand near the corner. Quiet. Out of the way.
And you see them.
Not on a screen. Not through binoculars. But here. Real. So close you could count their braids, see the scuffs on their shoes, hear the rhythm of their jokes. You recognize every face. You mouth their names to yourself like a litany. You remember their high school stats, their redshirt seasons, the injuries they fought through. Theyâre bigger than lifeâbut now, somehow, smaller too. Real. Human.
You think of the little version of youâknees dangling in the student section, Sharpie tucked behind your ear. What would she say if she saw you here now?
The moment doesnât feel loud. It feels earned.
You write a recap of the experience for your school blog. Itâs not a game recap, not really. Itâs about proximity. About what it means to watch the same story unfold a hundred times and finally step onto the same page. You include a paragraph about the pregame prep, the pressure behind the scenes, the weight of doing something perfectly even when no one sees it.
It gets picked up by a couple of local outlets. Nothing huge. But Leah emails again, saying your insight is rare. Says theyâd like to keep you in the loop. Maybe consider you for a longer mentorship next fall. She calls you a ânatural storyteller.â
You forward it to your parents. You print it, too. Tack it up next to the framed tweet repost. You stare at it when you canât sleep.
Itâs around this time that her name keeps popping up more and more.
Azzi Fudd.
Youâd heard it beforeâclips, rumors, the occasional ranking blurbâbut now itâs everywhere. Articles. Interviews. Everyoneâs calling her the next big thing. She hasnât even picked a school yet. But her game footage hits the internet like fire.
The first time you really watch her play, youâre on your bedroom floor, knees curled under you, a bowl of cereal forgotten at your side. Itâs just a grainy highlight reel from an AAU game, filmed by some dad in the stands, but it doesnât matter. What she does on the courtâoff the dribble, off the screen, without hesitationâitâs different. Smooth, yes. But also sharp. Sharp like scripture. Like a myth. Like someone wrote a story about a perfect shooter and Azzi decided to make it true.
You watch the video three times in a row. First muted. Then with sound.
You donât know her. You donât even know if sheâs seriously considering UConn.
But something in your chest reacts.
Not just because sheâs good. Plenty of players are good. Itâs more than that.
Itâs the way she carries herself. The calm. The discipline. The sheer gravity of her presence. The way her release looks like poetry and prayer at once.
You scroll through her Instagram that night. She's all over the placeâsmiling in one post, serious in another. Media day shots. Workout clips. Candid snaps with teammates. You pause on one of them. Sheâs laughing, eyes closed, head thrown back, hand mid-air like she just swatted someone who said something dumb.
You double tap. Move on. But your stomach feels different.
You donât know what it is. Not yet.
But you will.
You decided to start making videos and not just writing for your school paper and tweeting the occasional tweet. You wanted to what you do to reach more people, to understand your love for the game, for the team, and hopefully help them love it too.
You started with a voiceover.
No face reveal. No professional production. Just you and your phone camera pointed at your laptop while you replay a sequence from Uconnâs last game. The part with one of those suffocating sequence where no one seems to hit anything clean for minutes until someone finally gets hot. You rewind a clip of Napheesa Collier making a spinning fadeaway jump shot with a defender all over her and how she was able to make space, narrating it.
The video is thirty seconds. Maybe thirty-five. You post it to Twitter.Â
i promise you, no one in womenâs college basketball is dissecting games like this. let me show you something.
It gets four likes that night. Two retweets. One of them is your cousin. The other is someone youâve never heard of.
By the end of the week, it has 15,000 views.
It becomes a series before you can talk yourself out of it.
You give it a name. Husky Vision.
White text over a navy background, slapped together in Canva during lunch. You donât appear on screen. Just your voice, your angles, your highlights. Your knowledge. Itâs not flashy, but itâs smart. And fansâespecially womenâs basketball fansâstart to notice.
The first time a former UConn player DMs you, you nearly drop your phone in AP Bio.
âHeyâjust wanted to say you really get it. Youâve got a great eye.â
You donât tell anyone, not even your parents. You just stare at the message, heart thudding, and reread it until you finally let yourself smile.
From there, everything picks up. Slowly, then all at once.
Leah from UConn reposts your breakdown of their win over South Carolina. She doesnât even tag youâjust reposts your video directly with a flame emoji. That same night, one of the assistant coaches likes two of your old tweets.
Your account starts gaining followersâstudents, womenâs basketball super fans, some analysts. You notice a few names you recognize. Even one from The Athletic. You tell yourself it doesnât mean anything. But it does. It means something big.
You start doing mid-game threads, too. Live thoughts. Adjustments. What youâd change if you were calling the plays. People begin replying. Debating. Asking questions.
âHow do you know so much?â
âYouâre sixteen???â
You donât answer those. Not directly.
Instead, you just keep uploading. One post-game breakdown after another. Some long. Some short. Always sharp. Always specific.
Azzi starts showing up more.
Not in your notificationsâsheâs still a ghost to youâbut in the games youâre watching. The national chatter is undeniable now. Sheâs a senior. Final year of high school. Her team is undefeated. One of the top recruits in the country. Her clips are showing up on all over social media.
You resist, at first. You tell yourself you donât want to be one of those peopleâjumping on a name just because itâs trending. But her game⌠her game is undeniable.
You post your first video about Azzi on a quiet Sunday.
What makes Azzi Fudd different? Not the range. Not the handle. Itâs the silence. Watch the way she moves without the ball. No panic. Just purpose.
You upload a 40-second clip. No music. Just your voice.
You wake up the next morning with 78,000 views. By lunch, itâs over 100K.
You donât even realize she followed you until someone comments.
âomg Azzi just followed you??? do you KNOW what that means?????â
Your heart skips a beat. You check twice. Three times.
She did. No comment. No like. Just the quiet little blue check next to her name now following you back.
You sit in the bathroom stall during 5th period and stare at the screen until your phone dies.
That night, you open her profile again. You scroll slowly. Watch her media day clips. See the selfies with her teammates, the training clips in empty gyms, the one video of her laughing on the bench while her coach throws his clipboard.
You think of reaching out. Just something simple like a âthank you.â You type it. You delete it. Youâre not ready yet. But the slow burn has begun. Even if she doesnât know it.
Yet.
Youâre seventeen, standing under the buzzing lights of a high school gym in Springfield, Massachusetts, wearing a press badge with your name misspelled and your heart beating too loud to think straight.
Itâs the Gatorade National Girls' High School Showcase, and you're here on a student press pass from Hartford Youth Sports Watch, a local online newsletter that publishes one of your columns every week. You pitched the idea yourself. Wrote the sample copy. Sent a portfolio. Askedâbegged, reallyâto tag along with a couple of regional reporters who didnât know who you were two months ago but now call you âthe kid with the breakdowns.â
You were assigned Court 3. Middle of the bracket. A game between two strong teams from New York and Ohio. Good basketball. Plenty to write about.
But your eyes drift.
You know whoâs playing on Court 1.
Team St. Johnâs College High. D.C. powerhouse. Headlined by none other than Azzi Fudd.
You spotted her twenty minutes ago as you stepped into the gym. Warmups. Black shooting shirt. Hair pulled back tight. Calm. Controlled. Eyes like ice water. You watched her knock down five threes in a row like she wasnât even trying. Like her release didnât need breath to function.
Your hands got clammy. Youâd practiced what youâd sayâif you saw her. If you got the chance. Something short. Respectful. Cool, but not weird.
Hi, Iâm Y/N. Iâve done a few breakdowns on your games. Iâd love to ask you a couple quick questions if you have a minute.
You rehearsed it. Memorized the inflection. Smoothed your hoodie three times before walking in.
And now, you're frozen.
Youâre sitting on the folding chair behind the scorerâs table on Court 3, but your body is angled toward Court 1. Your eyes flick constantly between the action in front of you and the action across the gym, like youâre pretending to multitask but everyone can tell youâre distracted.
Azzi is on fire.
Her team isnât blowing out the opponent, but sheâs clearly the anchor. Commanding the floor. Talking just loud enough to lead, but quiet enough to make it seem easy. Thereâs a pace to her. You know it well now. The way she slows her defender down just by being near. The subtle shift of her weight before a screen. The way her shot stays level even when she's falling sideways.
You should be filming Court 3. You know it. You have a job.
Instead, you hold your phone low and record ten seconds of Azzi snatching a rebound, pushing coast to coast, and finishing with a mid-air hesitation so smooth it doesnât look real. You whisper to yourself, âJesus Christ.â
You donât post it. You just save it to your camera roll.
At halftime, your game ends. Thereâs a twenty-minute break before the next match, and you're supposed to send a quick summary to the editor of the newsletter.
You donât.
You get up, walk slow, and circle the far side of the gymâclose enough to get to Court 1, but not too close. You still havenât figured out what youâre doing. Youâve got a reporterâs notebook in one hand and your phone in the other. Your feet are moving on instinct.
Sheâs standing near the water cooler with a towel around her neck, talking with one of her teammates. Laughing. Not fake laughing. Real laughingâthe kind that makes her head tilt back a little and her dimples show. You freeze again. Youâre five feet away. You could say it. You should say it.
But your throat closes. You pretend to check your notes. Pretend to tie your shoe. Pretend to be invisible. And thatâs when it happens. She looks up. Right at you. Not a glance. Not an accident.
She sees you.
And for a secondâa full, tangible secondâAzzi Fudd stares. She doesnât smile. Doesnât frown. She just tilts her head a little like sheâs trying to place you. Like you might be familiar.
Youâre still. Then her eyes flick to your notebook. You panic.
You whip your gaze to the floor, scribble a line youâll never use, and step back toward the bleachers before she can say anything. Your heart hammers. You donât breathe until youâre back at Court 3, sitting down hard, hands shaking a little from whatever just passed between you.
You donât know what that moment meant.
Maybe she recognized you from your videos. Maybe she didnât.
Maybe she just caught a weird kid staring and made a mental note to never do interviews with high schoolers again.
You donât know. But you canât stop thinking about it.
Not when you leave the gym. Not when you email your write-up. Not when you lie awake that night and replay the look in her eyes over and over like youâre trying to find something in the freeze frame.
You write your article on the showcase the next day. Itâs about the team from Ohio. About rebounding margins and high-percentage shots and defensive tempo.
But at the end, in the final paragraph, you add a single line.
âAnd of course, all eyes kept drifting to Court 1. Azzi Fudd doesnât just play the game. She redefines how it feels to watch it.â
You donât tag her.
You donât even say her name again.
But the view count climbs higher than your usual posts. You get a few more followers. One of her teammates likes the article.
That night, you check your followers list again. Sheâs still there. Still following you.
You decided to do something different for your application for Uconn. You donât know if someone before you have done it, but you do it anyway.Â
It takes you three weeks to write the first sentence. You scrap it five times.
Every version sounds too polished or too desperate or too⌠not you. But it matters. Itâs everything. Your application to UConnâthe school youâve loved since you were a baby in a blue onesieâhas to be perfect.
You have good grades. A clean transcript. Some solid recs. But the personal essay? Thatâs where you have to bleed a little.
So finally, on a night when the house is quiet and the rain hits soft against your window, you open a blank document and type.
âMy earliest memory isnât of a toy or a birthday or a bedtime story. Itâs of sitting on my fatherâs shoulders in the XL Center, watching Maya Moore hit a three from the corner and not understanding what basketball wasâbut knowing it meant everything.â
Thatâs the line that stays.
The rest flows like breath. You write about your first game. The way your mom clapped louder than the student section. The sound of the buzzer. The way Genoâs voice became part of your familyâs dinner conversations. How youâve never played basketball, not once, but the game has shaped you like a second spine. How you donât want to be on the court. You want to be near it. Recording it. Honoring it. Living beside it.
You cry when you finish. Just a little.
But the writing isnât what youâre most proud of.
Itâs the video.
Youâve been working on it since August. Itâs part of your applicationâan optional supplement. You call it, My UConn Dream.
A ten minute mini-documentary.Â
It opens with old footageâyour dadâs grainy camcorder shots of toddler-you in a UConn beanie, holding a popcorn bucket bigger than your face. A cut to the upper bowl. A crowd rising to its feet. Taurasi on the jumbotron. You barely blinking.
Then it transitions to your voice.
âThis isnât just about a school. Itâs about a lifetime of falling in love with the same thing over and over again.â
You layer in your own vlogs. Clips from games. Interviews youâve done. Geno calling you Stat Girl with that smirk. Diana throwing you a peace sign after a win. Behind the scenes shots from the media room, from buses, from cold walks through campus before dawn.
You narrate throughout. Honest. Real.
âI want to major in digital media and sports journalism. I want to tell stories. I want to keep honoring women who never get the camera pointed at them first.â
Thereâs a moment near the end where your voice breaks. Just a little.
âI want to go to the place that raised me.â
You post it publicly on your channel the same night you submit your application.
Your thumbnail, a still of you as a kid in the stands, face painted, holding a sign that says âIn Geno We Trust.â
It goes up at midnight.
By morning, it has 40,000 views. Hundreds of comments flood in.
Youâre overwhelmed. In the best way.
You don't know, as you scroll through those comments in your kitchen that morning, still in your pajamas and still too stunned to eat breakfast, that your video has already traveled farther than you thought.
You donât know that a girl two states away watched it alone in her bedroom the night it dropped.
That her best friend sent her the link.
Paige: yo, this the girl coach always talking about
You donât know that Azzi Fudd clicked it out of curiosity, not expecting much. Just another fan, probably. Some girl with a phone and a ring light and a big voice.
But she watched the whole thing.
Every second.
Watched you in the stands. Watched your hands shake holding a mic. Watched the way your voice softened when you talked about what basketball means to you.
She watched you say, âSome people are born into teams. But I chose this one. Or maybe it chose me.â
And she paused the video. Sat back. Felt something shift. Just a little. She recognized your voice from that one video you made about her. Now she wonât forget it. She doesnât comment. Doesnât like. Doesnât share.
But she sends it to her mom. And later, she watches it again.
She doesnât know why. She just does.
You, meanwhile, are pacing.
You triple-check your application portal every night before bed. Refresh it. Stare at the little âSubmittedâ checkmark like it might morph into âAcceptedâ if you squint hard enough.
You go to every home game you can. Still wearing your lanyard. Still getting quotes. Still uploading breakdowns.
People greet you by name now in the concourse. You start your next video with a laugh.
âSo, I did a thing. I applied to UConn. And if youâve been here long enough, you already know this was coming.â
You hold up a keychain you bought from the campus bookstore.
It just says Soon.
Weeks later, youâre in your bedroom writing another piece when you see the email.
Itâs almost anticlimacticâjust a vibration on your phone during fifth period that you donât check until after school. Youâre walking up the driveway, backpack digging into one shoulder, when your thumb swipes down and your eyes catch the header.
University of Connecticut â Admissions Decision Available
Your heart stumbles.
You donât run inside. You try to walk normal. You make it halfway to the kitchen before dropping your bag and unlocking your phone with fingers that suddenly feel too big. Your momâs in the other room. Your dadâs still at work. You open the email alone, standing in your socks on the hardwood floor.
You click the portal. Your breath skips.
Congratulations!
You donât read the rest, just yell.
âMOM!â
Sheâs already running in, wiping her hands on a dish towel. âWhat? What happenedââ
âI GOT IN!â
âOH MY GODââ She drops the towel. âARE YOU SERIOUS?!â
You spin your phone around and she grabs your face and starts crying before you even do.
Itâs not a fancy scholarship announcement. Thereâs no marching band or TV camera crew. Just a shaking screen, your mom squeezing you, your chest cracked wide open because you did it. You got in.
To UConn.
The place youâve been dreaming of since before you knew how dreams worked.
That night, you make the video.
Youâve never done something like this. Not with you in it.
Your voice has always been thereâbehind the camera, under the highlights, in captions and threads and box score breakdownsâbut never you. Not your face. Not your story.
You set your phone up against a stack of books, right next to the cork board full of game tickets and your âBleed Blueâ sign. You wear your old UConn hoodieâsleeves too short, frayed at the wrist. Your hairâs a mess. You donât care.
You hit record.
âOkay,â you say, laughing nervously. âHi. Um. I donât know how to do this. This isnât a breakdown or anything. This is just⌠me.â
You glance off camera. Take a breath.
âI got in. I got into UConn. I got my acceptance email this afternoon, and I still donât fully believe it. Iâve wanted to go to UConn since I wasâwhatâsix months old? No, like actually. My parents took me to my first UConn womenâs basketball game when I was a baby. I donât remember it, but they say Diana Taurasi hit a game-winner and I cried through the whole first half.â
You smile.
âThis school, this program, it raised me. I wasnât a basketball player. I didnât put on a jersey or go to summer camp or play AAU. I was the kid in the stands with a notebook and a pen. I was the one yelling stats at my parents on the drive home. I took the bus to games when they couldnât take me. I wrote about the team in my school paper.â
Your voice starts to shake, just a little.
âI made videos. I made so many videos. And I didnât think anyone was watching, at first. But some people did. And now Iâm going to the place that made me fall in love with basketball without ever playing a second of it.â
You sniff. Wipe your cheek quickly.
âI guess what Iâm saying is⌠if youâre someone who loves something so hard it feels dumb or small or embarrassingâdonât stop. Donât shrink it down to make other people comfortable. Just keep loving it. Loudly. Obsessively. Because I did. And it brought me here.â
You pause. Bite your lip. Then grin.
âAlsoâminor detail, butâif I do happen to marry a UConn womenâs basketball player⌠nobody be surprised.â You wink at the camera, shrugging. âJust saying.â
You end the video there.
You post it around 10:30 p.m. You think maybe your friends will see it. Maybe some people from Twitter. You almost donât tag the UConn WBB account.
But you do.
When you wake up⌠everything is different.
Your phone is buzzing. Not just a few notifications. Hundreds.
The video has already passed 90,000 views. Itâs been reposted by a local news station, quote-tweeted by a beat reporter, andâmost terrifyinglyâshared by the official UConn WBB account with the caption, This is what Husky Nation is all about! Welcome home, Y/N.
You sit straight up in bed. You scroll down.
One comment catches your eye. You recognize the name immediately.
azzi35: congratulations!Â
Your jaw drops. You reread it five times. You donât move. Donât breathe.
She saw it.
She saw it.
Your mom comes in a few minutes later, holding a mug of coffee and grinning.
âYouâre famous,â she teases, handing it to you. âI just watched it again.â
You stare down at your screen. âAzzi Fudd commented on it.â
She pauses. Blinks.
âLike the Azzi Fudd?â
âYeah.â
Your mom sits on the edge of your bed. âOh honey,â she laughs softly, nudging your shoulder. âYou really might marry a UConn player someday.â
You hide your face in your hands.
And smile.
Itâs Thursday. Four days after the video. Three days since UConn reposted it. Two since a local TV station invited you for an interview, to which you politely declined, and exactly zero days since you last reread the part where Azzi Fudd commented on your post.
Youâve read it so many times itâs engraved in your brain.
congratulations!
You didnât know how one word could impact you like this.
You didnât reply. You couldnât. What were you supposed to sayââthanks, Iâve watched every minute youâve played since sophomore year and also your jumper is technically a religious experienceâ?
No.
You let it sit. You breathed. You told yourself it was enough.
And it was.
Until your phone buzzes at 6:47 p.m. while youâre heating up leftovers in the microwave and you glance down to see the words,
azzi35 sent you a message
You stare at it like itâs not real. Like itâs going to vanish if you blink too fast.
You dry your hands on your hoodie and sit at the counter. The microwave beeps. You donât hear it.
You tap the screen.
That video made my mom cry. Just wanted to say congrats again. Maybe Iâll see you on campus soon?Â
You read it once. Twice. A third time, aloud, under your breath.
âHer mom cried?â you whisper. âHer mom.â
You cover your face with one hand and try not to spiral. The message is so simple. So normal. But itâs from Azzi. And itâs kind. And direct. And real. And she remembered. She saw the video days ago and still thought about it long enough to follow up.
You try typing.
Thank you so much, that seriously means the worâ
Delete.
Canât believe you saw it. Congrats on making my soul leave myâ
Delete.
Not me sobbing into my hoodie like an absolute idiot becauâ
Delete.
You exhale, hard.
thatâs so sweet!! tell her thank you for me?? and thank YOU for even watching it. hope our paths actually cross sometimeÂ
You stare at it.
Or like⌠casually all the time since weâll be at the same school?? nbd or anything??
No. Too much. Too desperate.
You delete the second half. Hit send before you can change your mind.
You donât expect her to reply right away. You actually donât expect her to reply at all. But two minutes later, âtypingâŚâ, appears.
Your stomach flips like youâre on a rollercoaster that only goes up.
If I see you on campus Iâm definitely saying hi. Youâre pretty famous now anywayÂ
You laugh out loud. Alone. In your kitchen. With your momâs spaghetti steaming behind you, untouched.
donât do that. i will collapse in public.
like full dramatic slow fall to the pavement.
More typing.
Iâll catch you. I got fast reflexes.
You slap your hand over your mouth and make an inhuman sound.
You pace the kitchen. You stare at the message. You take a screenshot, text it to your best friend with seventeen exclamation marks, delete the screenshot, then open your fridge for absolutely no reason other than to put your face inside it and whisper, âGet it together.â
Your phone buzzes again.
also ur videos? literally the best ones out there. iâm not kidding.
You stop breathing. You sit down slowly. Your hands tremble just a little.
ok so if i die tonight itâs fine because azzi fudd said my videos are the best ones out there.
tell my mom i love her. bury me in husky blue.
Her reply comes quick.
stop. iâm being serious.
i watch all of them. theyâre like⌠calming, idk? iâll be nervous pregame and someone shows me one, especially the one you made of me, and itâs just like⌠âoh. right. i know how to do this.â
You stare at that message for a long time. Not because itâs surreal. But because itâs intimate. She didnât have to say that. She didnât have to say any of this.
You take a breath. You reply honestly.
i canât even tell you what that means to me. iâve loved this game my whole life. i never played but itâs always been from the outside looking in.
hearing that it helps you? that makes all of it worth it.
She doesnât type right away. You sit with the silence. Eventually, her message comes through.
maybe not for long though.
outside looking in, i mean.
youâre gonna be there soon.
You blink. Smile.
And thinkânot for the first time, not for the lastâmaybe you're not just going to attend UConn. Maybe you're about to belong there.
The air in Storrs smells like August. Grass, asphalt, hot mulch, sweat, and a little bit of panic.
Youâre three trips into moving your whole life from Hartford to your tiny dorm in North Campus. Your back hurts, your shirt is sticking to you, and your mom already cried twiceâonce when she saw the room, again when she handed you a Ziplock of chocolate chip cookies with a shaky smile.
Youâre standing on the curb with your last box. Itâs heavy. Your arms are burning. Your RA said the elevator was broken, because of course it is, and thereâs no one else around because you told your parents to go grab iced coffee without you, thinking you could carry this one on your own.
Youâre halfway to convincing yourself to make the climb when you hear it.
âNeed a hand?â
You turn.
Sheâs standing in front of you. Azzi. In shorts and a loose gray UConn Athletics t-shirt, sunglasses perched on her head, braids pulled back tight. A folded map of campus in one hand, half a smoothie in the other.
You forget how to hold the box for a second. You blink.
âWaitâare you serious right now?â you say.
Her grin widens. âIâm pretty strong,â she says, flexing one arm dramatically, then snorts. âYou looked like you were about to just sit down and let the box win.â
âI was,â you say. âIt was winning. Completely dominating me. No contest.â
She laughs. Sets her smoothie on the ground. âHere,â she says, and takes the box from your arms like it weighs nothing. âWhich floor?â
âThird.â
âNo elevator?â she asks, walking beside you now.
âOf course not,â you mutter. âWelcome to college.â
You glance at her from the corner of your eye. Sheâs calm. Like this is normal. Like helping someone move into a random dorm is something she just does. Her pace is easy. Her shoulders loose.
You reach the stairwell. She goes first. You trail behind, still slightly disoriented.
âI didnât know you were in this dorm,â you manage.
âIâm not,â she says. âI just got here early for practice. I was grabbing something from the student center and saw you on the sidewalk. Thought you looked familiar. Thoughtââhey, thatâs the breakdown girl who made my mom cry.ââ
You groan. âYou just had to bring that up.â
âIt was cute,â she says, glancing over her shoulder. âDonât worry. Sheâs still talking about it.â
âIâm gonna change my name and live in a hole.â
She laughs again, and you swear it echoes.
By the time you reach the room, your heartbeat isnât just from the stairs.
She sets the box down and wipes her hands on her shorts. âThere we go.â
You try to think of something cool to say. Something not weird. Something that doesnât scream⌠Iâve had a crush on you from the moment I saw you step behind a screen and bury a three like it was nothing.
What comes out instead is, âSo like⌠how does it feel?â
She tilts her head. âHow does what feel?â
âBeing Azzi Fudd,â you say, then wince. âSorry. That soundedââ
âNo, I like that question,â she says, still smiling. She leans against your desk, arms folded now. âIt feels⌠crazy. Like, people say the name like itâs a brand. Or a stat sheet. But I still wake up with my bonnet half-falling off and toothpaste on my shirt, you know?â
You laugh. You canât help it.
She shrugs. âItâs humbling being here, honestly. UConnâs where all my heroes came from. And now Iâm just hoping I donât trip over my own feet in front of Geno.â
âYou wonât,â you say, automatically. âYou belong here.â
Azzi pauses and looks at you for a beat.
âThanks,â she says softly. âYou really think that?â
âI mean⌠yeah. Iâve been watching this program my whole life. I can tell whoâs got it. And you? Youâve got it.â
Thereâs a flicker of something in her eyes. Not just amusement now. Something warmer.
She nudges your desk chair with her foot. âAnd what about you? Youâre finally here. After all the years in the stands.â
You exhale. âI still donât believe it. I keep waiting for someone to tap my shoulder and tell me it was a mistake.â
âIt wasnât.â You look at her. âIt wasnât,â she repeats, and her voice is firm now. âYou worked for this.â
You sit down on your bed because your legs are suddenly a little wobbly. âI didnât even play basketball. I always loved it from the outside. Like I was watching through a glass wall. But now Iâm here. With an official pass. And a class schedule. And a mini fridge.â
âAnd a camera that makes players nervous,â she adds, grinning. âSeriouslyâdo you know how many people talk about your videos? Paige loves them.â
Your brain short-circuits for a second. âPaige Bueckers?â
She nods. âSheâs my best friend. We played USA ball together. Trained together a ton. Iâm hyped to be on her team again.â
You nod too fast. âYeah. No. Yeah. Sheâs insane. Her court vision? Unreal.â
Azzi perks up. âRight? You get it. Most people just talk about her scoring.â
You grin. âNo, her reads are the most dangerous part. Itâs like she sees into the future.â
Azzi points at you. âExactly!â
You both pause. Smiling. The room quiets.
âSo,â she says, nudging her shoe against yours. âNow that weâre both here⌠what happens next?â
Your mouth opens. Closes. You think of ten possible answers. You settle on one.
âI guess we both do what we came here to do,â you say. âYou win games. I tell stories.â
She holds your gaze for a second.
âI like that,â she says. âSounds like a pretty good team.â
Your cheeks burn.
You smile. âYeah. I think so too.â
You werenât planning on staying late.
You just needed to print a last-minute syllabus, maybe jot down a few class notes before the chaos of syllabus week turned into real deadlines. The main library was packed, the dorm lobby was loud, so you wandered until you found the tiny study lounge tucked between the chemistry building and the dining hall.
Itâs quiet. Almost sacred.
Dim yellow light. One humming vending machine. Two long tables. One outlet that works. You set your laptop down at the far end, earbuds in, hoodie up, world shut out.
Until you hear the soft scrape of sneakers against tile.
You look up.
Azzi stands in the doorway, hoodie half-zipped, curls tied up, water bottle in one hand, textbook in the other.
She sees you and smiles like itâs not even surprising.
âOh hey,â she says. âI knew Iâd run into you eventually.â
You blink. âIn the library?â
She laughs. âExactly where I thought youâd be.â
You gesture to the empty seat across from you. âWelcome to the land of procrastination.â
She drops her bag with a soft thud. âMy favorite.â
At first, itâs quiet. Youâre working on class notes. Sheâs flipping through a textbookâsports psych, you think. Every so often you hear the soft tick-tick of her highlighter, or the slosh of her water bottle when she takes a sip.
Itâs⌠easy.
Too easy, maybe.
Until she looks up and says softly, âDo you ever think about how weird this is?â
You glance up. âWhat part?â
âThis,â she says, waving vaguely at the room. âLike⌠you and me. Sitting here. Same school. Same campus. I used to watch UConn highlights on my phone between homework and shooting workouts, and now Iâm just⌠here.â
You nod slowly. âI do think about that a lot.â
She rests her chin on her hand. âI think sometimes people expect me to feel like the version of myself they know from the internet or YouTube or whatever. Like Iâm supposed to always be locked in. Always the brand.â
You donât say anything. You let her keep going.
âBut here,â she says, voice lower now, âitâs kinda nice just being Azzi. Not the basketball player. Just me.â
You swallow. And carefully, gently, you say, âWhatâs just you like?â
She looks at you. Really looks. Like sheâs surprised you asked.
âI donât know,â she says. âIâm still figuring that out.â
You nod. She shifts a little, lets her leg bump yours under the table. Doesnât move it.
âIâm quiet,â she says. âAt first. I like routines. I donât like attention off the court, even though I always seem to get it. I like Twizzlers more than I should probably admit. And I can watch the same movie three times in one week if Iâm stressed.â
âWhat movie?â
âCoach Carter,â she says, grinning. âJudge me.â
You shake your head. âIâd only judge you if you said Thunderstruck.â
Her whole face lights up. âOkay waitâobjectively one of the worst basketball movies ever made.â
âThank you!â
She bites her bottom lip, still smiling. âI was worried you were gonna say itâs your favorite.â
âI make videos, Azzi. I have taste.â
She laughs again, leans back in her chair. Her postureâs looser now. Like sheâs shedding something.
You watch her for a second. The quiet under the lights. The way her gaze lingers on the ceiling tiles like sheâs somewhere else for a momentâmaybe in her own head, maybe somewhere she hasnât told anyone about yet.
âWhy UConn?â you ask.
She looks down. Twirls the cap of her highlighter.
âBecause I wanted to play for Geno,â she says. âBecause I wanted to wear the jersey I grew up watching. Because Paige is here. Because I wanted to be part of something bigger than just my name.â
You nod. âThat makes sense.â
She glances at you. âWhat about you? Why here?â
You pause. Think. Not about the rehearsed answers you gave in essays or to your guidance counselor. You think about the answer youâve never really said out loud.
âBecause itâs always felt like home,â you say. âEven when I was just a face in the stands. It felt like where I was supposed to be.â
She tilts her head. âEven though you never played?â
You smile. âEspecially because I never played. Watching was playing. In my head. In my notebooks. Itâs how I learned to love the game.â
Azzi stares at you for a long second.
âI think thatâs beautiful,â she says softly.
Your throat goes a little tight. You look back at your screen. âDonât say stuff like that or Iâll start writing a poem about you and post it on Twitter.â
She laughs again. âDo it. I dare you.â You open a Word doc. Start typing. She leans across the table. âNo you wonât.â
You keep typing. She squints at the screen.
Roses are red
Huskies are blue
Azzi Fudd walked in
And I forgot how to function like a normal person who knows how to make eye contactâ
She snorts. âYouâre such a weirdo.â
You grin. âTakes one to know one.â
By the time you check the clock, itâs past 1 a.m. The building is silent. Just the hum of the vending machine and the click of your keys as you pack up. She stands at the same time you do. Your shoulders brush. Neither of you steps away.
She looks at you under the soft yellow light. âWanna walk back together?â
You nod. You both walk out into the night. The airâs cooler now. Softer.
She nudges your arm gently. âHey.â You glance over. âThanks,â she says. âFor tonight.â
âFor carrying your half of the friendship so far?â
âFor letting me be Azzi,â she says.
You smile. âAnytime.â
You mean it.
Itâs your second week working student media and your first real UConn Womenâs Basketball practice.
Youâve got the press vest, the clunky video camera, checked out of the digital lab, a spare battery in your back pocket, and a nervous buzz running all the way through your limbs like static. Youâre supposed to be filming highlights for a pre-season hype reel, which means getting clean, tight shots of drills, scrimmages, Geno being Geno, andâif youâre luckyâsome personality.
You try to stay out of the way. Hug the wall, step behind the scorerâs table, film from above when the angle works. You know this gym. Youâve grown up in this gym. But today, it feels like walking through a dream that keeps touching you back.
The team moves like musicâchaotic, precise, loud. Shoes squeaking, balls slamming into hardwood, whistles sharp. Azzi is everywhere. Sheâs vocal. Focused. Cutting sharp and fast like her legs are on springs. You track her without even meaning to.
Youâre filming from midcourt when it happens.
She glances over during a break, wipes sweat from her brow, and smirks.
âYo, Y/Nâyou getting my good side or what?â
You fumble the focus.
âUh,â you say, stupidly. âYou⌠have more than one.â
She raises an eyebrow. Grins like she just scored.
âNice save,â she says, turning back toward the drill line.
From down the court, Aaliyah lets out a loud âOHHHhhh sheâs FLIRTINâ again!â
Everyone laughs.
Dorka claps. âThatâs like the third time this week.â
Azzi doesnât flinch. âIâm just making sure the videographer stays focused.â
Paige leans over to you. âShe only says that to people she likes.â
You choke on your spit.
Later, you're crouched on the baseline, capturing close-ups during a half-court scrimmage. Azzi drives hard to the right, fakes a pass, pulls back, and buries a three so smooth it couldâve been filmed at half-speed.
As she jogs backward, she turns slightly toward you, throws two fingers up at her temple, and mouths, âGet that?â
You nod, too stunned to speak.
Behind her, Paigeâwhoâs just arrived and is watching from the sideline with a Gatoradeâcalls out, âIf you make a mixtape just for her, I swear to God.â
Azzi calls back, âDonât worry, itâs for her personal archives.â
Everyone oohs. You just bury your face in your hands, camera shaking.
After practice, youâre transferring footage onto your laptop in the media room when you hear sneakers on linoleum. You look up.
Azzi leans in the doorway, fresh out of the locker room. Hair damp. Hoodie slung over her shoulder.
âHey,â she says, a little softer now.
âHey.â
âYou got the shot, right? That step-back?â
You nod. âIn high definition. Itâs practically a religious experience.â
She grins. âGood. I wanna send it to my mom.â
You raise an eyebrow. âYouâre gonna send your mom a clip from my camera?â
She walks in, shrugs. âYou shoot me better than the actual team page does.â
Your cheeks burn.
She eyes your screen. âWanna sit in the stands sometime? Like⌠not for work. Just as friends. Watch the menâs practice with me?â
âFriends watch practices together?â
She shrugs again. âThey do if theyâre secretly scouting each other.â
You laugh, shake your head. âYouâre a menace.â
âAnd youâre blushing.â
You are. Fully.
You shut your laptop slowly. âYeah, well. You are my favorite player.â
She pauses. Smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. âGood. Because youâre kinda becoming one of mine.â Your breath stutters. You say nothing. And she just smiles wider. âSee you around, camera girl.â
She disappears back down the hall.
You sit frozen for a beat before whispering into the empty room, âOh my God.â
Itâs a Thursday afternoon when the gym lights flicker on overhead and the thump of basketballs begins to echo like a heartbeat. Youâre back again, perched behind the camera at the scorerâs table, watching the team warm up. Same camera. Same assignment. Same angle.
But everything feels a little different now.
Because this time, Azzi keeps looking at you.
Not subtle glances. Not maybe sheâs checking the clock kind of looks. Noâthis is head up, eyes locked, tiny grin tugging at the corners of her mouth every time she sinks a shot. She doesnât break her stride. Doesnât call attention to it. But itâs there. Like sheâs playing with the gym but performing for you.
You try to stay focused. Try to pan smoothly. Try to track the drills without letting your hands shake. But every time she glances over, you feel it in your spine.
And when scrimmage starts, it only gets worse.
Itâs a loose five-on-five, full-court with a few new sets theyâre testing. Paigeâs running point. Dorkaâs working on her inside presence. Azzi starts slowâlight on her feet, reading the floor, not forcing anything.
But midway through the second possession, Paige kicks it out to her beyond the arc.
One dribble. Step back.
Three.
Swish.
You instinctively follow the shot through your lens and catch her turningâeyes to you. She lifts her eyebrows once, like you get that?
You give a barely-there nod.
Next play, Azzi curls off a screen from Nika, gets the handoff, barely sets her feet.
Second three.
Net again.
This time, when she turns to jog back on defense, she says just loud enough for everyone to hear, âIâm telling youâY/Nâs my lucky charm.â
You freeze behind the camera.
Paige, mid-transition, snorts. âOh my god.â
Aaliyah yells, âHere she goes!â
You catch Dorka dramatically wiping imaginary sweat from her brow.
On the next trip down, Paige feeds her again. No hesitation. No wasted movement.
Third three.
This one rattles in. Still counts.
The gym erupts in the usual âWooooâ from the sideline, sneakers squealing as players shuffle back into place.
But this time, itâs Geno who steps in from the wing with his whistle in his hand and that familiar, half-exhausted, half-amused look on his faceâthe one youâve seen a thousand times on television but never this close. He points at Azzi, then points directly at you, sitting behind the camera.
âYou two dating yet? Do I need to start charging her rent for attention?â
The gym explodes with laughter. Itâs immediate, loud, relentless. Nika claps like itâs the funniest thing sheâs ever heard. Paige almost falls to the floor. Aaliyah shouts, âCoach, please!!â and covers her face with a towel. Dorka gasps like sheâs scandalized.
And you? You short-circuit. Fully. You duck your head behind the camera, ears burning, heart punching holes in your chest.
Azzi grins. âDonât worry, Coach,â she says, still breathing a little heavy from the play, âif we were dating, I wouldnât be missing any shots.â
Geno just shakes his head, muttering something under his breath that sounds like, âgod help me.â
You donât say a word. You keep filming. But your mouth wonât stop smiling.
After practice, you stay behind to upload footage. Azzi wanders over slowly, towel around her neck, sweat still glistening across her brow. She doesnât sit. Just leans on the table beside your laptop and glances at the playback.
âThat third one was ugly,â she murmurs. âBut it went in.â
You click back and replay it. âYour arc was a little flat. You were leaning.â
She raises an eyebrow. âDidnât notice.â
âI did.â
You play it again. She watches the ball drop clean through the net, the gym behind her erupting in sound, and smirks.
âAnd I noticed you,â she says.
You look up. Sheâs watching you now, not the screen.
âI meant it, by the way,â she adds. âYou really are my lucky charm.â
You try to laugh it off. âI think your jump shot deserves most of the credit.â
âMaybe,â she says, standing straighter, slinging the towel around her shoulders. âBut itâs more fun thinking itâs you.â
You donât say anything. Donât have to. She takes a step back, but her eyes linger.
âText me the clips?â she says. âI wanna post the second one.â
You nod.
âCool. AndâŚâ she bites her bottom lip, hesitates for a second. âYou free tomorrow?â
Your breath catches.
âYeah,â you say. âI think I can be.â
âGreat,â she says. âLetâs grab dinner. My treat.â
You blink. âLike⌠just us?â
She nods. âYou knowâlucky charm privileges.â
You laugh quietly. âIâll bring the magic.â
She smiles. âIâm counting on it.â
And she walks away, leaving you in the quiet echo of the gym, sitting behind a camera that finally stopped rolling.
Youâve checked your shirt twice in the mirror and fixed your collar three times before you even leave your room. Not because youâre trying to impress herâwell, okay, yes, because youâre trying to impress herâbut not in the way people expect. Itâs not flowers and cologne and rehearsed lines. Itâs⌠subtler than that. Tucked shirts, pressed pants, a clean watch and your best calm voice.
You open doors. You walk on the outside of the sidewalk. You ask if sheâs warm enough before you even think of your own coat.
Youâre a little shy about it. You donât broadcast who you are. You just show it.
And somehowâAzzi sees it all anyway.
She picked a little place off campus. Not too far, just past the edge of the college town strip, a small family-owned spot with warm lighting and quiet booths. Sheâs already waiting when you get there, tucked into the corner table with a water glass sweating beside her and her phone face down.
She sees you and smiles slow, soft, like sheâs glad youâre real and standing in front of her.
âHey,â she says, standing up before you can pull her chair out for her. âYou clean up nice.â
You rub the back of your neck. âWas aiming for something between âstudent mediaâ and âmy mom raised me right.ââ
She laughs and gestures for you to sit. âWell, you nailed it.â
You take the seat across from her, hands resting loosely in your lap. The menuâs already waiting, but you donât open it right away.
She watches you for a second before saying, âItâs weird seeing you without a camera.â
You smile. âItâs weird not having one.â
âDo you ever turn it off?â she asks.
You blink. âThe camera?â
âNo,â she says gently. âYou. The part of you thatâs always⌠watching.â
You sit with that.
âNo oneâs asked me that before,â you admit.
âWell,â she says, leaning in a little, âtonight I want you to not be working. Just be you.â
You glance down, then back at her. âAnd whoâs that, exactly?â
Azzi tilts her head. âThatâs what Iâm trying to figure out.â
Dinner is easy.
Conversation flows like itâs been waiting to happenânever forced, never performative. You talk about your childhood in Hartford, about taking the bus to games alone when your parents were working, about the first time you saw Diana Taurasi play and how you didnât blink the entire fourth quarter.
Azzi tells you about her first time meeting Geno. How nervous she was. How Paige teased her about her handshake being âtoo polite.â She mimics itâstiff, formal, laughably awkwardâand you laugh harder than you expect.
She talks about Paige a lot, but not in the way that threatens you. Itâs soft. Familiar. Like a big sister figure she admires and still wants to impress. Thereâs affection in every mention, but itâs different from the attention sheâs been giving you.
And she gives you a lot of it.
Her eyes donât wander. She leans closer when you speak. And when your fingers brush lightly while reaching for your water, she doesnât pull away. Not even a little.
âYou really love this school,â she says at one point, after youâve told her about your acceptance video, your old journals, the posters that still hang on your childhood bedroom wall.
âI do,â you admit. âIt raised me. Even when I didnât know it.â
Azzi looks at you for a long time after that. Not just watching, but seeing.
âYouâre different,â she says quietly.
You shift slightly in your seat, brows tugging together. âHow do you mean?â
Sheâs still looking at you, expression unreadable. But not cold. Just open. Bare.
âYou donât look at me like the rest of them do.â
You pause. Swallow. âHow do the rest of them look at you?â
âLike Iâm a story they already wrote,â she murmurs. âLike I exist on highlight reels and shoe deals and media day quotes.â You donât speak. She lifts her gaze. âBut you⌠you watch me like youâre still figuring me out. Like youâre not trying to own any part of me. Just⌠witness me.â
You feel the words in your chest before they reach your brain.
âI think you deserve that,â you say. âTo just be.â
Azziâs lips part like she wants to say something back but decides against it. Instead, she just exhales and leans back in the booth, letting the silence sit between youâwarm, unhurried.
After dinner, you offer to walk her back. Of course you do. Itâs late, and the air has gone from cool to crisp. You take her empty smoothie cup and toss it into the trash can outside before she even has to ask. She thanks you without looking, like itâs natural now.
Halfway back to her dorm, she stops.
You turn with her.
Sheâs smiling. Just a little.
âCan I say something weird?â she asks.
You nod. âAlways.â
âI wasnât planning on liking you this much.â
You blink. âI wasnât planning on being liked this much.â
Azzi laughs. Itâs soft. She tucks a curl behind her ear. âThat makes two of us.â
Thereâs a quiet moment where sheâs just looking at you again. Not speaking. Not teasing. Just⌠soaking you in.
She steps forward, and you think for a second she might kiss you. She doesnât. Just bumps her shoulder into yours and says, âSame time next week?â
You smile. âSame table?â
âOnly if you wear the same shirt.â
You pretend to groan. âI have three shirts, Fudd. Donât make me waste all my charm too fast.â
She laughs again and steps into the lobby of her building. You stay on the sidewalk a minute longer, watching the door slowly close. And you swear, just before it shuts, she turns and smiles at you one more time.
You and Azzi donât make an announcement. Thereâs no sit-down conversation, no hard lines drawn or expectations set. It just⌠happens. You start showing up for each other in the smallest, quietest ways. Ways no one really notices until they suddenly do.
She texts you when sheâs leaving the gym late and asks if youâre still up. You are. You always are. So you meet halfway between your dorms and split a bag of vending machine pretzels under flickering lights while the rest of campus sleeps.
You start bringing her iced coffee to morning classes on Wednesdays. She doesnât ask for it, but she starts texting you her order anyway.
You study together on Tuesdays in the tiny music library with the bad Wi-Fi and the good sunlight. She wears glasses she never wears anywhere else. You never tell her how unfairly good she looks in them. But she catches you staring one day and says, âStop that,â with a smile so soft it curls your ribs.
Your playlists start to blur. Your snacks. Your hours. She starts calling your hoodie hers without really asking, and you never take it back.
People donât really ask questions at first. They just assume youâre close. Until itâs clear youâre not just teammates or classmates or campus acquaintances.
Youâre something.
And thatâs when Paige corners you.
Youâre filming light drills during a morning practice. Most of the team is stretching, quiet murmurs floating around the gym. Youâre crouched at midcourt, fixing your focus, when a shadow steps into your peripheral vision.
You glance up.
Paige Bueckers stands there with a smirk and a half-empty Gatorade bottle. Her hairâs a mess, and sheâs already got a sweatband tied loose around one wrist.
She squints at you like sheâs inspecting an exhibit.
âSo,â she says slowly, âwhat are you two, exactly?â
You blink. âHuh?â
She points her Gatorade bottle in your direction. âYou. Azzi. The subtle stares. The hallway walks. The hoodie swaps. The fact that she basically glares at anyone who gets within six feet of you.â
You lower the camera. âI donât⌠I mean, weâre justâŚâ
âDonât say friends,â Paige cuts in. âI have friends. I donât look at them like I want to memorize how they laugh.â Your mouth opens. Closes. She steps closer. âIâm her best friend. Iâve seen her with a million people. Iâve seen her pretend. But with you?â She shakes her head. âSheâs not pretending.â
You swallow. âShe hasnât said anything.â
âYeah, well,â Paige mutters, âsheâs Azzi. She doesnât always say things. She does them.â
You look down at your hands. Theyâre shaking a little.
âI donât want to rush her,â you say softly. âI just⌠like being around her. Iâm happy to wait. Or not wait. Or justâexist next to her.â
Paige watches you for a long beat. Then she softens.
âShe trusts you,â she says. âThatâs rare. Just donât let her down, okay?â
You nod.
And she smirks. âAlso, if you hurt her, I will dunk on you emotionally.â
You laugh. âI think I could survive that.â
âYou couldnât,â Paige says, and walks away.
Later that night, you and Azzi are sitting on a bench outside the student union. Youâve got fries between you and the cold air biting at your hands. Sheâs wearing your hoodieâoversized on her, sleeves swallowed upâand sheâs scrolling through her phone while your knee bumps hers, back and forth, like a slow rhythm.
Out of nowhere, she says, âPaige talked to you, didnât she?â
You glance over. âYeah.â
âWhatâd she say?â
âThat you glare at people who get too close to me.â
She rolls her eyes. âGod, sheâs so dramatic.â
âIs it true?â
Azzi doesnât answer right away. âOnly a little.â
You smirk. âPossessive much?â
She bumps her shoulder into you. âNo. Just careful. I donât like sharing what feels good.â
You glance down at your hands. Sheâs not holding yours. But sheâs close enough. And when she exhales and leans into your side, you let her stay there.
And the feeling that thisâwhatever it isâis something youâre both building brick by brick.
Itâs nearly 1:30 a.m. when you hear the knock.
Three soft taps. No urgency. But enough to pull you from your reading.
You glance toward the door, confusedâbecause no one comes to your room at this hour. Not without texting first. Not without a reason.
When you crack the door open, Azziâs standing there in sleep shorts and an oversized UConn t-shirt that hangs off one shoulder. Her hairâs loosely braided, face bare, a faint crease in her cheek from where she mustâve been lying down earlier.
She doesnât say anything at first. Just shifts from foot to foot like sheâs working up the courage to speak.
âI couldnât sleep,â she murmurs, eyes tired but steady. âAnd I⌠didnât want to be alone.â
You open the door wider without hesitation. âCome in.â
She steps past you quietly, her hand brushing yours just for a second.
Your room is dim. Only the lamp on your desk is still on. The bed is smallâUConn twin bed smallâbut you shift over instinctively, pushing your laptop and pillow aside, making space that doesnât exist but somehow still feels enough for her.
She climbs in slowly, careful. Like sheâs not sure if sheâs allowed to let her guard down here.
But when she finally settles, she curls up beside youâtucks herself into the space between your body and the wall. Her knees brush yours. Her shoulder rests against your bicep. She lets out a breath you swear sheâs been holding all day.
âYou okay?â you ask gently.
She nods, but itâs small.
âIâve just been⌠in my head,â she says. âIt gets loud in there sometimes.â
You donât ask for details. You donât press.
Instead, you turn just enough so your body faces hers. âYou want me to talk? Or just stay quiet?â
She shakes her head, eyes closed. âNo talking.â Then, barely above a whisper, she adds, âYou calm me down.â
You donât answer. You just reach out and lightly place your hand on the curve of her waistâgentle, grounding. She doesnât flinch. Doesnât pull away. She exhales again. And this time it sounds like relief.
You donât fall asleep right away, but you stay still. Let her breathe against you. Let your body mold around the shape of hers, careful and quiet and steady. You memorize the weight of her knee over yours, the rise and fall of her chest against your side, the slow soft shift of her hand under your arm as she finally, finally relaxes.
At some point, you do fall asleep. And when you wake upâsheâs still there.
Fully tucked into you, head resting right over your heart, one arm draped across your ribs, the other curled tight between you like sheâs trying to stay anchored. Your hoodieâwhich she mustâve pulled over in the middle of the nightâcovers half her face.
And sheâs still asleep.
Peaceful.
Like the noise is gone now.
Your first instinct is not to move. Not even to breathe too loud. You look down at her, lashes resting against her cheeks, lips parted just slightly.
You shift only enough to tighten your arm around her. Pull her closer.
She hums softly at the motionâbarely awake, maybe not at allâbut leans in like her body already knows it belongs there.
And you lie there in the quiet morning light with her tucked into your chest, her breath warm on your skin, and all you can think isâŚ
This⌠this is home.
The room is soaked in that soft gray-blue that only happens just before the sun fully breaks over campus. Youâre still beneath the thin dorm blanket, your arm wrapped gently around Azzi, her body pressed closeâlike she molded herself into the curve of your chest overnight.
You havenât moved in twenty minutes. Not because youâre asleep. But because this is the stillest youâve ever felt.
And then she shifts. Just a little. A quiet inhale. A slight roll of her shoulders. Her head nestles deeper against your chest. You glance down. Her eyes are open nowâbarely. Still hazy. Still blinking off sleep.
She doesnât look at you right away. Just⌠breathes. Lets her hand flex against your ribs, lets her fingers move slightly against the fabric of your shirt like sheâs checking if youâre still real.
And then, in the quietest voice youâve ever heard her use, she whispers, âI donât want to leave yet.â
Your chest tightens.
You could answer a million ways. Could make a joke. Could nod. Could say nothing and just kiss the crown of her head. But you turn your head slightly and speak gently, as soft as she is.
âDo you want to stay?â
Azzi lifts her chin just enough to meet your eyes, and for a moment she doesnât smile, doesnât speakâjust looks at you like sheâs never been allowed to look at anyone this long.
Then she nods. A small, certain nod.
You shift just slightly, enough to tuck your other arm under her, enough to cradle her properly. She sighs, one hand sliding up to rest lightly over your collarbone. Her forehead presses against your throat, and she lets her whole body relax into yours like gravity doesnât exist outside this bed.
You hold her like sheâs something delicate but sure. Something youâve always known how to protect. Neither of you says anything else. Thereâs no need.
Outside, the campus starts to wake upâfaraway doors opening, a soft burst of laughter down the hall, sneakers squeaking in the stairwell. But in this tiny corner of the dorm building, in your twin bed barely built for one, itâs just you and her.
And sheâs still. Still in your arms. Still letting you hold her like this isnât new.
You donât think about the team. You donât think about Paige, or Geno, or the next practice or the classes youâre missing. You donât even think about what this is.
You just hold her. Because she asked to stay. And you want her to. So you stay like that for another hour. Until the sun finally reaches your window. And even then, neither of you moves. Not yet.
It didnât happen with fireworks or a kiss under stadium lights.
It happened slowly and then all at once.
One night, she stayed over without asking. The next, she came back with her pillow. Then her toothbrush. Her hoodie. Her charger. One morning, she was brushing her teeth in your mirror, hair tied up, wearing your sweats and her socks and you looked up from your side of the bed and justâknew.
You were already hers.
And sheâd already been yours.
It wasnât a question. It wasnât do you want to be together?
It was, we are. We just are.
Azzi touches you like youâre something safe. Holds your hand under tables. Rest her head on your shoulder during film nights. She lets you fix her braid when it comes undone in your room, even though you're not very good at it.
You bring her iced coffee before morning lifts and wrap your arm around her waist when sheâs got a towel over her head after practice, sweat still clinging to her neck. She mutters, âgross,â but doesnât pull away. Never pulls away.
She calls you âbabeâ now, but only when sheâs sleepy. Or really happy. Or trying to get you to give her the last of the sour gummy worms.
One night after a win, Paige stops you in the tunnel, eyebrow raised.
âSo itâs official now, huh?â You donât answer. Just nod once, calm and easy. Paige grins. âGood. She deserves someone who sees her the way you do.â
Later that night, Azzi kisses you in your kitchen. Long. Sure. With her hands tucked under your shirt and her forehead resting against yours when she pulls back.
âYouâre the first thing that feels⌠still,â she whispers.
You hold her tighter.
Now?
Youâre on the couch in your apartment just off campus, her legs draped across yours, both of you pretending to study. The TVâs on mute. Thereâs a plate of shared fries on the coffee table, and her sock-covered foot keeps nudging your thigh every few minutes like she wants you to look at her.
You do. She smiles. You lean forward. Press a soft kiss to the inside of her knee, just because you can.
âYouâre staring,â you tease.
âYouâre wearing that smug face again,â she shoots back.
âI donât have a smug face.â
âYou do,â she says. âYou get it when I call you mine.â
You smirk. âSay it again.â
She shifts, climbs into your lap, arms loose around your neck, forehead against yours.
âYouâre mine,â she murmurs, quiet and warm.
And you smile the way you always do when you hear it. Because sheâs yours, too. No question. No hesitation.
The game wasnât perfect.
UConn had trailed in the first half. Turnovers were sloppy. The defense looked a step slow. But it was one of those classic second-half comebacksâthe kind that made you fall in love with the program in the first place. Gritty. Relentless. Blue-blood basketball that didnât panic when the rhythm broke, just reshaped itself until the song made sense again.
And Azzi? Azzi was the pulse that pulled it all back together. You donât say her name in the video. Not out loud. But itâs all about her.
You set up your phone against a stack of books on your desk, flip your hoodie inside out to hide the logo, student media rules, and hit record just past 11 p.m., your voice calm but low, steady in that familiar tone that says, Youâre watching something that mattered.
âTonightâs game wasnât about dominance,â you begin. âIt was about control. The kind of control that looks quiet from the outside, but is doing all the heavy lifting behind the scenes.â
You play the first clip. A curl off a down screen. The ball never touches the floorâjust one clean catch-and-release, a perfect arc, the net singing as it snaps.
âThis is a shot you donât attempt unless you trust yourself,â you say. âYou donât take it unless youâve put in the hours when no oneâs watching. You donât make it unless your feet know what to do before your brain tells them.â
The next clip rolls. Sheâs off-ball now. Moving without drawing attention. Setting an off-screen that forces a mismatch. Two passes later, someone else scores.
âShe wonât show up on the stat sheet for this one,â you say. âBut she broke that play open with her movement. With her patience. Thatâs what makes the difference.â
You show a transition possession. A swing pass. A stop-and-pop jumper.
âShe doesnât shout with her game,â you continue. âShe whispers. She hums. And by the end of the night, you realize sheâs been the melody the whole time.â
You pause the tape. Just your face now. Calm. Still.
âThis team doesnât just need shot-makers. It needs tone-setters. Players who make the floor feel settled. Balanced. Trusted.â
You breathe out slowly.
âThereâs one player on this roster who does that every time sheâs out there.â
You donât say her name. But everyone knows.
You post the video with a caption that just says, Game recapâthe quiet ones always carry the weight.
You close the app. Put your phone down.
Fifteen minutes later, while youâre brushing your teeth, it buzzes on the counter.
azzi:
just watched it.
i donât need you to say my name.
i heard every word.
You stare at the screen.
good.
because every word that i said? i meant it.
azzi:
come over?
i want to fall asleep hearing your voice, not just watching it.
And you donât even hesitate.
Itâs strange being the oldest now.
Not in lifeâjust in this world. The UConn world. The practice jersey, locker room, Gampel at dawn world. Youâre still in your early twenties, but somehow, senior year settles in your chest like the last page of a chapter youâre not quite ready to close.
You wear the same media badge, now faded at the edges, and carry the same camera youâve had since freshman year. But your presence isnât tentative anymore. Coaches nod when they pass you in the tunnel. Freshmen ask if they can âmaybe be in the next clip.â The film room plays your edits before games. They say your name when they talk about the program now.
And Azzi?
Azzi is everything you knew sheâd become.
Sheâs the co-captain. The shooter. The calming force. Sheâs the one they look to in timeouts, the one the little girls in the stands scream for, the one ESPN mics during pregame because her voice means something now.
Sheâs also still the one who texts you during film study from across the room, your girl just cooked that closeout. admit it.
You look up. She doesnât even glance your way. Just smirks into her Gatorade.
You send back, youâre lucky i love you.
Youâve been together for three years now.
Itâs not new anymore. But somehow, it never feels old.
You still get the same warm chill when she knocks on your door and slips inside without speaking. When she wears your shirt to bed. When she sits between your legs on the floor during game replays, her back against your chest, your fingers tracing light shapes over her ribs as the room glows blue with the paused footage.
Azzi still doesnât talk a lot about her emotions. But she shows them. In how she watches you when she thinks youâre not looking. In how she adjusts your hoodie drawstrings without saying a word. In the way she always asks if youâve eaten before she lets you start editing film. In the way she asksâquietly, but directlyâif youâll stay the night, even though she never has to.
Youâve been with her through everything. Through the rehab stint after her knee scare sophomore year. Through the championship loss in junior year that kept both of you up in silence. Through every early-morning workout, every late night edit, every moment where the pressure started to make her forget she was more than what she could score.
You never let her forget. And she never stops choosing you.
Now, itâs senior year.
And youâre both carrying the weight of lasts.
Last home opener. Last conference road trip. Last Midnight Madness.
Thereâs talk about what comes afterâdraft declarations, sports media job offers, maybe even that apartment in New York you bookmarked but never showed her. You donât say it out loud yet. But you feel the shape of it behind everything.
Still, tonightâs not about whatâs next.
Tonight is about the now.
The two of you walk into Gampel together for a game against South Carolina, the final non-conference home game of the season. Youâre filming as always. Azziâs in uniform, headphones in, locked in. She slows near the tunnel just enough to let your shoulder brush hers.
You catch her eye.
She mouths, âWatch this.â
And you do.
She drops 27 points. 6-for-7 from beyond the arc. Four assists. Two steals. One dagger of a three with a minute left that sends the crowd into a frenzy.
And when she walks off the court, towel around her neck, teammates bumping her shoulder, she doesnât look for the ESPN cameras or the press row.
She looks for you.
And when she finds youâcamera down, hands shaking just a little from trying not to scream during that final shotâshe smiles like she already knows what youâll say.
But you say it anyway. âJesus Christ, Fudd.â
She laughs.
Then steps in and presses a kiss to your cheek. Right there. Right in front of everyone. The crowd still buzzing, the team still cooling down, the band still playing. No hesitation. No secrecy. Just her lips against your skin and her hand resting at your side like itâs home.
You donât say anything. You donât have to. Sheâs yours. And she always has been.
The confettiâs still falling when she finds you.
She should be somewhere else. On the stage. On the podium. With the cameras. Holding the Most Outstanding Player trophy in one hand and the net she cut down in the other. But instead, sheâs weaving through the chaos like sheâs been looking for you the whole time.
Your cameraâs still rolling, half-raised, the screen shaking slightly from adrenaline. Youâve been filming through tearsâyours, theirs, everyoneâs. Genoâs last timeout. Paigeâs final assist. Azziâs ice-cold three with 1:13 left that sealed it. You havenât moved from the baseline since the buzzer sounded.
And suddenly sheâs there. In front of you.
Grinning like her whole body is full of light. Hair matted to her forehead, jersey drenched, eyes glassy and shining beneath the overhead lights. Sheâs not crying. Not yet. But she looks like if you said one thing too soft, she would.
So you donât say anything. You drop the camera. And open your arms. She crashes into you. Hard. Not careful. Not composed. Just Azzi, all of her, colliding into you like youâre the only solid thing left in the universe. You catch her.
Wrap your arms around her and feel her fists clench behind your back as she buries her face into your shoulder. She shakes onceâjust onceâlike the win finally hit her in your arms, not when the clock hit zero.
âI did it,â she whispers. âWe did it.â
âYou did it,â you say, pulling her tighter. âYou were unreal tonight.â
âI was scared,â she breathes, muffled against your neck. âI didnât know if I couldââ
âYou did,â you cut in. âAnd you didnât just play, Azzi. You led. You carried. You earned every second of this.â
She pulls back, just enough to look at you.
âYouâre shaking,â she murmurs, laughing a little.
âSo are you,â you reply.
Her hand finds yours. Palm rough with resin, trembling slightly. You squeeze three times.
Five minutes later, sheâs called back to the main stage. Reporters. Flashbulbs. A camera crew trying to wedge into your space, asking her for comments. Sheâs too polite to ignore them but too distracted to fully focus.
Before she turns to go, she tugs your wrist. You lean close. She kisses your cheek. Quick. Sure. Public. Everyone sees it. And she doesnât care.
âTheyâre gonna ask me how I stayed calm all tournament,â she says. âIâm gonna want to tell them it was you.â
You smile. âYou canât. Iâll get fired.â
Azzi shrugs, already walking backward into the media swarm. âFine. Iâll just say I had a secret weapon.â
You call after her, âTell them your lucky charm came through.â
She flashes a grin over her shoulder. âAlways.â
Laterâmuch laterâthe arenaâs mostly empty. Securityâs doing a final sweep. Youâre sitting on the court again, knees bent, her championship hat askew on your head and your camera shut off for once. Azziâs beside you, her legs stretched out, her shoes untied.
The netâs tied around her neck like a necklace. Her trophy rests in her lap, her fingers brushing over the engraved plate like it still doesnât feel real. She doesnât say anything. So you do.
âDid you hear the crowd when you hit that three?â
Azzi exhales. âFelt like everything got quiet.â
You nudge her thigh with your knee. âThatâs because you silenced the world.â
She leans into you, resting her head on your shoulder.
âI didnât want to look for you until I was sure weâd won,â she says. âI told myself Iâd run to you if the buzzer went and we were still standing.â
You nod. âYou found me.â
âI always will.â
You turn. Kiss the top of her head. Smell the salt, the resin, the weight of four years coming to rest all at once.
She glances down at the trophy. Then up at you.
âThis is ours,â she says.
And you believe her.
Because for four years, youâve watched her become this. Not a headline. Not a name on a graphic. Not a logo on a sneaker deal.
But Azzi. Fully. Wholly. Yours.
She didnât declare.
Azzi Fudd, consensus top-ten pick, Most Outstanding Player, national champion, walking bucketâstayed.
Everyone thought sheâd leave. Follow Paige, The mock drafts said she was gone. The WNBA teams practically started designing her jerseys. But when the time came, when the lights dimmed and the confetti settled and the press release was ready to drop, she looked across the kitchen table at you in a hoodie and sweats and said, âIâm not done here.â
And she stayed. One more year. One more season at UConn. One more chance to wear that jersey with the same grace and grit she always had. One more year of being the leader, the big sister, the captain.
You didnât try to talk her out of it. You just said, âThen we go all in.â
Because this time, you werenât filming from the student section. You werenât hiding behind a school media vest. You werenât the wide-eyed kid from Hartford anymore.
You were you now.
It happened fast after graduation. The videos youâd built over four years at UConn had long outgrown the platform. Coaches shared them. Players reposted them. Parents sent them to their kids. And when networks started knocking, you told them no.
Because you didnât need a desk job in a studio. You were already building something better. You went independent.
Self branded. Self scheduled. Self funded. You called it Court Visionâa solo platform for womenâs basketball storytelling. You didnât just cover stats. You covered rhythm. Identity. Psychology. You saw what others missed. That same calm voice you used in dorm rooms was now playing in thousands of ears across the country.
Everywhere you went, players greeted you like family. Coaches asked if you could send your breakdowns. Parents told you their daughters learned the game watching your videos. You had press credentials at every arena. Interviews on every court.
You werenât just in the room anymore. You were the room.
And yetâeven with all the traveling, all the acclaimâwhen UConnâs schedule dropped, the first date you circled was Storrs.
Because Azzi stayed. And she was yours.
You fly back on a Thursday. The gym smells the sameâpine and sweat and polish and history. You show your credential at the tunnel and get waved through with a nod. No questions. Everyone knows you by now.
Genoâs mid-practice, yelling about tempo. KK is courtside talking to her phone sipping a smoothie. But you donât look at anyone else.
Sheâs there.
Number 35. Ponytail flying. Eyes locked in.
Still Azzi.
She hits a three off a staggered screen, doesnât even glance toward the benchâbut she sees you. Feels you. After the whistle, she jogs over like itâs nothing. Like you didnât just come from a courtside interview in Atlanta the night before. Like you donât have a flight to L.A. in three days. She stops short of touching you. Still sweat-soaked. Still in game mode. But her eyes burn like fire under soft lashes.
âI was wondering when youâd show,â she says.
You smirk. âHad to see the return of the queen in person.â
âIs that what your analysis is gonna say?â
You tilt your head. âOnly if you make it worth it.â
Azzi narrows her eyes. âYou want a quote?â
âI want a win,â you say.
She laughs. âDonât worry. Iâm still your girl.â
You raise an eyebrow. âUConnâs princess, technically.â
Azzi steps a little closer, low and quiet.
âBut only yours after the buzzer.â
After practice, you sit in the bleachers while she finishes her lift. Geno walks past you muttering, âIf she plays the way she smiles at you, weâll win by 40.â
You shout back, âShe usually does.â
When Azzi joins you, towel around her neck, hair damp, you hand her the protein bar you brought from a gas station in Chicago.
âRomantic,â she says, unwrapping it anyway.
You kiss her cheek. âYou still owe me that postgame.â
She nods. âIâll give you the best quote of your career.â
âYou promise?â
She grins.
âOnly if you stay the night.â
You didnât think it could top the first one.
The chaos, the confetti, the hugging, the laughing, the relief. The night she hoisted the trophy with sweat-slicked hands and kissed your cheek in front of thousands like there wasnât anything left to hide.
But this year? This year, it was different. Because it wasnât about proving anything. It was about finishing everything right.
Azzi Fudd. Fifth-year senior. Leader. Anchor. The face of UConnâs redemption arc. Back-to-back championships. Back-to-back Most Outstanding Player. Twenty-nine points. Seven rebounds. Five assists. No missed free throws. And a quiet dominance that wove the whole game into something sacred.
You stood behind the press row, camera at your side, heart pounding harder than it ever had. Not from nerves. But from knowing.
Because youâd already decided. Tonight was the night.
You let the postgame chaos swirl without you.
You held your camera when she smiled for photos, laughed when KK fake-posed with her and said âThis is your last chance to change your mind,â and nodded quietly when Geno found you afterward and muttered, âSheâll always be ours, but she was yours first.â
But you didnât ask for a moment yet. Not until later.
After the crowd filtered out. After the media cleared. After the net was around her neck again and the trophy sat cradled in her arms like it had always belonged there.
You found her in the tunnel. Still in her jersey. She lit up the second she saw you.
âHey,â she said, breathless. âDid you see that pass in the thirdââ
You kissed her. Right there. One hand on her cheek, the other in her hair. And she melted into it, into you, the arena dim and echoing around you.
You pulled back only far enough to whisper, âGet dressed.â
She blinked. âWhy?â
âBecause Iâm taking you out.â
âNow?â
You grinned. âRight now.â
You donât go far.
A quiet rooftop. Soft lights strung along the railing. The city buzzing far below. A table set with takeout containers of her favorite pasta because you knew sheâd be starving, and a chilled bottle of sparkling cider because she doesnât drink and you remember everything she ever said in passing.
She raises an eyebrow when she sees the setup.
âWhat is this?â she asks, smiling.
You shrug. âJust a little postgame celebration.â
She walks closer. âYou did all this today?â
You nod. âI knew youâd win.â
Azzi stares at you. âYouâre insane.â
âAnd youâre in love with me.â
She laughs. âUnfortunately.â
You sit. Eat. Talk about everything but the game. You remind her of the first time you saw her live, back in that dusty high school gym. She reminds you that you couldnât make eye contact with her until October of sophomore year.
And then, after sheâs scraped up the last bit of marinara sauce with a crust of bread and leaned back in her chair, happy and full and tired in the best wayâ
You stand. Reach for your jacket pocket. Her brow furrows. You step in front of her. She freezes. And the world disappears.
Your hand is shaking. You canât even help it.
Sheâs already gasped, hand pressed to her mouth, eyes wide and wet before youâve said a single word. And your voiceâyour voice cracks before it can carry the first line.
âSorry,â you breathe, blinking up at her. âI had a whole speech. I practiced. I swear I did.â
She doesnât say anything. Sheâs holding her breath.
âIâve loved you since before I could say it. Since before I knew what it was. Since the moment you looked at me like I wasnât just another fan, or another lens, or another voice trying to tell your story.â
Your throat catches again. You pause. Try to keep it steady.
âYouâve made me better. Kinder. Quieter. Stronger. Youâve taught me how to lead without shouting. How to stand still and still be powerful. Youâve taught me what it means to stay. To love even when itâs hard. Even when weâre tired. Even when the whole world is loud.â
Sheâs crying now. Quietly. Openly.
âI donât care where you play next. I donât care what city, what team, what coast. I just want to be there. In the front row. Behind the scenes. Next to you. Always.â
You open the ring box and kneel. Her hands fly to her mouth again.
âAzzi Fudd,â you say, voice breaking, âwill you marry me?â
She doesnât say yes right away. Because sheâs already on her knees. Already wrapping her arms around your neck.Â
Already crying into your shoulder, whisperingâ âYes. Yes. God, yes.â
The city spins beneath you. But you donât feel it. Just her. Just this. Just forever starting now.
The sun pours into your room like it's in on the secret.
It catches the edge of the champagne colored blanket half-tangled around your legs, brushes over the takeout containers you were too love-struck to clean up last night, and settlesâgently, reverentlyâon the girl curled up on your chest.
Azzi.
Still in your hoodie. Her bare feet tucked beneath the blanket. One hand draped over your stomach, the other curled near her face. And on that hand, a glimmer.
The ring. She hasnât taken it off. Not even to sleep. You stare at it for a long time. The way it fits. The way it already belongs there. Like it always has. You donât want to move. But your heart is too full. Your chest feels swollen with words, with memories, with every version of you that never thought this could happen. So you ease out from under her, careful, reverent, like youâre slipping out of a church pew mid-hymn.
You grab your phone. Sit by the window. Open your camera app. And press record.
The video starts with the sun on your face. Youâre in a hoodie. Hair messy. Eyes red in the soft way that comes from crying for the right reasons. Your voice is low. Calm. Familiar.
âHey,â you say. âI donât really know where to begin. So Iâll start where I always do. With a game.â
You pause. Glance out the window. Then look back at the lens.
âLast night, UConn won its thirteenth national championship. And if you know meâif youâve followed me, or watched anything Iâve ever postedâyou know what this team means to me.â
You take a breath. A real one.
âBut last night was more than that. Last night was the end of a promise I made to myself a long time ago.â
You tap your screen. The footage cuts.
To your UConn acceptance video.
You, five years younger, sitting in your childhood bedroom. Hartford skyline through your window. A UConn pennant behind you. Youâre holding your laptop with your acceptance letter on the screen, eyes wide and shimmering.
âIâve been going to games since I was a baby. Iâve watched legends on that court. I donât know what the future looks like, but I do know thisâUConn women's basketball raised me. Alsoâminor detail, butâif I do happen to marry a UConn womenâs basketball player⌠nobody be surprised.â You wink at the camera, shrugging. âJust saying.â
You, now, smile faintly in the corner of the screen as it cuts back to you in present day.
âThat was a joke at the time. Kind of.â
You glance over your shoulder. Off screen. Your voice softens.
âBut some dreams⌠theyâre quiet. They live in your chest. They follow you until youâre ready to meet them.â You call out, âZ?â
Thereâs rustling. A sleepy groan. And thenâher. Azzi steps into frame, barefoot, wrapped in your blanket, hair a mess, ring glinting on her left hand. She blinks at the camera.
âWaitâare we filming?â You nod. She groans, laughing. âYou couldnât wait?â
You smile. âI didnât want to forget this part.â
She slips into your lap. Tucks her face under your chin. Her hand rests on your chest, just over your heart. The ring sparkles. Itâs not the centerpieceâbut it doesnât have to be. She is.
You speak again. Voice thicker now.
âShe said yes.â A pause. âI asked Azzi to marry me last night.â Another beat. âAnd she said yes.â
Azzi leans up, kisses your cheek, and whispers, âOf course I did.â
You laugh, blinking fast.
âSheâs the one I made videos about when I didnât even know I was writing love letters. Sheâs the one who saw me before the rest of the world did. Sheâs been my constant. My compass. My favorite playerâand my favorite person.â
Azzi nudges your chin. âYouâre gonna make me cry again.â
âToo late,â you mumble.
You let the silence sit for a moment. Let the footage breathe. And then you say, âI started this journey with a camera and a dream. And now I get to spend the rest of my life beside the person who turned both into something real.â
Azzi squeezes your hand. You look into the camera one last time.
âI loved UConn before I knew what love was. And somewhere between the student section and the court, I found the person Iâll love forever.â
Azzi rests her head against your shoulder again, smiling.
You whisper to her, not to the camera, âYouâre the best story Iâve ever told.â
And then you reach out.
And end the recording.
You donât even check your notifications at first.
You post the video, drop your phone face-down on the kitchen counter, and walk back to the bedroom, where Azzi is wrapped up in a hoodie and blanket like a sleepy human burrito. She smiles as you crawl into bed next to her and whisper something about needing more hours in the day.
You fall asleep with her tucked under your arm, her ring glinting in the soft morning light like itâs always belonged there.
By the time you wake up, the world has changed.
You fumble for your phone, half-asleep, and finally open TikTok.
The videoâs at 3.1 million views. You blink. Refresh. 4.2 million. The comments are⌠unhinged. Emotional. Beautiful.
Azzi watches it all happen from next to you. Sheâs curled into your side, watching you scroll through your mentions, her chin on your shoulder.
âYou didnât think itâd blow up like this, huh?â she murmurs, kissing the corner of your jaw.
You shake your head slowly. âI thought a few people might smile. Cry a little, maybe. I didnât think it would turn into⌠this.â
Azzi hums. âThink the whole worldâs been waiting for us.â
You glance at her. âAre you okay with it? With it being this public?â
She holds your hand, looks at the ring on her finger, then at you.
âIâm not hiding you,â she says. âNot ever. If the whole world sees it? Thatâs just proof I got it right.â
You lean in and kiss her. Soft. Certain.
The kind of kiss that feels like a full circle closing.
đđŤđđđŚđŹ â juju watkins x reader!uconn!player
ę¨ â summary: a game between usc and uconn brings juju right to the girl of her dreamsâliterally and then a moment between the two of you during the game goes viral
ę¨ â word count: 2.07k
ę¨ â warnings: none
ę¨ â authors note: this is shorter than i wanted but it's getting me out of my slump so take it, or leave it. or don't. i don't care.
for the game bit, i didn't know if it was a shooting foul or a defensive foul, so excuse that.
JuJu knows exactly who you are. She's known about you for years, followed your career, replayed your highlights; you were it for her.
In a way she hadn't thought about, it was kind of weird that JuJu âadmiredâ someone who was only a year older than her. But, in her defense, you were basically the second coming of A'ja Wilson.
And it was also a little strange for JuJu to âadmireâ someone whom she could never seem to beat.
There was only one player who could block JuJu's shots, and it was you.
Every match-up between you and JuJu, you had always managed to block half her shots and walk away with the win.
It drove JuJu crazyâin the best way.
After 4 state championships and whispers about you committing to USCâwhich excited 17-year-old JuJuâyou instead committed to UConn.
Despite being initially upset that you chose a college hours away, JuJu followed your entire freshman year. But something else happened during the year you were gone.
JuJu started dreaming about you.
And not just a pop-up of you in her dreamâthough that was weird too. Her dreams were literally about you.
Her sitting courtside, watching your game, then all of a sudden JuJu's on the court and you're walking towards her with a big grin.
Or, late night drives, windows down, music playing softly in the background, JuJu thinks she's by herself, then she feels someone grabbing her hand, and there you are. Holding JuJu's hand, smiling softly at her and leaning in. Then she wakes up.
It drove JuJu crazyâand not in the best way.
You led UConn to the final four, but with Paige and Azzi and the other players out with injuries, your run was ended by the Stanford Cardinals.
Still, you had an outstanding freshman year, being named Freshman of the Year, with WBCA, The Athletics and BIG EAST, along with receiving many other awardsâalmost as much as Paige, which you constantly bragged about.
JuJu, of course, liked every post about it, and she had fully accepted that her dreams were now full of you and were not going away. Not that she wanted them to, JuJu knew that her dreams were the only way she could be that close to you.
She hadn't planned on telling anyone about her dreams of you, but after Rayah suggested truth or dare as team bonding and Dominique asked JuJu what was an embarrassing secret she had, the dream thing just slipped out of her mouth before she could stop herself.
And yes, it was embarrassing that JuJu still dreamt about you, even though she was technically grown now.
The team went crazy, and from then on, they constantly poked fun at JuJu by playing your highlights or turning on your games.
The first time USC faced UConn, you were out with a sprained ankle, JuJu knew you had been hurt, and even though she had tried to stay focused, she couldn't help herself and kept glancing over, something that your teammates took advantage of, and they pulled through, advancing UConn to the Final Four.
After the game, your teammates told you about JuJu constantly looking in your direction, and even though you didn't know JuJu that well, you remembered that getting to play against her was always a good time.
You hugged her after Paige, telling her that she did good, and that you looked forward to playing against her next year. JuJu kind of froze, having your hands on her waist, but she snapped out of it and smiled back at you.
JuJu won many awards and Freshman of the Year, which you liked and repostedâyou were just returning the favour, you know?
That off-season, you and JuJu seemed to be meeting everywhere. Filming videos, ads and doing collabs, but JuJu still couldn't quite find the courage to actually talk to you.
She would talk around you. Then, when you were asked a direct question, she would tune out and stare somewhere else so that she didn't draw attention to herself by staring at you like a puppy.
The season started again, and you knew. It was time to win a National Championship.
It was Paige's last year, and after the devastating loss just months ago, you knew Paige wasn't leaving without a natty.
Then it was time. USC was playing against UConn.
JuJu couldn't wait. She dreamt about the moment she could play against you, remembering what you had said all those months ago. She was counting down the days till she could see you.
You were excited.
You haven't played against JuJu since high school. But you do remember always walking away with the win, and you had no doubts that this time was no different.
Practice that morning was intense, but in a good way. A way that had your muscles moving, and your brain was already starting to enter game mode.
In the locker room, KK and Paige had zeroed in on you and had started talking about JuJu.
KK slid up to your locker and said, âSooooâŚâ
You raised your eyebrows, âCan I help you, KK?â
Paige stood on the other side of your locker. âSo, how do you feel about going up against your admirer?â Paige wiggled her eyebrows, clearly insinuating something.
You frowned, âAdmirer?â
âYou know, JuJu,â KK grinned
You stopped frowning, and your face settled into something between recognition and amusement, âOhhhh, JuJu.â
Paige and KK shared a look, clearly looking for something juicy.
âWhat about her?â You shrugged
KK gave a deadpan look, âGirl, boo, what do you mean âwhat about her?â â
Paige quickly cut in, âShe has a crush on you.â
You shrugged again, âSo?â
Paige and KK shared another look, then in unison they yelled, âSo?!â
âShe doesn't have a crush on me.â Paige and KK opened their mouths to interrupt, but you ignored them and continued, âJust because you caught her staring at me during one game, doesn't mean she likes me.â
âUhââ KK went to say something, but you cut her off again.
âAnd, even if she did, it doesn't matter.â
Paige and KK stared blankly at you, KK in slight annoyance from being interrupted so many times.
âWe're just playing basketball, and that's all that matters when we're on the court. Not some silly crush you two think JuJu has on me.â
You looked between them, making sure the message got across, then you grabbed your stuff and walked off.
Later in the day, the team had one last shoot around before heading back to their dorms to nap, eat, shower, whatever.
You did all those things, getting well rested before the game, then fuelling your body with good food before jumping in the shower. While in the shower, you started thinking about what Paige and KK said. Did JuJu actually have a crush on you?
You weren't dumb enough to let your thoughts be all about JuJu before a game (knowing it would only distract you), but you gave yourself a couple of minutes to really think about it.
You had convinced yourself she didn't like you, especially because in the past, she seemed dead set on not having any interactions with you at all. And if you did have to talk, it was limited. You had thought that maybe JuJu didn't like you, but what if it was, in fact, the opposite, and she really liked you?
Getting out of the shower, you wiped all thoughts about JuJu from your mind and got ready for the game.
Showing up in your team gear, lash extensions brushed out perfectly, hair sleeked into a tight ponytail, your hair swinging satisfyingly behind you. Your lip gloss caught the light just right, and you took some quick pictures before the game with some early fans, then headed inside.
The girls were inside, most of them doing their pregame rituals. You did yours, then CD told you it was time to leave and start warm-ups. You all lined up and ran out.
Warm-ups were solid. Despite the initial nervousness you always get before every game, it, like always, went away by warm-ups as you got distracted by Paige yelling âButterflyâ right in your ear.
JuJu's eyes were trained on you as she watched you during your warm-ups. She had to be knocked out of it multiple times by her teammates because her staring was starting to get concerning looks from everyone around her.
Soon enough, the game started.
It was a bad game from the start. UConn just wasn't connected like they usually were. But thank God for you, right? Or thank A'ja Wilson?
You were blocking shots like they were nothing. Swatting them into the stands like it was the championship game. When you blocked the shots, you quickly grabbed the ball, kicking it out to your teammates and hoping they pulled through.
The team fed off your energy, and UConn started making a comeback. For the first two quarters, Geno had put Paige on JuJu, but after seeing the shots you were blocking, he swapped the two of you.
And then, the viral moment.
Someone on USC's team jumped for the rebound, then kicked it out to JuJu, who was on the three-point line. You knew she was gonna shoot it and had already jumped up, and just as she released the ball, you swatted it, sending it flying to the other side of the court.
And, usually, that would be the viral moment. â#15 blocks #12 JuJu Watkins,â but instead, it was the next moment that went viral.
Because of the direction you jumped, you landed on the other side of JuJu, but the force of you (basically) flying past JuJu, sent her tumbling onto her back.
The whistle blew, and you turned around to see the ref call a shooting foul on you. Now, you knew you hadn't touched JuJu, but judging by where the ref was standing, you could see why he thought it was a foul, but that didn't stop you from getting angry at how blind the ref was.
You stepped over JuJu's body, one foot planted between her legs, the other planted by her side. You stood over her, waving your hands, yelling at the ref.
JuJu was leaning up slightly, shamelessly looking up at you, like you were some kind of goddess from another dimension. From JuJu's perspective, she could see the sweat dripping down your face, and it made you look like a glazed donut. Your legs were smooth, and JuJu could see the muscle definition in them, even in your arms. Thank God for the gym. Or thank Geno? Or thank you? Either way, thank you for blessing JuJu.
Your hair was swaying slightly and JuJu couldn't stop staring, mouth agape as she half-listened to you yelling at the ref.
You didn't want to get a tech, so you turned to Geno and gestured to the ref, only to see that Geno was already making his way over, nodding his head and walking over to challenge the foul.
You calmed slightly at that and turned to JuJu, who was still staring at you like you hung the stars and the one you were still standing over. You moved back slightly and extended your arm down to her. JuJu snapped out of her awe and grabbed your hand. You pulled her up and placed your hand on her hip, tapped her twice and muttered, âSorry.â
JuJu's face flushed as she felt your hands on her, then you grabbed her waist and moved around her, walking over to Geno and the gathered refs.
JuJu gulped, then grabbed her jersey and started fluffing it to calm herself down.
Yeah, that was the part that went viral. â#12 JuJu Watkins flustered from #15?â
She walked over to the huddle with her teammates, but gazed back at you and watched as you stood watching for the results of the challenge.
That moment. The feeling of your fingers pressed into her waist, and the slight rasp in your voice when you apologised.
JuJu was obsessed. Her dreams were nothing compared to real life. And now she wantedâno, neededâmore.
UConn ended up winning. By one. 72 - 73.
It was close, but after another block from you, the ball fell right into Paige's hands. You immediately sprinted to the other end, and after Paige sent a no-look pass to you, you hit a 3-point shot and got the win.
It seems even in college, JuJu still can't seem to beat youâand she loves it.
â â authorâs note: lol fun fact this was actually written last year so excuse how bad the writing is
IT'S HALLOWEEN, and Paige is drunk.
Not, like, dangerously drunk. Not falling-over, can't-walk-straight, gotta-call-it-a-night drunk. Just loose, warm in the face, her arm slung a little too comfortably around your shoulder drunk. She's been sipping on some concoction Amari made her and stealing swigs from the Tito's bottle that Nika has been quite literally just carrying around all night, and it's hitting her good nowâthe alcohol, the music, the thick haze of sweat and cheap perfume and way too many bodies crammed into the old frat house.
The place is packed, crammed in a way where everyone's essentially elbow-to-elbow, breathing down each other's necks. There's a fog machine running full blast in the living room, string lights flickering white and orange overhead, and the frat president of Phi Delt has been standing on the kitchen table, pouring people shots all night.
Somewhere in the middle of it all is her and you. You're both dressed up as Subway Surfers, wearing jeans and beanies. Paige is in an oversized denim jacket, you're in a cropped white tank. You've each got fake spray paint bottles tucked into your waistbands, and Paige has been pretending to spray people with hers since she got here.
You look so good tonight that Paige has been strugglingâbut has managed to (mostly)âkeep her hands to herself for hours. Which is impressive, even for her.
But now, she leans into you, pressing her face into the side of your neck, mouth hovering close to your ear. "You're so hot, dude," she mumbles. "Makin' me feel insane."
You laugh, squinting at her, nose scrunched up from the smoke machine blowing directly in your face. "You're so drunk."
Paige nods. "Iâm right."
You roll your eyes, but she feels your fingers slip around her waist all the same, anchoring her a little closer. She can feel the curve of your hip against hers, your breath warm on her jaw.
Around you, the rest of the team is scattered across the house. Ice is dressed like Catwoman, full black bodysuit and all, but with white Nike dunks instead of heels. Azzi's a unicorn, wearing a headband with a horn and a rainbow skirt. Predictably, Ash is a cowgirl, sporting a hat, boots, and a flannel. KK's in a football uniform and Paige keeps seeing her chest bump people in the hallway. Nika said she wasn't dressing up and then showed up in Harry Potter robes and a stick she found on the sidewalk as a wand.
Paige loses you pretty quickly. One minute, you're pressed up against her side, laughing at something Nika said about a guy in a banana costume, and the next, Aaliyah and Aubrey are dragging Paige by the hand toward the dining room table where someone set up beer pong.
"Come on, Subway Surfer," Lili teases, tugging her through the crowd. "You owe me after bailing last time."
"I ainât bail," Paige argues, but her words are mushy and dumb around the edges. She's definitely way drunker than she thought. "You started without me."
Aubrey grins, tossing her a ping pong ball. "No excuses now."
So, she plays. And losesâbadly. Because she can barely focus on the cups and because Aubrey's good at everything and also because, if she's honest, Paige kind of forgets the rules halfway through and just starts downing whatever cup is the closest.
Somewhere in the middle of her third round, she glances around and realizes you're gone. Not gone gone, like vanished or anything, but definitely not in the room. Not sipping in the corner anymore. Not perched on the couch with KK or Ice like you were earlier. Not in her immediate orbit, which suddenly feels very wrong.
She blinks, frowns. "Where'd she go?" she mumbles, mostly to herself.
"Bathroom?" Aaliyah offers, setting up another rack of cups.
But Paige is already distracted. Already scanning the room again, brain fuzzy and slow and a little too warm. She feels like she needs water. Or food. Or just her arms around you.
And thenâfinallyâshe sees you.
You're coming in from the backyard, cheeks flushed pink and hair mussed from the breeze, trailed closely by Nika who's holding up her pen proudly. The two of you are giggling about something, bumping shoulders, and Paige watches you for a secondâthe way your mouth curls around a grin, the way you stumble slightly and catch yourself with a hand on the wallâand her chest does this stupid little flutter.
When you spot her, the two of you making eye contact, you beeline straight across the room with a smile that could probably make Paige drop dead if she wasn't already weak in the knees from the five cups of beer she just chugged.
You press yourself into her side like you did earlier, and whisper in her ear through a giggle, "âM so crossed."
Nika sidles up behind you, holding her pen toward Paige. "I think she hit this one too many times," she says proudly, snorting a little.
"I was peer pressured," you say, completely unserious, lips still curved and eyes all glassy. "By a Croatian."
Paige stares at you, unable to stop herself. Your pupils are blown, you smell like weed and your perfume, and your cheek is resting against her shoulder in a way that makes her stomach flutter and roll no matter that you've done it a million times before tonight.
"Shit," she breathes, not even trying to hold back her grin. She slips an arm around your waist, palm flat against the curve of your hip. "You're gon' be done soon."
You nod, unbothered. "I know. But it's okay."
"She also just told me she wants Taco Bell," Nika says with a shrug. "So, good luck with that."
You snort into Paige's neck. "I do want Taco Bell."
Paige lets her head fall back for a second, laughing. She's sweating a little, maybe. Or just flushed. Either way, she pulls you into her tighter and your hand goes to her chest, playing with the edge of her jacket drawstring. Nika mutters something about leaving you two alone before she dies of a contact high, and Paige flips her off halfheartedly as she walks away.
You've been quiet for a moment, just staring stupidly up at Paige like she's some sort of elaborate piece of art. She cups your face loosely with her free hand, thumb brushing your jaw. "You're so high."
"You're so drunk," you respond, laughing a little. The thought of alcohol must spark something in you, because then you perk up, asking excitedly, "Can we take a shot?"
Paige is swaying a little, her head spinning in that slow, dizzy way that makes it hard to tell if she's floating or just leaning into you too hard. And yet, even knowing she probably doesn't need another, her smile widens at the idea of more alcohol and she nods, pulling you towards the table with the drinks.
It's tequila that Paige finds, and she pours just enough into two solo cups, handing one to you. You laugh as you tap the rim of your cup against hers. "Cheers, Subway Surfer."
"Cheers, baby."
You both throw it back, and Paige makes a face like she's just been punched in the throat. The tequila burns all the way down, leaving her eyes watering, but you're already giggling again and pressing your cold fingers against her cheeks like you're trying to stable yourself.
And as Paige watches you do so, brain fizzling out a little, she blurts, "Let's go upstairs and make out."
You blink at her, slow and spacey, like your brain is also bufferingâand then your face splits into a wide grin. "Okay," you say immediately, not even pretending to hesitate.
You're already grabbing her hand again, dragging her out of the kitchen, both of you stumbling and laughing like kids skipping class. You nearly run into a guy dressed up as a cowboy in the hallway, and Paige has to use her free hand to brace against the wall just to keep you both upright.
It takes a minute to find a room that isn't occupiedâthe first one's locked, the second one has a group of girls sitting crisscross on the floor clearly in some sort of debrief, and the third one... yeah, Paige doesn't even want to think about what she saw in there. But the fourth bedroom is empty. Itâs mostly dark except for a string of LED lights casting a red glow across the walls. The bed's made, the door shuts with a soft click, and suddenly everything feels a lot quieter.
Paige leans back against the closed door, blinking hard, trying to find her balance.
You're standing in front of her now, still grinning, still flushed and gorgeous and wild-eyed. One of the straps of your white tank is hanging off your shoulder, and your jeans lay low on your waist, and Paige just... stares for a second.
"You're so pretty," she says, like it just slips out.
You hum, pleased. "I know."
And then you're kissing herâhot and eager and messy, arms looped around her neck, your body all soft curves pressed up against hers. Paige melts into it instantly, grabbing at your waist and backing you into the edge of the bed. She's dizzy in the best way, drunk off the alcohol and you, and all she wants is to feel your mouth against hers for the rest of the night.
You tug her down with you when you flop onto the mattress, laughing against her lips as her knee slots between yours.
"You're so warm," you mumble, hands sliding beneath her shirt to press flat against the muscles of her abs.
Paige groans a little, dragging her mouth to your jaw. "You're so crossed."
"Mhm," you respond.
Paige doesn't respond, too busy sucking a soft bruise into your neck, just beneath your jaw. You tug at the hem of her jacket like you want more of her, all of her, now.
The room spins a little when she pulls back to take it off, and she has to laugh at herself to keep from falling over. "Jesus," she mutters, squeezing her eyes shut for a second.
When she opens them back up, you're still beneath her, eyes heavy-lidded, pupils blown, your lips slightly swollen from the way she's been kissing you. Paige feels it everywhereâthat slow, warm buzz that starts in her stomach and spreads out through every nerve ending. She's drunk, sure, but it's not just the tequila or the shots that she probably shouldn't have taken. It's you, too, looking like that, beneath her like that, staring up at her like that.
Your hands are gripping at the wife beater tank she's been wearing beneath the jacket, clumsy but firm, pulling her back in close. Paige grins, head dipped, forehead pressed lightly against yours, her breath warm against your cheek as she asks, "Can we fuck?"
"Yes," you breathe immediately, like it's the easiest answer in the world. You tug her back in, mouth finding hers again, messy and fast and all teeth and tongue.
Paige's grin widens into the kiss, because she can't help itâbecause she's stupid happy and stupid drunk and stupid turned on and your legs are already hooking around her waist and she just wants you so, so bad.
"God," she murmurs against your mouth, "you're soâ"
She doesn't finish. She doesn't even really know what she was gonna say. You're so perfect? You're so hot? You're so mine?
All of them, probably. But the words blur together in her head, and she's too busy kissing you again to get them out anyway. Her hands slip under your tank, fingertips skating across your stomach, and she feels you twitch, shiver a little at the touch.
"Wait," she says, blinking hard. She pulls back just an inch, just enough to see your face better in the red LED light. Youâre drunk, and she needs to know.
You blink up at her, all flushed cheeks and bedroom eyes. "What?"
"I justâ" She grins again, that gummy one she's got. "You're sure?"
You nod, smiling up at her, though looking slightly impatient. "Paige," you say in amusement.
"Okay," she replies, practically breathless now. "Okay."
And then you're kissing again, a little slower this time, deeper, and Paige forgets all about whatever music is thumping through the floor below, forgets all about where you both are, who might be downstairs, what time it is.
The makeout lasts a while, getting heavier and messier as it keeps going. Paige knows she's sloppy when she's drunk, but you are too, and that kind of makes it perfect. Her hatâpart of the whole dumb Subway Surfers thingâgot tossed who knows where a few minutes ago. Your beanie is halfway off your head. The spray paint cans that was clipped to your jeans are somewhere on the floor. One of them rolled under the bed and clanged against something, and you both paused for a split second, and then immediately went back to kissing.
You're squirming under her, and Paige feels your fingers dragging up under the back of her tank, and her hips automatically press down, grinding into you. Her breath catches in her throat, and she holds back a groan in the back of her throat. Your grip on her tightens, and she keeps rolling her hips into you, slow and lazy, gasping into your mouth. And then, somewhere in the middle of that, her drunk brain stutters.
Wait.
You're both still fully clothed.
Like... jeans, tops, shoes. So many layers. Why?
Paige pulls back just slightly, looking down between your bodies like it's some big revelation. Her forehead scrunches, confused and dramatic. "Bro," she mutters, dragging her hands up your sides. "Why do we have so many clothes on right now?"
You're breathing heavy, too, lips kiss-bitten and eyes lazy, and you kind of laugh against her. "I don't know," you mumble. "You tell me."
Paige just stares at you for a second, like she's trying to solve a very serious puzzle. Then, she nods, like it all suddenly makes sense.
"That's dumb," she declares, fumbling at your jeans with drunk hands. "That's so dumb."
You laugh again, trying to help her out because she's terrible at buttons when she's sober, let alone several shots of tequila deep. "You're kinda dumb, too."
"I'm serious," Paige says, still messing with your waistband like it personally offended her. "I'mâthis is, likeâclothes are wrong."
You snort. "Right."
"No, listen," she continues, letting out a half-drunken huff as she finally gets your jeans unbuttoned and starts tugging them down, clumsily but determined. "I justâI don't understand why I'm grindinâ on, like, your zipper when I could beâ"
"Paige," you say, half laughing, half gasping as she manages to get your jeans halfway down your thighs.
"What?"
You grin. "I love you, but you gotta stop talking. You're not very good at multitasking right now."
"Rude," Paige mutters, nose scrunching. "I'm tryin' so hard."
"I know," you whisper, hands at the back of her neck tugging her back down. "It's cute."
She smirks against your mouth as she kisses you again, hands still moving. She finally fully gets your jeans off, tossing them to the side with far too much forceâthey land on a lamp and knock it over with a loud clunk. You both freeze for a moment. Paige blinks.
"That wasn't me."
"That was definitely you."
"Nope," Paige says, leaning back over you, clearly done caring. "Ghost did it."
You're giggling again, arms back around her neck, and she smiles as she kisses you, now with your bare legs wrapped around her waist. It's easier like thisâbetter, closer. Her hands settle at your hips as she rocks down again, sighing against your mouth.
"See," she mumbles, voice low now, "way better without clothes."
You hum, eyes fluttering shut. "You're still wearing pants," you inform her.
Paige doesn't bother with that, too busy kissing you greedily once more, tongue deep in your mouth, one of her hands already sliding between your legs. She palms you first through your panties, just pressing there a second, testing the heat and the way your hips lift into her. You're already warm, already kind of wet, and that makes Paige's stomach flip. You whine into her mouth, and the blonde swears she could live in that sound.
"Fuck," she breathes out, breaking the kiss just enough to look down. Her hand keeps moving, rubbing slow little circles over the damp spot growing beneath her fingers. "You're already like this?"
"You've been on top of me for, like, ten minutes," you remind her.
"Oh, right," Paige says. "My bad."
She grins down at you, biting her lip. Her eyes are glassy and her cheeks are hot, and everythingâs very hazy. Youâre all she really sees. You, spread under her in this random bedroom at some packed Halloween party, lights from the hallway still peeking in under the door, faint bass thumping somewhere below your feet. But itâs all so far away. Thisâyour hands on her waist, your chest rising and falling, your thighs tight around herâis all that matters.
And God, youâre so pretty. Your hairâs a mess and your lipstickâs completely gone and youâre looking at her like youâd let her do anything right now. It makes her dizzy.
She hooks her fingers under the waistband of your underwear, tugging slowly.
"Yeah?" she murmurs a little hoarsely, her nose brushing yours. "Can I take these off?"
You nod, eyes wide, breath catching. "Please."
And maybe it's the alcohol, or maybe it's how turned on she is, or maybe it's just the way you say please, but Paige has never moved quicker. She shimmies your underwear down your legs in a clumsy rush, grinning when you giggle at her drunken focus.
She tosses the panties to the side and leans back over you, planting a kiss to your cheek, your jaw, then your mouth again. Her hand slips back between your legs, and the second her fingers slide through you, her whole body tenses.
"Fuck, mama," she mumbles, mouth still against your cheek. "You're so wet."
You let out a little noise, something between a hum and a muffled moan, grabbing at her shoulders, nails digging in a little.
Paige is definitely drunk. Definitely too gone to be doing this as skilled and purposeful as she usually doesâbut that doesn't stop her from trying. She kisses you once more, deep and slow, while her fingers start working you open eagerly, not at all trying to tease. No, tonight, she just wants to make you feel good.
Her mouth never stops moving. Itâs either kissing you or mumbling into your skin. âYouâre so pretty like this,â she says. âSo good for me. I swear, you always are.â
And, okay, let this be known: when Paige is drunk, she's a lot of thingsâclingy, giggly, overly confident, always talking with her hands, always saying exactly what's on her mind without thinking it through. But above all, she's messy. Emotionally, physically, romantically. Just... messy in the way she touches and wants and moves.
Right now's no different.
Her fingers are pumping in and out of you, rhythm not totally smooth, but urgent and hungry and warmâand it doesn't even matter that it's not perfect because the way you're responding to her is more than enough. You're just as gone as she is, mouth falling open with every sharp inhale, hips grinding to meet each thrust, like your body is chasing Paige's touch without needing instructions.
It makes something coil in her gut, this tight hot thing that burns through the haze of alcohol.
"Holy shit," she murmurs, breathless, her vocabulary small at this point. "You feel so good. Like... fuck."
You whimper, thighs twitching around her hand, and Paige swears she could die happy hearing that sound again. The bass from the party downstairs is still faint in the background, but Paige can hardly even hear it behind the sound of your breathing and her fingers working you open.
You whisper her name like it's the only word you remember. "Paigeâ"
She groans, soft and right into your ear. "Say it again."
"Paige," you breathe, voice breaking around it.
"Fuckin'âlove you," she grits out behind another harsh thrust of her wrist. She leans back in, kissing you sloppily, lazily, while her fingers curl again, and this time, the reaction you give her is instant: back arching, eyes fluttering, mouth falling open on a gasp.
"There," she mumbles. "Tha's it, right?"
You nod, biting your lip, and she keeps goingâkeeps curling her fingers just like that, over and over again, while her thumb starts circling over your clit quickly. Her hand is drenched from you, a white ring started to form around her fingers, the squelching sounds obscene.
"Gonna cum for me?" she asks, all sweet and a little cocky even though she's barely holding herself up.
You nod again, eyes squeezed shut, and Paige watches every second of it like itâs the most important thing sheâs ever seen. The way your body trembles, the way your lips part and your breath hitches and your hips buck up against her hand like you canât help it.
And then you doâright there, falling apart underneath her, your voice breaking, back arching, fingers fisting the front of her hoodie.
Itâs honestly one of the hottest things Paige has ever seen.
She slows her hand down, keeps it there, not pulling out until your body softens and your thighs relax around her wrist. You're gasping, blinking up at her with this dazed little smile that makes her heart do a somersault and her cunt pulse.
She pulls her fingers out, watching your slickness slide down her hand as she does so. It's instantaneousâthe want that pulses deep inside her.
"Fuck, I gotta feel you," she mumbles, and the words fall out low and desperate, like she doens't even realize she's saying them until they're out there.
You nod, wide-eyed and breathless, already reaching to tug at her waistband like you were two seconds ahead of her. The second her jeans and boxers are offâkind of a disaster, honestly, because she almost trips trying to get them off one foot and you're giggling as you yank them the rest of the wayâPaige climbs right back on top of you like she's been waiting hours and not seconds. Her hands settle on either side of your head, your legs open instinctively for her, and then she's grinding down against your cunt.
"Shit," she gasps the second her hips roll forward.
Because it's so good. The way your pussies slide against each other, hot and slippery and messy, but perfect in that blurry, overstimulated, drunk kind of way. You both moan at the same time and it's like the sound just echoes in Paige's chest.
She buries her face in your neck and lets herself get lost in the pace. Back and forth, up and down. No real pattern, just feeling wet folds along wet folds. The heat of your thighs around her. Your slick mixing with hers. Your hands digging into her back. Your hips rising to meet her every movement.
"Holy fuck," she whines, not even sure if she's talking to you or herself. "You feel so good. You feel soâGod, 'M not gonna last, I swear."
Your hands curl around her waist, fingers digging into the indents of her lower back, and your hips stutter up into hers like you're trying to match her rhythm and just barely missing it.
Paige helps, one of her hands reaching to hold your hip down. She kisses you again, sloppy and open-mouthed, pulling away only to mumble, "You're so perfect, mama. So fuckin' perfect."
"P, so good," you gasp before her lips press back down onto yours.
Paige grinds down harder, every brush of your pussy against hers feeling like fucking fireworks. It's probably the inebriation, but her every nerve feels like it's lighting up. Her whole body is buzzing with it.
You whimper underneath her and tilt your hips just right and Paige gasps because that's it. The fucking spot.
You're both panting now, the tension ratcheting up fast and sharp between you. Her stomach tightens. Her thighs are starting to tremble, aching. The whole room feels like it's spinning but you are solid underneath her, something to hold onto.
"Jesus," she breaths, almost delirious with it. "I'm close. I'mâshit, baby, I'm soâfuck."
Your nails dig into her back. You're close too, she can feel it. The way your body arches, the way your breath catches, the way your pussy pulses against hers, the way you keep chasing every touch like your whole body is begging her not to stop.
"Cum with me," Paige whispers, and it sounds like begging. "Please, baby. Want you to cum with me."
And you do.
You both do, tangled up and shaking and moaning into each other's mouths, slick sliding down your thighs. Paige buries her face in your neck and groans as her orgasm hits her like a truck. Her whole body clenches up and her breath stutters out in short little huffs as she rides it out, grinding down once more before collapsing fully on top of you.
Paige listens to your heartbeat, racing under her cheek, and her eyes flutter shut.
You, however, shift slightly beneath her. Your hand finds her hair and you let out a long sigh, voice slightly slurred as you say, "Bro, we just fucked in a random frat boy's bed."
Paige groans into your collarbone, face pressed against your skin. "Was good, though."
content: honestly just porn without plot i truthfully didn't think i'd ever achieve this, paige is a smug little shit, quickies đ, fingering, choking, oral, slight edging if you squint, overstim, slight hair pulling, dry humping and packing per anon requests, obligatory straption, vibrators? sorta? uhhhh just filth Tbh dont @ me, also not proofread so if you care about that idk what to tell you
wc: 14.3k
synopsis: Having been drafted to the New York Liberty and to the Dallas Wings respectively, you and your girlfriend Paige Bueckers have hardly had the time to see each other in the midst of busy WNBA seasons and even busier offseasons. The championship ring ceremony is the first time the both of you have seen each other in months, and youâre finding that keeping your hands off of her is an impossible task.
notes: the suit. the fucking suit. i'm Ovulating. happy freaktober
There were very few things you knew with absolute certainty.
You knew that the grass was green and the sky was blue. You knew that if you passed the ball to Azzi Fudd at the three point line, then it was going in. You knew that the bodega you frequented after practice always made sure to give you extra meat in your chopped cheese after you nervously shouted them out after the end of your first game as a rookie on the New York Liberty, having been asked what contributed to your success on the court.
The one other thing that you knew with absolute certainty was the fact that you and Paige were never going this long without seeing each other again.
It just wasnât sustainable. Sure, you FaceTimed and texted frequently, probably more often than you talked to anyone else. You sent each other random photos throughout the day, like random snapshots from practice or fit check selfies. But not seeing Paige? That was a different story entirely.
The last time you saw her was during the last game that the Wings and the Liberty played against each other for the regular season. That was back in August. Admittedly, youâd made other arrangements and skipped out on the team flight back to New York so you could spend the night with your girlfriend, but you were desperate then and youâre more than desperate now.Â
The two of you had been unable to coordinate schedules towards the end of the season. Dallas had been knocked out of playoff contention a while ago, while New York made it through to the first round. Paige wasnât able to make it to New York or Phoenix to watch you play, stuck with other commitments and wrapping up her rookie season, and you would never hold that against her. You knew what that was like, and more than you wanted her with you, you wanted her to be able to enjoy her time and soak it all in â rookie of the year and a stellar, record breaking season. She deserved that.
You just missed her, though. And she missed you, too.
New York eventually lost to the Mercury in a heartbreaker, but part of you had been expecting it. The roster was too injured and you hadnât been able to pick up the pieces of that. Still, you and Paige were unable to find time together â she was busy with other appearances and trainings, and with your season having been cut short, that meant it was now your turn to wrap up your rookie year. Exit interviews, team obligations, and appearances of your own soon filled your schedule, including really complicated meetings when it was announced that Sandyâs contract would not be extended.
It had been a lot. Truthfully, the icing on the cake was Paige extending the invite to Turks and Caicos and you being unable to go because youâd be stuck in California for a week shooting ads and such with Gatorade and Nike â something your agent had booked you for last minute and you were unable to reschedule. It was good for your career, something that both you and Paige understood, but fuck, you just missed her.
Then, when she got back from vacation, you had some time free, but she was now booked and busy. A Trufru collab, random football games (watching her do the Longhorn horns up salute made you a little sick to your stomach, unwilling to represent a team that wasnât UConn), and a Mavericksâ preseason game. You and Paige also lamented over your shitty, state football teams â you werenât sure if you could survive another Jets game, and she had the audacity to tease you because her shitty team was slightly better than both of your shitty teams, and you think you were just getting a little sick of all of these FactTime conversations about shitty football teams when the two of you could be doing much more productive things, like making out on the couch while someoneâs less shitty football team plays on the TV while neither of you paid attention.
The ring ceremony was all but a blessing. You and Paige both cleared your schedules around it, meaning the two of you would be together in late October. You would both fly in on the Thursday of the ceremony and you both also made plans to spend the weekend in Connecticut. You missed your teammates â you really did, and you were going to make the best of the time you had with them. You also missed Paige, and you were also going to make the best of the time you had with her. You were good at multitasking like that.
Paige had a later flight than you did, and, evidently, one that got delayed, so youâre on your own for the first few hours that day. Youâre back in the practice facility shooting hoops with your teammates and the new freshmen you canât help but be endeared by â especially Kelis, whoâs like a mini KK. Geno would have his hands full with them but judging by the way he smiles â which, first of all, makes you a little mad because he loved yelling at you just because â you donât think Geno minds at all.
Heâs getting soft in his old age. You tell him as much, then he rewards you with suicides. Some things never change.
Paige doesnât make it in time for practice. Not in time for the first few minutes of the dinner event, where everyone is mostly making their rounds and talking to season ticket holders and signing things for the younger audience. Eventually, you excuse yourself to the restroom to touch up your makeup, having smeared your gloss from the drink youâd been nursing.
Youâre locked in, leaned incredibly close to the mirror so you can see, and you donât notice the sound of the door opening behind you. Assuming itâs just another woman, you think nothing of it, not until Paigeâs figure appears in your periphery and her arms are looping around your waist. The suddenness startles you and you nearly drop your gloss into the sink.
âP? What theââ
âHey, baby,â she murmurs, pressing her lips to your jaw quickly, squeezing you gently about the waist. Her touch makes your skin heat, and you spin in her hold to come face to face with her after so. Fucking. Long.
But you regret it almost immediately.
Paigeâs hair is up in a classic, slick back bun that youâve ruined once or twice before, and her make up is simple and natural. Mascara coats her lashes and it makes the blue of her gaze seem that much more intense. What really gets you, though, is her fit, no matter how simple. Sheâs in a three piece suit, a crisp, white button down accented with a fitting black vest. Paige is wearing a fucking tie, too, the knot resting tantilizingly over her chest, and all you can think about is getting your hands on it, untucking it from her vest and pulling her closer, and closer, and closer into you until thereâs no space in between the both of you except for your breaths.
That thought makes you blink, and Paige just stares down at you, too. Under normal conditions, sheâd probably tease you for obviously zoning out, but itâs clear that sheâs just as distracted. You hadnât done anything too crazy with your fit, knowing that while youâre grown now, this is still CDâs world and youâre just living in it.
Youâre dressed in a simple, black dress, extending down to your mid thigh. Itâs snug, glued to every inch and every curve on your body, and itâs backless, revealing years worth of toned muscle and definition from playing basketball. Perhaps, youâd concede, that much was a little intentional â knowing that Paige tended to go a little crazy over your back, but now that youâre seeing what sheâs wearing, you mentally pat yourself on the back for picking out this dress before knowing that sheâd try to fucking kill you.
You just smile up at your girlfriend, twisting a finger in one of her belt loops and tugging her closer to you. She moves without thought, one of her large hands, calloused from exertion and years of basketball landing dangerously low on your hips. âI missed you,â you whisper, softening your tone. You watch as Paigeâs throat bobs as she swallows, her eyes flickering down to your chest.
âYeah?â Her voice is nearly a low rumble, hips pressing you into the sink behind you, and you let her. You release her belt loop to encircle your arms around her neck. You nod, and the way she smiles at you â sharp and knowing and just shy of desperate â makes you want to call it a night and just have KK or Azzi bring you your championship rings the morning after. âMissed you too, mama.â
Paigeâs lips ghost over yours, but you poke a finger into her chest. âWe are never going this long without seeing each other ever again,â you say, maybe a little petulantly, but you canât help it. Paige hums in earnest agreement. âAnd youâre not allowed to do that horns up shit ever again, P. Iâm so serious. Itâs bleed blue or nothing.â
She laughs, and all it does is remind you about how much you missed her. You soften, letting her squeeze your waist again. âI promise. You gonna let me kiss you now or do I gotta apologize for somethinâ else?â
You donât bother with an answer. You fist your hand into the knot of her tie, pulling her closer until you can finally press your freshly glossed lips to hers. The force of you pulling her tie causes her to make some choked, almost surprised noise, but her grip tightens on your hips and itâs clear that neither of you particularly care. You melt into Paige, into the warmth of her body pressed so close to yours after so long apart, into the pressure of her fingers digging into your skin because sheâd missed you just as much and doesnât want to let go.
Paige angles her jaw to kiss you deeper, and you canât stop yourself from sliding a hand around to the back of her neck to pull her firmer against you. She sighs against you, her lips insistent, searching, and soft from gloss, and when you tangle your fingers in the baby hairs at the nape of her neck and pull gently, her mouth falls open with a soft sound of pleasure. You just smile against her, slowing your movements to suck in a quick breath, but you donât get the chance to continue.
A heavy fist pounds against the bathroom door, causing the both of you to jolt away from each other. âI can see both of yâallâs locations in here!â KK yells, her voice slightly muffled by the door. âPlease wrap it up, freaks!â
Paige sighs, not even trying to hide her subtle irritation. Satisfaction blooms in your chest at the sight and you lean in to place one more chaste, if not a little sheepish, kiss to her lips. Sheâs grinning when you pull back. âWe shouldâŚâ you begin, clearing your throat.
Paige nods in agreement, her cheeks a little red. âYeah,â she agrees. Neither of you make any effort to move, but she does reach out with her hand, her thumb wiping away smeared gloss on your chin. She doesnât look apologetic in the slightest for fucking up your make up. When your face is clear, she wipes her hand with a paper towel, and reaches for your discarded gloss tube in the sink. âCan I?â
You can only nod your head at that, not trusting the sudden mushiness in your chest or the sentimentality, and you watch as she uncaps it. With one hand, she holds you still by the jaw, and your lips part wordlessly for her as she slowly begins dragging the wand across your bottom lip. Her brows are pinched in focus and you think that she looks stunning like this â soft and completely devoted.
When she finishes, you press your lips together to spread the gloss out, and she discards the gloss tube in your clutch when you smile in satisfaction. Still, you canât resist, so you open your arms in silent question, making grabby motions with your hands, and Paige chuckles before she wraps you up in her embrace. The moment is less charged, no longer tinged with the previous heat of the moment, and right now, itâs just you and your girlfriend and youâre both reminded that itâs been months since youâve been able to hold each other like this.
âI was serious, by the way,â you say, the scent of her cologne so calming and familiar where youâve tucked your head into her neck. âI missed you. Next season weâre scheduling our offseason ahead of time, okay?â
âMaybe donât make the playoffs next season,â she retorts. âWe coulda got eliminated together and went to Cancun, but noooo, you wanted to play three extra games.â
You scoff at that. âOh, so itâs my fault?â
âExactly,â she agrees. âWe were outta playoff contention by likeâŚJune. You decided to keep winning games. Thatâs on you.â Her hands slide dangerously low on your hips, inches away from your ass entirely, and she gives you a gentle, but less than cordial squeeze. You donât have to see her face to know sheâs smiling, insufferable and smug.
âYou couldnât keep your hands to yourself if you tried,â you mutter.
You hadnât meant anything by it except for fond annoyance, but it seems that Paige is taking your words entirely to heart tonight. She releases you, brows raised and a challenge in her gaze, and itâs then that you realize youâd truly fucked up. âThatâs how you want it?â she goads. âAight. Iâll keep my hands to myself all night then.â
Youâre sure that your eye twitches, and youâre also very aware that youâre in too deep now. You canât backtrack and tell her that no, she doesnât need to keep her hands to herself, because truthfully, youâd been thinking about having her hands on you for weeks at this point. Saying as such would just lead to her winning and if thereâs anything more frustrating than not getting what you want, itâs having a self-satisfied Paige gloating about her victory. Your lips twist with something unpleasant as you agree, âAll night.â
She nods. You know that youâve just agreed to a bet that was never supposed to exist â not when you hadnât seen your girlfriend since August â but you had no other choice than to let it play out. One of you would crack first. Your eyes catch on her suit again, on the tie thatâs a little askew and the slight smudge of your foundation on her chin, and you genuinely have no idea if itâs you or if itâs her that will crack.
As if to up the ante, she adds on, âWinner gets whatever they want?â
You canât even bring yourself to verbally agree to it. You extend your hand for her to dap up and she does so with finality. All you can think of is how much you regret the past few moments of conversation and how, despite that, the night is probably only ending with her vest on the hotel room floor and the tie loose around her neck.
You swallow a little in anticipation. Youâve waited two months, almost three. Whatâs a little while longer?
A little while longer is actually one of the worst things youâve ever done.
The first half hour of the event is still tame and you manage to keep it cordial. Blessedly, youâre swept up in conversation with a lot of people â season ticket holders, alumni and donors alike, and even Geno and his wife Kathy, who brings you into a hug, having missed you while you were off in New York. The constant mingling and running around occupies your thoughts and energy, so youâre not really thinking of Paige or what itâd be like to get your hands on her after so many weeks apart, or thinking about ripping the vest off of her and unbuttoning her white dress shirt inch by painstaking inch just so you can feel the way her chest heaves as you kiss down her sternum, or thinking aboutâ
Okay. Youâre thinking about it now, and your skin runs hot at how derailed your thoughts have gotten. You take another sip from your drink if only to wet your now dry tongue, your eyes scanning the crowd of people. KK and Azzi are talking to Aubrey somewhere, the freshmen and transfers are mostly sticking together â probably feeling a little out of place with their Ring Pops on their fingers, and then you spot Paige navigating her way through the crowd.
Sheâs not even doing anything but youâre so pent up from the bathroom and the general neediness that anything she does is ridiculously attractive. Sheâs got one of her hands wrapped around a glass of something pink or red. You canât be sure, but itâs probably a Dirty Shirley if you knew your girlfriend well enough, and thereâs just something about the way her hand eclipses the glass and makes it look small. Youâd always said that Paige had a hooperâs walk and you canât really describe it now, but the confidence in her own skin, the comfort, and the proven swagger just kind of makes your head spin.
You werenât going to make it through this event. That was another of those things that you knew with certainty.
Paige catches your eye from across the crowd. It doesnât take long for her to notice the clear expression of want on your face, but all she does is smile at you as she detours to talk to someone else. The need and the desire burns under your skin along with the barest hint of irritation â you hated the thought, being so needy that youâd be willing to desecrate a bathroom just moments shy of getting your championship ring, but you loathe that youâd accidentally made the bet in the first place. If you had your way and if KK hadnât interrupted, Paige probably would have had three fingers shoved inside you and her teeth on your neck and you wouldnât be having this issue.
But you try. Really, really hard, even though all of your thoughts are now sufficiently on Paige. You canât think of anything else when all of you get pulled aside to do a TikTok with KK, your eyes burning as you watch Paige dance. You canât think of anything else when itâs time for speeches, not when Paige is sitting directly next to you and manspreading as her voice echoes all around you.
You tried. But you canât, and thatâs what leads to you following Paige to somewhere a little less crowded. You fist your hand in the knot of her tie again, catching her by surprise as you pull her down to your level. âYou win, okay?â you grit out hotly, watching the slow, smug smirk appear on her lips. âYou fucking win. I need you to touch me, P.â
She glances down at you, the lights in the room glancing off of the piercings in her ears, and the expression of self-satisfaction on her face only makes you even wetter. âHow much time we got?â she murmurs.
âEnough.â Youâre sure that she could get you off in less than five minutes, but you donât mention that either â sheâd spend four minutes of that five gloating about it, and then fuck you stupid in the last sixty seconds until you werenât able to feel your legs.
Paige nods at that, her grin widening, and she lets you pull her down the halls until you finally reach a bathroom. She has you pressed up against the door before it even shuts, her lips on yours, and you blindly fumble with the lock as one of her hands trails down to cup your ass, squeezing with an indulgent groan. You wrap your arms around her neck, pulling her closer and closer until thereâs no space left between the both of you.
Your kiss is a clash of teeth and the smear of gloss, but neither of you particularly care. She tilts her head, her nose brushing yours, lips parting so her tongue can slide against yours. Itâs almost electrical how the contact shocks your entire system, how the pure hunger makes you shake, and you think that if the both of you had any more time then sheâd be content to keep you like this â putty in her arms, tongue in your mouth, your soft sighs filling the bathroom.
You donât have the time though, and both of you know that. You tighten your grip around her neck, one of your hands curling in the baby hairs at her nape, and you use your handle to tug her back gently. The pressure makes her groan, more in pleasure than pain, and her lips are spit slick and her eyes are blown out when you create enough space to look at her. âPlease, Paige,â you whisper, past the point of caring about dignity. âNeed it. Need you.â
She hushes you softly, pulling you back to her lips. She tastes like grenadine and cherry and something distantly alcoholic and all it does is intoxicate you, but that feeling might have something more to do with how she sucks your bottom lip into her mouth before breaking away entirely, her lips finding your jawline. She doesnât leave a mark, but the knowledge that she could â that she could unravel you in here and send you back to the party with evidence of how well she takes care of you â makes you fucking weak.
You want her to leave a mark. You want her to litter your skin with her spit and the imprints of her teeth. You want her to leave you purple and blue until your body is nothing but a map of desire, until she knew and you knew and everyone knew you were completely and wholly Paigeâs.
âLemme take my time,â she says, the words slightly scolding. The heat of them makes you swallow, fire burning beneath your skin, and youâre not exactly sure if itâs the reprimand or the way she nips your earlobe before kissing across your collarbone. âWe got ten minutes, baby. Know I only need five.â
The way she says it â smug and sure all at once, like itâs something she knows with absolute certainty (because it is), makes your knees shake, because fuck, youâre so pent up that you could probably get off on her words alone. You know you could, having spent more than a few nights on the phone with her in the comfort of your apartment, but you want to feel her.
You donât say anything else. You pull her back up to your lips, kissing her with a sort of hunger youâd become accustomed to all night, and you press up off of the door. She gets the memo, both of her hands coming to settle just beneath your ass as she picks you up like youâre weightless. That makes you gasp against her lips, and she doesnât waste time before her tongue is finding yours again, trying to make up for lost time.
She sits you down on the sink, pulling away long enough to meet your eyes. Her bun is askew and her vest is rumpled, and she absentmindedly uncuffs her dress shirt to push the sleeves up to her forearms. The sight shouldnât be as sexy as it is but it just makes you a little more insane. âHow you want it?â she asks, her voice rough. You want to answer â you really do, but you canât look away from her hands as they grip your thighs, the way her veins protrude or just how fucking big she is.
Unhappy with your lack of an answer, she kisses her teeth and reaches up to hold your jaw, redirecting your attention with ease. Her grip isnât hard enough to bruise or force you to move, but itâs just the knowledge that she could if she was just a little meaner. She could pull you off of this sink and set you down onto your knees, let you eat her out while she chases her own high. Whether that was punishment or reward, youâre not sure.
When your eyes finally focus on her, she smiles at you. âThereâs my girl,â she murmurs, pride filling her tone. âI asked you a question, mama. Tryna let you have it your way, but we can do it my way, too. Still get to do whatever I want to you later, right?â You can only muster a nod at that, and she presses a gentle, almost reverent kiss to your lips. âLast chance. How you want it?â
âFingers,â you respond immediately, and Paige rewards you by hiking your dress up, pressing her fingers to the damp material of the lace youâre wearing, directly over where your clit is throbbing. You canât help but sigh at the sensation â itâs overwhelming and not nearly enough at the same time, and she presses an open-mouthed kiss to the corner of your lips while she rubs her thumb in delicious little circles right where you need her.
You wrap your arms around her neck for stability, keeping her close to you as you spread your legs, giving her more space to work with. âShoulda said you were this wet for me already,â she mutters, nosing against your skin and breathing you in. âWoulda given it to you, mama, you know that. Thought I wouldnât take care of you?â
You open your mouth to respond, but she presses her lips to your neck, kissing at your pulse point, and all you can manage is a broken moan, your head tipping back. She presses a little firmer at your clit and your fingers twist in her vest. âYou hear me talkinâ to you?â she asks, slowing her ministrations. You could cry from the lack of contact, already babbling, and she swallows your words with a deep kiss that all but resets your brain. Your chest is heaving, breathless with want, but she continues. âYou know Iâon like being ignored. You thought I wouldnât take care of you?â
âNo, Iââ Your words falter again, her thumb immediately circling you again at your response. She lifts her head out of your neck to make direct eye contact with you, her expression smug and full of mock concern. The intensity of Paigeâs gaze makes you fucking weak, always finding it a little hard to focus when she makes eye contact with you during sex.
âNo?â she echoes, swiping her thumb more firmly against you. She grins when your brows pinch together in pleasure, and her free hand reaches up to your hairline to wipe away a bead of sweat. She sucks her thumb into her mouth, humming at the flavor, and you think you could come right there.
âI mean yes,â you say, your voice cracking.
Paige hums, consoling. She wraps her free hand around the back of your neck, pulling you closer until your foreheads touch. âYouâont even know what youâre tryna say,â she murmurs with a laugh, her tone saccharine. âYou need it that bad?â
âYouâre so fucking mean,â you manage to say through heaving breaths, and her smile sharpens.
âYou like me that way, mama,â she mutters, and you really canât deny it. Finally, she drags your panties to the side, her fingers immediately meeting slick heat. You gasp at the contact and her breath hitches too. âYouâre soaked.â Paige brushes her fingers through your folds, the sounds wet and obscene, and you squeeze your eyes shut, the pleasure overwhelming. âLove the way she talks to me, baby. You hear that?â
You do. Itâs all you can hear over the pounding of your own heartbeat in your ears and the low timbre of Paigeâs teasing voice in your ear, and it just makes you gush around her fingers. She laughs like she could feel it. Knowing that she wants an answer, you choke out, âAll yours,â and she rewards you by sliding her middle finger in.
The stretch makes you moan, but youâre wet enough that she goes until the knuckle with little resistance. Youâre squeezing around her, walls fluttering around her finger, and she presses her thumb to your clit with ease, knowing exactly how you like it. âSo fucking perfect for me,â she says, curling her finger just right, and you canât stop yourself from gasping. âYou keep yourself occupied while I was in Dallas? Get yourself off at night, wishinâ it was my fingers instead?â
The dirtiness of her words makes your head spin and your cunt throb, and you can barely find the words. âYou know I did,â you respond, the heat burning in your belly, feeling like pure fire under your skin. She presses her smile into your cheek, nipping at your jaw lightly while she thrusts in and out, the pace just slow enough to make you want more, more, more, and deep enough that you can feel it. âWould watch you play. The cameras would cut to you, and youââ You trail off slightly to press your finger to her throat, directly over where the knot of her tie sits. âAnd youâd always have sweat right here. Iâd get myself off thinking about how it tasted.âÂ
Laughing a little at the memory, you find enough sense to twist your fingers in the knot again, pulling her closer to you. Paigeâs breath stutters, and youâre sure that youâre choking her a little â but she just slides her ring finger into your cunt, and you know that she likes it.
âWhat else?â she asks, thrusting a little deeper, her voice tight, like she needs to know, too. Her thumb rubs a little more insistently against your clit, like sheâs losing control of herself thinking about how youâd spend nights in your apartment with your hand in your shorts, thinking about how it should have been her instead. âWhat else did you think about, mama?â
âYou,â you respond easily, and she groans against your neck as she presses an open-mouthed kiss to your collarbone. She wants to mark up your skin â the both of you know that, and you find that the resistance only makes you wetter. âAlways you. Thought about â fuck.â Trembling, your voice breaks on a gasp when she strokes you just right. âThought about going down on you after a game. Let you do whatever you wanted to me, âcause I knew you were pissed, and you always fuck me so well when youâre mad.â
She scissors her fingers again, the tips finding that gummy spot inside of you that makes you curl your toes in your heels. You moan, pulling her closer to you, needing more. The heat was building already, ready to combust after weeks of not having her, and she was giving it to you. She always will, always deriving the most pleasure from getting you off.
When you glance down at her, her lips are red and swollen, indents of her own teeth from where sheâd bitten her lip to stop herself from biting you. Her chin is smudged with your foundation, slick with your combined spit, and you canât stop yourself from pulling her up to you and kissing her soundly. She groans, increasing the pace of her fingers and the pressure of her thumb against your clit. Paigeâs tongue slides against yours, sloppy and filthy all at once, and the feeling of her fucking so deep inside of you makes you impossibly wetter, straddling the edge between holding off and coming just so you can see the face she makes when she sees you spilling all over her fingers.
âWhat else?â she begs, tone whiny, breaking away from your lips momentarily to ask. The pleasure is overwhelming, her fingers scissoring and twisting inside of you, brushing against that spot that makes you keen on every thrust. Her thumb slips from how wet you are, but she just presses a little firmer, keeping her strokes consistent. You canât find the words â not when sheâs fucking you so well, but sheâs out of patience.
Her free hand wraps around your throat, the pressure light, but you get the message immediately. Her eyes are burning, glazed over with need and desire, and her breathing is a little ragged, her breath catching when you pull her tie a little tighter in response. âWhat else?â she repeats. âBe fucking good, baby, âm not askinâ you again.â
You rack your brain for the answer, for the right words to say, even as your hips chase her fingers as they slide in and out. Your voice is rough with pleasure, pinched from her hand wrapped around you, but you finally manage to say, âThought about you strapping me.â Paige groans again, wrecked, pushing even deeper inside of you if it was even possible, and you swear you can feel the tips of her fingers kissing your womb. âRiding you. Letting you put me on my knees, âcause youââ Your voice breaks on a slight laugh, overcome with pleasure. âââcause you always act like you can feel it when I put my mouth on you.â The mental image makes you a little delirious, and judging by Paigeâs muffled moan against your neck, itâs clear sheâs burning hot, too.
âAnd that game against the Sparks,â you say, trying to keep your head on straight even though youâre so fucking close, âwhen you had 44 points. I would let you do whatever you wanted to me. I got myself off that night listening to that video you sent me. You remember it?â She makes a sound deep in her throat like she does, her fingers thrusting deeper, faster. Your eyes glaze over thinking about it â it was just a short, less than minute long clip of Paigeâs fingers twisting inside of her own cunt, her hips restless, only ending after she came with a moan of your name. It made you fucking insane.
Youâd sent Paige your own videos, too, both of you trying to satisfy one another hundreds of miles apart. You can tell that sheâs thinking about it, too, her eyes glazed over, yet her sheâs still fucking her fingers into you. Your legs shake, the coil in your stomach ready to snap, and her thumb doesnât slow on your clit. Your voice breaks as you moan, pulling her closer to you again and pressing your sweaty forehead to hers, and you cry out, âSo fucking close, P.â
âYeah?â she whispers, her breath hot against your ear as she drags wet, open-mouthed kisses against your jaw. âYou got that, baby. Know you need it, huh? Needed this, my fingers? Gonna give it to you, swear.â
She doesnât slow, the pleading tone in her voice pushing you closer to the peak. Her voice is rough, fucked out like she was the one with two fingers deep inside of her, and your hips move with a little more insistence, meeting her thrusts. Paigeâs hand tightens around your throat ever so slightly, the grip only firm enough to make your head spin and the pleasure hit you like a fucking truck. Her movements are hungry, fingers curling and drawing those soft, ruined sounds for you that she loves so much, and she leans in to press her lips to yours again.
Itâs a fucking mess â she lands at the corner of your mouth, your lips parted in pleasure, and itâs more of an exchange of teeth and spit than it is an actual kiss. She loves it, when the both of you are so fucked out and lost in it, when itâs filthy and sloppy and visceral because she knows that sheâs getting you right. The knowledge that sheâs the only woman in the world that gets to fuck you like this, that gets to see you like this, is better than any trophy or championship ring.Â
Paige nips your bottom lip, murmuring raggedly, âJusâ give it to me, mama. Come for me. Ainât gotta do nothinâ else for me, perfect girl. Lemme have it.â
Her words hit you square in the chest, and you spill over her fingers with a silent moan, your jaw hanging open. âYeah,â she says softly, talking you through it, her thrusts never slowing as she works you through your orgasm. âThereâs my girl. So fucking perfect for me, you know that?â Paige litters your neck with open-mouthed kisses, her tongue darting out to lick the salt off of your collarbone, humming at the taste.
But she isnât done. You didnât even have the time to come down from your high before sheâs pulling her fingers out of your still pulsating cunt, sinking to her knees, and tugging your full thighs over her shoulders. The first drag of her tongue through your folds startles you into sobriety, the pleasure melting into overstimulation. Your hand darts down to twist in her hair, fucking up that pristine bun of hers, and you manage to choke out, âFuck, Paige, too much.â
She just shakes her head, her nose bumping against your clit in a way that makes white hot pleasure shoot up your spine. Her tongue dips a little lower, delving inside your cunt where she always said you tasted a little sweeter, and she pulls far enough away to spit your own slick back onto you. Her eyes glaze over as she watches the way her spit combined with your arousal slips through your folds, and she gathers it back on her tongue before it hits the sink, never wanting to waste a drop.
âYou can take it,â she mutters against you, like she hadnât believed for a moment that you couldnât. Sheâd wrung five orgasms out of you the night you won the national championship together; one for each three pointer, sheâd said. âLemme taste you. Still whatever I want, right?â
Despite her words, she glances up at you through her lashes, waiting for your final say. You knew sheâd stop if you werenât good, and itâs that reminder that makes you tremble as you push her head back towards your soaked cunt. You wanted to come for her again â as many times as sheâd let you, honestly â and you curse under your breath when she wraps her lips around your clit, groaning like youâre the best meal sheâs had in months. The vibration makes your entire body shake and you spread your legs a little further, giving her ample room â not that you needed to. Her grip on your thighs is firm, intense, and sheâd hold you open for as long as she needed to.
âSo good, P,â you babble, head tilting back from the pleasure, but you force yourself to keep your gaze trained on her, not wanting to miss a single fucking moment. The praise just makes her work a little harder, her tongue flicking against your clit in quick movements before licking through your folds and spitting directly onto you again. You tighten your hand in her hair, tugging accidentally, drawing a moan from her while you murmur a choked, âFuck.â
Paige doesnât slow, even when youâre sure her jaw is cramping, and she doesnât miss a single drop. Her nose brushes against your clit, her entire face shining from your slick. One of her hands releases your thigh to press her thumb to your clit, rubbing with enough pressure that your back arches, almost falling off of the sink entirely. âRight there,â you breathe, your voice breaking when she responds instantly, giving you exactly what youâd asked for.
The sound is obscene, your legs trembling, the overstimulation having melted into a mind numbing pleasure long ago. Itâs all too much â the feeling of her tongue lapping up every drop of slick on your cunt like sheâs fucking starving, the pressure on your clit, and the little sounds she makes when you tug at her bun, and you feel like youâre about to burst.
âP,â you gasp, chest heaving. Itâs been too long since youâd felt like this, like your orgasm was going to fucking kill you, and you barely find the words to say, âClose. Iâm gonna come, baby, please donât stââ
âHold it,â she commands, and the order makes you clench around nothing, the pleasure too much and too blinding. You make a broken, disbelieving noise, knowing that you werenât going to be able to. She glances up through her lashes again, the blue of her gaze almost usurped by how fucking dilated her pupils are, something hard and expectant in her eyes as her brows pinch together. âNot done yet, mama. Hold it until I am.â
You whimper at that, still shaking, trying so fucking desperately to be good for her. You knew she could spend hours between your legs if she had the time and the means to, but youâve been so pent up from weeks of having to settle for phone calls and videos â you werenât going to last much longer. âPaige,â you try again. âI canâtââ
âYou will,â she presses, not slowing down. If anything, her thumb seems to speed up on your clit like sheâs trying to make you fail, trying to push you past your limits. You bite your knuckle to stifle the sound building in your throat as her tongue thrusts in and out of you. âKnow you can. Youâve been so fuckinâ good for me. Jusâ a little longer, baby.â
You can only muster a nod at that, tightening your fingers in your hair as you try to not come before youâre allowed to. Your hips buck up against her face and she presses you back down with her free hand, veins protruding from how tight her grip is. It makes your entire body shake, biting back a moan when she drags the flat of her tongue across you, sucking your clit into her mouth and flicking her tongue across the underside of it.
The pressure of her thumb against your clit returns, swiping with more intensity, and your chest is heaving from the effort of being good. You gush around her tongue, listening to the sound of her indulgent sigh, watching as she laps you up, knowing that she missed having her face buried between your thighs. âGod, P,â you whine, voice breaking on a moan.
Paige nods against you, her thumb speeding up on your clit as she pulls away slightly to watch you. Your brows are pinched, pleasure twisted on your face, and the hand not in her hair is gripping onto the edge of the sink for stability as your hips jump and your legs tremble. âJust like that,â she whispers, pressing a messy, wet kiss to your thigh. âFuckinâ perfect for me. Look at you, mama. You wanna come?â
âPlease,â you gasp. âFuck, P, please. So good, baby, so fuâfucking good. Can I come? Please?â
âGo ahead,â she says finally, reattaching her lips to your cunt, her tongue swiping through your folds. You sigh in relief, pulling her closer to you by her hair, and you know it wonât take long now. Youâre babbling nonsense, more cries and whimpers than any real words, and you finally come with one last brush of Paigeâs tongue through your folds, her thumb never slowing on your clit.
Paige watches, mesmerized, as you completely fall apart, pressing soothing kisses to the insides of your thighs and rubbing your skin with her free hand as you come down. She maintains the pressure on your clit and only releases you when sheâs sure sheâs wrung you dry of every last drop. Youâre breathless and heaving, mind blissfully numb and body spent, and the one thing that brings you back into sobriety is the sound of the adjacent faucet running.
You blink your eyes open, watching as Paige wets a paper towel, squeezing out the excess, and you wordlessly part your legs for her so she can clean you up. Her touch is careful, patient, a welcome contrast to how sheâd held you open and fucked her fingers inside of you. When youâre clean, she fixes your lace, and you wince at the feeling of the cold dampness that sticks to you.
âMy fault,â Paige says, not apologetic in the slightest, and the sight of her holding back a smile makes you smile, too.
âYou gonna buy me a new pair?â you ask teasingly, accepting her hand as she helps you down from the sink. She wraps an arm around your waist to stabilize you as you busy yourself with fixing your hair and wiping off the weird mix of foundation, gloss, and concealer that had smudged onto your chin.
âNah,â she says, squeezing your ass â like that hadnât been the one thing that got you into this mess in the first place. You roll your eyes, reaching into your bag to touch up your makeup. âThese got sentimental value.â
âYouâre gross.â
Paige just presses her lips to your cheek, smug and insufferable and glowing. âYou like me gross.â You donât dignify that with a response, and she pats your hip briefly as she parts to clean her own face up and fix her bun. You both work in comfortable, post-sex silence, until Paige, naturally, breaks it to say disbelievingly, âBruh.â
You look over at her, a brow raised in concern, and she has her vest pinched in between her fingers as she pulls it away from her. âYou got my vest all messy and shit,â she says, forlorn, yanking a paper towel dispenser and dabbing her vest. Itâs no use, though â your slick has already seeped in.Â
âOh my fucking God,â you say, genuinely horrified at the sight. âEveryoneâs gonna know. CD is gonna kill me. Iâll never be able to show my face here ever again.â
Paige sniffs a little, miffed. âAlways did say it was Munch Madness,â she says sagely. âShoulda got me a bib for my birthday. Messy eater ân allat.â
âPlease shut the fuck up.â
Paige just grins, clearly not all that bothered by it, and she presses herself into your side to kiss your temple. âThis was just round one, mama,â she goads, smug again. âYou can make me shut up later, if you want.â
âYou can shut up permanently.â
She laughs, and you canât curb your smile either. The both of you would probably get teased for it, but you both might be past the point of caring. Itâs then that her words actually register in your mind. This was just round one. Paige made you a promise â she was going to do whatever she wanted to you later tonight, and even after two orgasms, you canât stop the way you smile in satisfied anticipation.
When the both of you finally finish freshening up, you return back just in time for the presentation of the rings (ignoring KKâs disgusted look all the while), and you and your teammates line up on the stage to accept the boxes. The rings are gorgeous. You knew as much â you, Paige, Azzi, and Caroline had been tasked with designing them, but they exceeded your expectations by far.
Paige slides your ring onto your finger and you do the same for her, glowing all the while, but for a different reason now. The national championship was months ago but itâs still one of the best days of your life, second only to meeting Paige for the first time or whenever she finally asked you out. When you all pose for the team picture, Paige loops her arm around your waist, squeezing your hip, but all you can think about is getting her home.
You sit through the rest of the event patiently. You sit through the Uber ride back to your hotel room, not entertaining any of Paigeâs games when her hand trails too far up your thigh. You even remain cordial in the elevator ride up, staying strong when Paige spends the entire lift up with her hand resting low on your hip and her lips whispering pure filth into your ear.
When you both make it back to the hotel room, Paige makes quick work with the keycard and ushers you in with quickness. The door has barely clicked shut before sheâs on you, pressing you into the wall like sheâs starving â like she hadnât already pulled two orgasms from you barely two hours earlier. Her hand reaches up to hold your jaw, turning your head how she likes, and you grant her entrance immediately when her tongue drags across the seam of your lips. She groans in reverent satisfaction, pressing closer to you, her free hand dropping to your ass again.Â
Your hands tangle in her hair, working her hair tie loose, smiling in satisfaction when her blonde waves spill over her shoulders, loose and free. Paigeâs lips press more insistently against yours, the heat and the desperation growing between the both of you, but eventually, she breaks away from you. Indignant, you chase her lips, but she presses you back against the wall with her hand.
âMy way,â she reminds you, tone soft and light, yet leaving no room for argument. âYou gonna be good for me?â You nod instantly, swallowing your nerves â not that you were worried about what sheâd do, but because you were so excited for it. Paige grins at you, pleased, and she presses one last deep, lingering kiss to your lips. âWait out here for me.â She tugs at one of the straps on your dress, pulling it off of your shoulder. âAnd take this off.â
She disappears into the bathroom without another word, trusting that youâll listen. And you do. You slip out of your heels, heart thrumming in anticipation, and you tuck them neatly under the desk in the room. Then, you peel your dress off, letting it pool at your ankles before stepping out of it. You locate the hanger in the closet, not wanting to fold the dress, and youâre left in just your soaked lace. Briefly, you contemplate taking them off, but you remember Paigeâs thinly veiled appreciation for them, so you decide on leaving them on â even if the material clings wetly to your cunt.
Paige doesnât keep you waiting for much longer. The click of the bathroom lock draws your attention and you turn towards it, watching as she walks out. Her hair is still down, a little untamed from your fingers, and sheâs removed the vest â leaving her in her white button down, the fucking tie, and her slacks. The fact that youâre half naked would, in other situations, make you feel a little uncomfortable, but now, youâre nothing short of hungry. All you can think about is slowly peeling her clothes off, undoing the buckle on her belt while you peer up at her through your lashes, pressing your lips to her belly and feeling her muscles shift and contract under your mouth.
It makes you a little fucking crazy, more so when she crosses the room to you, her large hands instantly finding your hips, gripping the fat of your ass with a kind of smug reverence â like she knows that youâve chosen her ands sheâs the only one who gets to see, hold, fuck you like this.
âYou still with me?â she murmurs, pressing her temple to yours, softening her tone for one last check in. The care makes you weak, just another one of those Paigeisms that find ridiculously attractive because itâs just her being a good person before completely ruining you.
You rest your hands on her shoulders, nails scratching the back of her neck soothingly. âI always am,â you affirm, melting into the way she kisses the crown of your head.
Then she shifts, a hungry, expectant smile playing on her lips. âYeah,â she agrees, voice rough and wrecked, almost drunk on power, drunk on you. âYou are.â She leaves no room for further comment, capturing your lips in hers, already hot and claiming and nothing but a promise for whatâs to come. Paige pulls you closer into her by your hips, her grip sure to leave bruises in the morning, but you donât mind â especially not when you feel the bulge in her slacks pressing against your front. It makes you gasp, and she takes that as an invitation to slide her tongue into your mouth, searching and wet.
âYou brought it?â you murmur, impossibly fucking soaked at the thought of your girlfriend packing, the strap nestled in her briefs like itâs wrapped in sin and temptation. Paige hums against your lips, pressing her hips into yours as she lifts you just slightly, the strap nudging your clit with a delicious pressure that makes your head spin and your breath hitch.
âAinât seen you in three months and you thought I wasnât gonna fuck you stupid?â she scoffs, kissing you hard once more, pressing her lips to your jaw. Itâs wet, open-mouthed, and her constant need to taste your skin makes you keen, pressing into her.
Somehow finding your sense, you smile, tilting your head to the side to give her more space to work with. You choke on a whimper when she finally latches onto your pulse point and sucks, clearly wanting to do that all night. âUsually you bitch about bringing the strap through TSA,â you mutter, moaning when she bites down just a little harder at the (true) accusation. She soothes the sting with her tongue, though, and you tangle your fingers in the hair at the back of her neck.
âYou wanna talk about that right now?â Paige asks, not looking for an answer as her lips trail down your chest. A groan rumbles deep in her throat when she reaches your tits, sucking one of your nipples into her mouth while her free hand reaches up to fondle the other one. âFuck,â she murmurs, pleased and ruined and hungry all at once. You arch into her as she pinches your nipple, her thumb brushing across it until it raises to attention, kneading your breast under one large palm. âMissed these. Swear you were made for me, mama.â
She nips at your breast, the sting making you jolt until it melts completely into pleasure, surely dampening your lace beyond saving. She shifts her attention to your other tit, lathering in the spit she left behind on the other one with her thumb, and slowly, almost imperceptibly, she begins grinding the strap into your cunt.
âShit, P,â you whimper, unable to resist. She hums around your nipple, flicking her tongue against it before dragging the flat of it over the top. The soft sounds do nothing but motivate her, spurring her on, and the hand not tending to your breast begins wandering â as it always does. Down your front, across your navel, breaching just under your waistband.
Paige groans raggedly when she finds your clit, her middle and ring finger brushing across it in a way that makes you buck into her hand. âYouâre still so fuckinâ wet,â she states, awestruck. âMy fucking girl, arenât you? Always ready and so fucking perfect for me. Shit, baby.â
You canât even find the words, overwhelmed by the feeling and how Paige is still grinding against her own fucking hand while she circles you clit. The knowledge that sheâs getting herself off too just makes you gush, something youâre sure she notices by the way her breath hitches.
âThink I could get you just like this?â she thinks out loud. âJust me talkinâ to you, letting you use me?â The thought alone makes you fucking dizzy. Paige reads your silence for what it is and she canât help but grin, entirely smug and far too cocky because yeah, she could get you like this. She slides her hand out from under your waistband, gripping your hips again and undoubtedly smearing your own wetness against your skin as she leads you back towards one of the beds. âGonna make me proud?â she simpers, her voice low and breathy and wrecked in that way that always makes you lose it. âShow me.â
The backs of her knees hit the bed, and she pulls you down with her. Youâre straddling her lap and the first brush of your clothed cunt over the strap in her pants makes the both of you groan â you from the feeling, and her from the visual. Your brows are pinched together, her hands on your hips helping you move against her, and Paige curses low under her breath as she watches where your bodies connect. âYeah,â she goads, dragging you against her cock, eyes rolling back like she can feel it yet refusing to look away. âLook so fuckinâ good like this, mama.â
The stimulation punches a gasp out of you when she bucks her hips up, laughing at your reaction and dragging her lips across your jaw. You know full well she was just doing it to be mean, like youâre not putting your all into this â rutting against her slacks, surely staining her pants and dripping down your own legs. Paige joked that you liked her gross but you know with absolute certainty that she liked you messy, never truly content unless youâd soaked every inch of her face or until you were completely fucked out, spent and tired, boneless in her arms.
Your clit throbs, those soft sounds spilling from your lips that you know makes Paige crazy. Her grip tightens on your hips as she drags you more firmly against yourself, feeling the pressure build in your core, the overwhelming pressure fogging your mind. The fabric of her slacks are rough, only adding to the stimulation, and you get lost in the feeling of the strap pressing against you so unyieldingly. It makes you think of a hypothetical world where itâs more flesh than silicone, wholly Paigeâs, and the burst of pleasure that rips through your body is so sharp and sudden that you donât even register that youâre coming until Paige groans in your ear, whispering filth and sweet nothings to work you through it and gradually slowing your hips while you shake and tremble.
You sag in her arms, hips twitching. Itâs your third orgasm of the night and all you feel is ready to go again â not quite sure if any number would be enough for you until your body physically couldnât keep up with Paige. Athletic stamina usually kept you both up for hours, but after not seeing each other for months? Youâd probably be confined to the bed until the weekend was over.
Paigeâs fingers brush across the small of your back, her lips pressing gently to your cheek, jaw, and neck. âYou good? Or do you need a minute?â
âShut the fuck up,â you say breathlessly. Paige laughs, her hands steady and grounding you to real life. âLike you did any of the work.â
You donât mention how she actually did a fair bit of it, but thatâs not important. She wanted to be the top â doing the work was her job. You just did slightly more than usual. Paige, though, just hums, mischief clear as day even before she speaks. âWas tryna save my stamina. Iâm puttinâ your ass to sleep after this.â
âYeah, okay,â you say, rolling your eyes, not convinced at all. âYour turn.â
Paige blinks at you, confused. âMy turn?â she repeats. âNah. Lemme get you first.â
âIâve been got three times already,â you deadpan. Paige shrugs, sheepish and casual like that was a perfectly normal amount of times, but her expression quickly shifts from one of concern to one of pure want when you slide off of her lap, kneeling in front of her. âLet me?â
Her throat bobs as she swallows, her eyes watching your hands inch up her legs to settle on her thighs. You raise a brow, waiting on her to make up her mind, knowing that it wasnât any real worry or hesitation â she just always prioritized your pleasure and getting you off first, even if it came at the expense of ignoring her own. She was such a giver that it could be attractive, but damn it if you didnât want to go down on her, too. âStill fuckinâ you stupid after this,â she says softly.
âPromise?â you ask. Paige breathes out raggedly through her nose, shaking her head in some sort of disbelieving awe. Then, surprising you, she reaches into her pocket, producing a small, handheld remote, and you know without a doubt that it connects to a vibrator that sheâs already attached to the strap. Your smile is nothing if not a little wicked, and Paige leans back on both of her palms to give you room to work with after you take the remote. You click it on to level five, a low buzzing sound filling the room, and Paigeâs hips buck as she curses under her breath.
You reach for her belt buckle first, pulling the end loose from the loop and undoing the buckle itself. Paige is already breathing heavily by the time you deftly undo the button on her slacks, then the zipper, and she lifts her hips without a word to let you pull her pants down. They pool at her thighs, revealing the dark, black boxer briefs sheâs wearing, the tent from the strap poking through, and just to tease her â you wrap your hand around the girth of the strap through her briefs to give a slight tug, but you pause when you find her briefs are soaked.
You peer up at her through your lashes, knowing that this wasnât all from you. Her eyes are lidded and her cheeks are red, something sheepish and caught in her gaze, and the realization â the fucking understanding â that sheâd come virtually untouched in her pants while you grinded yourself to fucking oblivion on her lap, makes you impossibly wetter.
âIs this why you were acting so fucking shy all of a sudden?â you ask teasingly, unable to hold back your smile. You knew that, after Paige, you were absolutely ruined for anyone else (not there was ever going to be anyone else), but to see that so honestly and clearly reciprocated in the way Paige literally gets off from helping you get offâŚit was like a straight hit to your ego.
âShut up,â she grunts, still flushed. Lightly, you drag your nails across her thighs, watching goosebumps raise in your wake. âYou wanted to touch me so bad. Do something.â
âYouâll get it,â you murmur soothingly. âAlways do, P. Be patient.â
Paige exhales again, listening wordlessly, and her breath hitches when you plant a soft kiss to the strap through her briefs, inhaling the heady scent of your combined arousals and Paigeâs lingering cologne. Itâs fucking addicting, which is why you canât stop yourself from pressing another one to her thigh, one to her hip, memorizing the way her skin tastes.
Her shirt is in your way, so you start at the bottom and work your way up, unbuttoning as you go. Inch upon perfect inch of her skin is revealed to you â the toned lines of her abs, defined from years of training and taking care of her body. Her muscles jump when you plant a kiss to her navel, pressing a wet, open-mouthed kiss to her stomach, gently biting until she hisses. You soothe the sting with your tongue, immensely proud at the sight of the indents of your teeth embedded in her soft flesh. You knew it would bruise â you hoped it would, and you knew Paige wanted that, too.
When you reach her sports bra, you kiss her nipple through the fabric, listening to her sigh as the bud rises to a peak. You do the same with the other one, and you smile as you listen to her breathing gradually pick up. Your movements are only light enough to tease, and you know itâs driving Paige insane â her fingers are twisted in the bedsheets and her hips keep shifting like the vibrator is giving her just enough stimulation to work with, but itâs not enough to get her off.
Unable to get to the last two buttons on her shirt without undoing the tie, you pull the tie loose enough to start pushing her shirt down her arms. She helps you, shrugging out of it, exposing her toned shoulders in their entirety, the strength in her chest that makes you all but drool. She reaches for her tie to keep undoing it, but you shoot her a sharp look.
âLeave it,â you say, the tone of your voice taking you completely by surprise, but she just smirks, complying. âBra off.â
âYes, maâam,â she murmurs, crossing her arms over her body to pull the garment off, and with so much of her skin on full display for you, you canât stop yourself from reaching out, running your hands along her chest, your fingers tweaking her nipples and listening to her soft sighs of pleasure. You push yourself to a taller kneeling position, latching onto her breast and sucking gently, and she groans low in her throat. âFuck, baby. Just like that.â
You keep doing it, flicking your tongue against her, dragging the flat of it over the bud, and she holds her weight up with one arm while her other hand rests at the back of your head, pushing your face closer to her. You let her move you without complaint, dragging your teeth across her nipple before switching off.
You kiss all around her breast, nipping and sucking except for where she wants you to. Annoyed, she threads her fingers through your hair, guiding you to the right spot. âStop fuckinâ teasinâ,â she says. Grinning, you give in, sucking her nipple into your mouth, drawing a long sigh from her. âThatâs it, mama. So fuckinâ good for me.â Her fingers loosen, settling for resting over your head, not pushing or pulling but just keeping you there.
You lavish her breasts with equal attention, but itâs clear sheâs grown tired of having you up there â she pushes down on your head gently, guiding you down to her cunt, and you move without complaint. The strap still bulges out against her briefs and you press another quick, chaste kiss to the silicone through the fabric. Knowing that you have Paigeâs attention on you, you drag your tongue across the length of it, listening to her wrecked groan from above you and humming at the flavor of your combined arousal.
Paige threads her fingers through your hair again and you donât need any more prompting to get the memo. No longer teasing, you grip her waistband and drag it down her thighs, pulling her briefs and slacks fully off now. The strap springs free and you waste no time before wrapping your hand around the base of it. You peer up at Paige through your lashes, unable to resist a smile. Her pupils are so dilated that her eyes are almost black, her eyelids low and hooded, and thereâs a red flush on her cheeks as her chest heaves.
You press a kiss to the tip of the silicone, listening to her curse under her breath, and just as you take the first inch or two into your mouth, you click increase the intensity on the remote. Paigeâs hips buck at the stimulus, a choked moan falling from her lips, and youâre forced to take another inch of the silicone into your mouth. âShit,â Paige gasps, voice already cracking, tightening her grip on your hair. Itâs not enough to hurt, but just enough for her to have something tangible to hold on to.
The soft sounds that Paige makes does nothing but spur you on. You pull off of the strap long enough to run your tongue along the underside of it, flicking your tongue at the tip. Paigeâs breathing stutters and she releases your hair, resting her hand firmly on the back of your head now. You can feel your own wetness slide down your thighs, turned on beyond belief of the sight of Paige manspread on the bed, looking so fucked out and ruined as she watches you take her in your mouth.
Her fingers twist in the bedsheets, knuckles turning white as you bob your head. She canât really feel anything, but she swears she can â the vibrations combined with the visual of you on your knees for her is almost enough to ruin her. You hum around it when her hand begins guiding you, not enough to force but enough to lead, and she chokes on a groan. Paigeâs hips chase your mouth every time you pull off of her cock, almost as though sheâs not in control of her body, too lost in her pleasure.
âJust like that,â she mutters, her eyes glazed over as she watches you work. âSwear you were made to take me. Jusâ wanna make me proud, yeah?â
In lieu of a response, you lift your free hand off of her thigh to drag your fingers through her folds. Sheâs fucking soaked and clearly not expecting it by the high pitched, sudden whine, but all it does is motivate you. You glance up at her through your lashes to gauge her reaction, and when she meets your eyes, she nods emphatically, begging with a rare âPlease,â that makes you act immediately.
While keeping pace with your mouth, you slide a finger inside her, curling immediately. Sheâs warm and impossibly wet and she clenches around your finger, moans spilling from her lips like the pleasure is overwhelming â and it is. The vibrator on her clit, your finger buried deep inside and fucking into her, the sight of you taking her down your throat is pushes her dangerously to the edge.
âFuck,â she says again, tone pleading and wrecked. Her legs start shaking next to you and you have to release the base of the strap just to keep her hips pinned to the bed and her legs from closing in on you. âGonna come. Donât fuck â donât fuckinâ stop. So good for me, baby. So fuckinâ beautiful like this.â
Knowing that sheâs close, you increase the level on the vibrator again, the low buzz intensifying. Paige chokes on a sharp gasp, a curse tumbling from her lips. You know sheâs teetering on the edge when she starts rambling, begging you not to stop, that youâre so fucking good for her, and other, nonsensical half words that are more sound than anything coherent. You thrust your finger into her even deeper, curling up and brushing against that spongy spot that makes her whine.
All it takes for her to fall apart completely is the last look you give her, meeting her gaze through your lashes, and she comes with a drawn out groan. Her hand slides down to cup the back of your neck, holding on for stability, and you ease off of the strap. You keep a cautious eye on her reaction as she breathes through her orgasm, slowly pulling your finger out of her cunt and lowering the level on the vibrator until she sags, completely spent and boneless.
Unable to resist, you push yourself to your feet, crawling back into her lap, careful to not put too much pressure on her or the strap. âYou good?â you murmur, echoing her earlier words and smiling deviously. Paige huffs, fond irritation in her tone as she gazes up at you in wonder and something thatâs sickeningly like love. âOr do you need a minute?â
âYou know I donât,â she mutters. Paige wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you onto her despite the way she hisses with oversensitivity. You startle at the movement but itâs clear she doesnât care, hips shifting under yours as she presses wet, open-mouthed kisses to your chest, your neck, the underside of your jaw. You tilt your head to the side to give her more space, breathing raggedly when she gently bites down at your pulse point. âDo you? Or you think you can keep up?â
You donât verbally respond to that. Instead, you grab her tie again, not missing the smug, self-satisfied smile on her face like sheâd planned it all, and you press your lips to hers, kissing her deeply. Your lips part immediately and her tongue slides against yours, almost as though sheâs trying to memorize the way your mouth tastes. Her hands trail down your sides again, gripping your ass in between two, large, calloused hands, groaning in pleasure like she canât get enough of you.
You break away from her lips long enough, ducking your head down to lick the salt off of her collarbone. âHow you want it, P?â you ask, echoing her earlier words, feeling her hands roam across your body as you suck hickeys into her skin. âStill whatever you want, right?â
She hums low in her throat, drawing you back to her to plant one last lingering kiss to your lips. âJust like this,â she responds, adjusting you until youâre laying flat on the mattress, hovering over your body. Then, she gently cups your jaw in her hand, the other propping herself up, and she guides your head down until your gaze is locked on the spot where your bodies connect. The strap teasingly drags through your folds, already coated in your own wetness, and the sight makes your breath hitch, heat simmering beneath your skin. âSee that?â Paige murmurs, her thumb brushing across your cheek soothingly. âFuckinâ dripping for me. That wet just from gettinâ me off?â You donât have to glance back up at her to know that sheâs grinning smugly, insufferable as always â but perhaps sheâs earned the right to be annoying.
âCanât help it,â you simper, fisting your hand in the tie again, pulling her closer until her nose brushes yours. You ghost your lips over hers, indulging in the way her breath hitches and how she chases after you. âYou promised youâd fuck me, P. You gonna make good on it or am I gonna have to deal with it by myself?â
For emphasis, you trail one of your hands down your navel, but you barely get the chance to press your fingers to your clit before her hand abandons your jaw to grip your wrist. She presses your wrists into the mattress above your head, an annoyed, indignant, disbelieving expression on my face. âNah,â she says lowly, pushing her hips forward, letting the tip of the strap nudge against your clit until you gasp in pleasure. âHavenât had you like this in three fuckinâ months and you think Iâm not takinâ care of you? Donât act like that, mama. Gimme your other hand.â
You raise a brow at her in concern, wondering if that was really necessary, but she levels you with a hard look that has you complying immediately. She pins both of your wrists over your head under one of her large palms. For the first time all night, you feel like youâre truly on display, but you donât mind it at all when itâs Paige who gets to see you like this.
Paige braces herself on her knees, using her free hand to hold the base of the strap, having coated it enough with your slick. The head nudges against your cunt, the head of it pushing into you. Despite having two of Paigeâs fingers fucked deep inside you only hours ago, the stretch still burns in the best way possible, forcing a ragged sigh from your lips as you adjust to it.
âGood?â she murmurs, checking in despite the heat of the moment, knowing that this is the most youâve had in months beyond your own fingers. She braces her palm over your torso, sliding up to cup your tit, the warmth of her palm grounding you.
âYeah,â you breathe, fingers twisting in the sheets above you. Paige presses her lips to your sternum, slowly working her way into you, listening for any indication that you were uncomfortable. âI can take it, P. You know I can.â
You can feel her smile against you. She nips at your skin, dragging wet, open-mouthed kisses across your chest, tongue flicking across your nipple briefly. âYou can,â she agrees, voice soft and reverent. âPerfect fuckinâ girl. You feel me? Nobody else gets you like this.â
You nod breathlessly, chest heaving. âAll yours,â you affirm. She pushes in inch by slow inch, sucking your nipple into her mouth, dragging her teeth against it, the stimulation distracting you from the delicious stretch. Youâre not sure if youâve ever felt so full in your life, Paigeâs cock feeling impossibly deep inside you despite only being halfway in, and when it brushes against the spongy spot on your walls, you all but arch off the bed. âFuck, Paige, right there.â
Paige hums against your skin, pulling out slightly just to push back in, repeating the same motion and drawing another moan from you. She grins against you, burying her face in the crook of your neck. âThere she is,â she whispers, affectionate. âYou like that, baby?â You nod your head, unable to stop the whimper that spills from your lips, and Paige soothes you with another kiss to your jaw, to your cheek. She keeps slowly pushing her way in and doesnât stop until her hips rest flush against yours, every inch of the strap stuffed deep into your cunt.
Just as quickly as sheâd buried herself to the hilt, Paige draws her hips back, thrusting back in slow enough that you feel the silicone drag against your walls. The sound it makes is almost obscene, your cunt fluttering and pulsating around Paige, your hips rising up to meet her thrusts in a silent request for more. You could take it â you knew you could.
âPlease,â you beg. Youâre not quite sure what it is youâre begging for, but Paige seems to know exactly what you need. She releases your wrists although you donât let her stray too far. You grab her hand, guiding it down your body and to your clit.
âShit,â Paige curses breathlessly. She lets you use her hand exactly how you wanted it, grinding up into the heel of her palm while she fucks into you with the strap. Her rhythm stutters just slightly, but she rushes to correct it, her eyes still locked in on where youâre chasing your own high. It makes her weak, seeing how your slick forms a white ring at the base of the strap, how she pulls out with more of you coating the silicone. Youâd always been so ready, so pliant for her, and the sheer amount of trust you give her to see you like this makes her head spin. Sheâs not sure how much longer sheâd be able to hold it together, but after three orgasms, she knows youâre not too far away from crumbling, either.
Paige increases her pace slightly, the depth of her strokes, and you gasp when the next thrust back in all but kisses your cervix. Paige grins down at you, shushing you gently and kissing across your skin, intending on marking up every inch of you. You clench around the strap, the drag of it against your walls stealing the very breath from your lungs. Youâre impossibly fucking full and dangerously close to teetering off the edge entirely, white hot pleasure coiling in your belly.
âListen,â Paige breathes out, her voice raw and full of wonder, and you do, flushing a deep red as you register the sound of the strap fucking deep inside of you. You canât even find it in yourself to be that embarrassed about it, not when it feels like this. âLove when she talks to me like that. Know what she needs, huh? What you need?â
Youâre past the point of coherency now. âDonât stop. Feels so good, P.â
Paige noses against your jaw, kissing every inch of exposed skin, her hips snapping into yours now with a ruthless, mind-numbing force. It makes your jaw fall slack in wordless pleasure, your hips still grinding into her hand. She fucks so deep inside of you that youâre sure youâre going to feel it for the rest of the weekend. You donât mind that thought â especially not when you reach for that fucking tie again, using it to pull her impossibly closer to you.
This time, when you pull it, the knot tightens again, the movement and sudden pressure drawing a choked gasp from Paige, a deep groan of approval when she descends to press your lips together. Itâs a mess of teeth and spit but you think you like it like this, when itâs just pure need and want and just raw, and you whimper into her mouth as she presses her hand a little firmer against your clit, the strap hitting that spot inside of you that makes you see stars.
Youâre half-sobbing from the pleasure now, half-gasping, unable to form the fucking words, but you donât need to. âYou gonna come for me?â Paige asks you. Her lips brush against yours with every syllable, and that feeling makes you just a little more crazy. âWant you to, baby. You can take it. Been so fuckinâ good for me, wanna see you come all over me.â
Itâs her words, combined with the strap thrusting in and out of you so deeply and fully and how youâre grinding into her hand, chasing a pleasure she was always going to give you, that it all collides, hitting you straight in the fucking chest. You swear that your vision blurs white when you finally reach your peak, listening to the sound of Paigeâs ragged groan. With the last bit of sensibility, you understand that sheâs just come, too, and that knocks the air out of your lungs for a second time.
âThere you go,â Paige murmurs, her thrusts slowing as she works you through the aftershocks, guiding your hand away from your clit. It falls limply to your side and Paige runs her palm up your torso, feeling the sweat slicked to your skin, her palm warm and grounding. âJust breathe, I got you. Love you so much, you know that?â
You muster a nod at that, those words cutting through the post-orgasm fog in your mind, and Paige presses the lightest, gentlest kiss of the evening to your lips as she pulls out entirely. You miss the feeling instantly, but Paige makes quick work of unbuckling the harness as she slides out of bed to make her way into the bathroom. Itâs clear that her legs are still a little unsteady, because she trips over nothing and barely catches herself, cursing under her breath.
âDonât hurt yourself,â you tease, unable to resist.
Paige scoffs, blindly fumbling her way across the room. âShut up,â she mutters, but the words lack any real heat. You laugh to yourself, listening for the sound of the faucet turning on. Paige returns moments later with a warm washcloth â notably tie-less, you observe sadly â and wordlessly, you let her clean you up. She presses a gentle kiss to your thigh before she departs, then presses a soft, chaste one to your lips, grinning at you before she pulls away. âYou okay?â she asks.
âYeah,â you murmur, unable to stop your smile from growing. You can feel the exhaustion in your bones, completely spent yet completely happy. âYou owe me breakfast in bed if I wake up sore, though.â
âThat was pretty much a guarantee,â she says plainly, wiping her thighs down quickly. You canât resist an eyeroll. She disappears into the bathroom to deal with the washcloth, but before you know it, sheâs sliding back into the bed and under the covers with you. Paige wraps her arms around your waist, pulling you flush against her chest. The both of you lie in silence for a few moments until she breaks it to whisper, âI missed you. Never wanna go three months without seeing you again.â
âI missed you too,â you murmur, resting your hand over hers, your fingers tangling together. Her nose presses against the back of your neck, breathing you in. âWeâll plan our offseasons better. And seasons in general, I guess. Tell your agent to talk to my agent.â
âTell your agent to talk to mine,â Paige huffs.
You laugh. Itâs mostly delirium â but itâs a laugh, anyways. Itâs late, and you know that the both of you will be up until sunrise arguing about dumb shit like whose agent is actually calling who, so you just shift in her embrace, coming face to face with Paige and settling on the words, âI love you. Thereâs no one else Iâd rather do this with, you know?â
Paige leans in, kissing you again, soft and gentle and perfect. She pulls back, pressing her forehead to yours, and her smile is bright, fond, impossibly affectionate. âI know. I love you, too. Just make sure your agent schedules us at least one day a month during the season to have sexââ
You pinch her roughly, affronted, and she squeaks in pain while you dissolve into giggles. For as annoying as Paige was, youâd meant it when you said there was no one else youâd rather do this with, and you were just glad it was with her.
