#phoenix mercury

[shecanball]

CHERYL MILLER during her time as head coach of the Phoenix Mercury (1997-2000)

[rideandruin]

training wheels

pairing - diana taurasi x rookie!reader

summary - ~5.5k. congratulations—you've officially been drafted to the Phoenix Mercury. now survive the vet/rookie welcome dinner. diana's supposed to teach you how to navigate the league. instead, she ends up turning your entire world upside down.

warnings - rookie/vet, mentor/protege, rough game play, age gap, power dynamics, making out, self doubt, porn with plot

a/n - requested by @runfor-roses. that's dada like... go check out their fics. this is part 1/2. i had to break this up. the next part is pure filth...

ao3 ★ masterlist ★ moodboard

The vet/rookie dinner is a tradition and your official welcome to the Phoenix Mercury. The restaurant was the kind of place where you worried about using the wrong fork. Crystal chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings, casting warm light over tables draped in white linen. You sat between two other rookies at the long table, your hands folded in your lap, trying not to look as overwhelmed as you felt.

You'd been drafted 11th overall—not exactly a lottery pick, but somehow you'd become a fan favorite during March Madness. The analysts called you "scrappy," "hungry," a "dark horse." On the court, you were fearless. Off the court? You could barely make eye contact with the waiter.

"Relax," whispered Kiki Rice, the 6th pick sitting next to you. "They don't bite." Referring to the various established WNBA veterans scattered amongst the table.

You weren't so sure about that. Three seats down, directly in your line of sight, sat Diana Taurasi. The Diana Taurasi. WNBA legend. Three-time champion. Olympic gold medalist. The greatest scorer in league history. You'd grown up watching her highlights, studying her footwork, memorizing her release. You had a poster of her on your childhood bedroom wall, for fuck's sake. And she was staring at you. Every time you glanced up from your untouched caesar salad, those dark eyes were on you. Your stomach did a complicated flip that had nothing to do with hunger.

"So, rook," called out AT from across the table, her voice carrying easily over the dinner conversation. "What position you playing?"

You cleared your throat. "Shooting guard. But I can play the 3 if needed."

"She's being modest," Kiki interjected. "She averaged 24 points per game her senior year. Led her team to the Final Four."

"Impressive," said Kah Copper, raising her wine glass. "We could use some of that energy after last season."

You tried to smile, but your attention kept drifting back to Diana. She hadn't said a word to you yet, but she was watching you like you were game film. Like she was looking for weaknesses, finding patterns, planning her attack. When she finally spoke, her voice was lower than you expected. Her voice sent a shiver down your spine.

"I saw your game against UConn," Diana said, and suddenly the entire table went quiet. "Your pump fake in the final minute? That was cold-blooded," Diana said shaking her head.

Your mouth went dry. "You... you watched my college games?"

One corner of her mouth lifted. "I watch everyone's college games. It's called scouting." Duh. You felt like you wanted to mesh into the floor. She leaned back in her chair, completely at ease in a way you'd never be. "You've got good instincts. But you pass too much. You're looking to set up your teammates when you should be taking the shot yourself."

"I—" You didn't know what to say. Diana Taurasi was critiquing your skills. Diana Taurasi had watched you play. Fuck. Think. "I just try to make the smart play."

"The smart play is putting the ball in the basket," Diana said. "You've got the talent. You just need to be more selfish."

"Dee's right," Alyssa added. "This isn't college anymore. You can't be afraid to take over."

The conversation moved on, but you couldn't focus. Diana's attention had shifted to someone else, but you could still feel the weight of her gaze, like a phantom touch against your skin. Your heart was hammering against your ribs. You needed air before you threw up all over the table.

"Excuse me," you mumbled, pushing back from the table. "Restroom."

The bathroom was blessedly empty. You locked yourself in a stall and pressed your palms against your face.

Get it together, you told yourself. She's just a person. A legendary, gorgeous, intimidating person who apparently watched you play basketball and—Stop. Thinking. Lock in.

You finished in the restroom then went to wash your hands. You took a deep breath as the cold water hit your skin and stared at yourself in the mirror trying to burn away any anxiety inducing thoughts.

"You good, rook?"

You jumped, spinning around so fast you nearly slipped on the tile. There she was leaning against the wall by the door, arms crossed, that same amused expression on her face. She'd followed you. She'd actually followed you into the fucking bathroom.

"I—yes—I'm fine," you stammered. "Just needed a minute."

"Overwhelmed?"

"Yeah. A little." You forced yourself to meet her eyes. "It's just... this is a lot. You're all... you're legends. And I'm just—"

"An 11th pick who's about to prove everyone wrong?" Diana pushed off the wall and walked toward you slowly like she had all the time in the world. "I've seen your type before. Underestimated until you have your big moment. Dangerous, almost." She was close now. Close enough that you could smell her fragrance. An expensive and woody smell that made your head spin.

"I'm not dangerous," you said weakly.

"Not yet." Diana reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, her fingers grazing your cheek. The touch was electric. "But you will be."

Your breath caught. This couldn't be happening.

Diana's voice dropped lower, intimate. "First? You have to work on that confidence. I don't know if you're ready for the pressure if you can barely look me in the eye."

"I can look you in the eye," you protested, even as you stared at her collarbone.

Diana laughed. A low, rich sound that you felt in your chest. "Prove it."

You lifted your gaze. Met those dark eyes head-on. And immediately regretted it, because the intensity there nearly knocked you over.

"There she is," Diana murmured. "There's that fire."

Her eyes flicked to your lips and then back at your eyes. Fuck she is going to kiss me. You knew it with absolute certainty. And you knew you should stop her and remember that this was Diana Taurasi and you were a nobody rookie. And that this was insane. Then, Diana's lips met yours and every thought in your head evaporated.

Her mouth moved against yours with the same confidence she brought to everything else, like she knew exactly what she was doing and exactly how it would affect you. Her hand cupped your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, and you made a sound that should have been embarrassing but only seemed to encourage her. When she finally pulled back, you were breathing hard, your back pressed against the marble counter.

"Give me your phone," Diana said.

You fumbled in your pocket, hands shaking, and handed it over. She typed in her number, then called herself so she'd have yours.

"Text me," she said, handing the phone back. "When you're ready to stop being scared."

Then she turned and walked out, leaving you alone in the bathroom with your racing heart and the lingering taste of her lip balm.

You stood there for a full ten minutes, your legs unsteady beneath you. Your skin felt hot, like every nerve ending had been awakened and was now screaming for her. Your heart was still hammering against your ribs, your breathing shallow and uneven. You gripped the edge of the marble counter trying to make sense of what had just happened.

But there was no making sense of it. There was only the overwhelming realization that your panties were soaked, that your body was responding to her in ways you'd never experienced before, that a single kiss had left you undone in a way that terrified.

╰┈➤

You stared at her text for the third time in an hour. It's a few days after the dinner (and heated kiss) and you've been anxouisly waiting to hear from her.

Diana: Come by tomorrow. 2pm. I'll send you the address. Time to work on that confidence problem.

You'd been drafted to the Phoenix Mercury four days ago. You'd kissed Diana Taurasi in a restaurant bathroom three days ago. And now she was inviting you to... what? Practice? A hookup? Both?

Your finger hovered over the keyboard. This was Diana Taurasi. A legend. Your childhood hero. Who apparently wanted to spend time with you.

You: Of course. I'll be there.

Her response came immediately.

Diana: Good girl.

You threw your phone across the bed and pressed your face into a pillow to muffle your scream. The address Diana sent led you to a gated estate in the kind of neighborhood where every house looked like it belonged in an aesthetic Youtube video. You pulled up to the gate in your sedan, feeling distinctly out of place, and punched in the code she'd texted you.

The gate swung open. The driveway was longer than your entire apartment building. Perfectly manicured desert landscaping lined the path. The house itself was a sprawling modern masterpiece of glass and stone, with clean lines and expensive taste. You parked next to a Mercedes and a Range Rover and sat in your car for a moment, trying to process. Diana lived here. And you were about to go inside.

The front door opened before you could knock. Diana stood there in basketball shorts and a Mercury tank top, her hair pulled back in a bun. You took a glance at her muscles and wondered what her trained fingers would feel like inside you.

"You gonna stand there all day, rook?" she asked, grinning. Can she hear me?

"Your house is insane," you blurted out. To save yourself you are trying to act like you weren't checking her out and take a look at the paintings.

"Come on. I'll give you the tour." Diana says leading you in with a light hand on your waist. She led you through rooms that looked like they'd been staged for a magazine shoot.

"This is... I mean, wow," you said, trying not to gawk. "I hope I have a place like this someday."

"You will, kid," Diana said. "If you work hard enough." She paused in the hallway, her expression shifting to more guarded. "It's been pretty empty since the divorce, though. Turns out a big house doesn't mean much when you're the only one in it."

You didn't know what to say to that. The vulnerability in her voice caught you off guard.

"Come on," Diana said, shaking it off. "Let me show you the real reason I brought you here." She led you down a hallway and through a set of double doors, and you stopped dead in your tracks.

It was a full basketball court. An actual regulation-size court, complete with professional hoops,and perfect hardwood floors. The ceiling was high enough for any shot, and the lighting was better than some college gyms you'd played in.

"Holy shit," you breathed.

"Language, rook," Diana teased, but she looked pleased by your reaction. "I had it built a few years ago. Figured if I'm going to practice, might as well do it in style."

You walked onto the court, your sneakers squeaking on the pristine floor. This court was unreal. This was a dream.

"So," Diana said, grabbing a ball from the rack. "Like I said, I've been watching your games. College and a little preseason footage."

Your head whipped around. "You've been watching my games? Like, actually studying them? I know you said that at the dinner, but I thought you were just saying that to everyone."

"Of course, kid. You're on my team now. Old team, but still." She dribbled the ball casually, that same easy confidence in every movement. "You're too passive. You wait for the play to come to you instead of creating it yourself. In college, that worked because you had a good system. In the league?" She shook her head. "You're going to get eaten alive."

"I just—"

"You just what? Don't want to step on toes?" Diana moved closer, still dribbling. "Let me tell you something. The greats— Lisa Leslie, Sue Bird, A'ja Wilson. They don't apologize for taking over games. They don't pass when they should shoot. They go for the hundred-point games. That's what you need to be thinking about."

You swallowed hard. "I'm not sure I'm that kind of player."

"Bullshit." Diana chest-passed the ball to you, hard enough that you had to react fast to catch it. "I saw you in that UConn game. Fourth quarter, you took over. Scored twelve straight points. That's who you are when you stop overthinking."

"That was different. We were down—"

"So be down every game. Play like you've got something to prove." Diana's eyes locked on yours. "Because you do, rook. Eleventh pick? They're expecting you to ride the bench. Prove them wrong."

Your fingers tightened on the ball. She was right. You knew she was right.

"Now," Diana said, backing up toward the opposite basket. "Let's play. One-on-one. First to thirty."

"Are you going to go easy on me?" you asked already knowing the answer.

Diana's grin was sharp. "Not a fucking chance."

She wasn't kidding. Diana played like she wanted give you an intense cardio workout from hell, and she did. Proving that age and experience trumped youth and nerves every single time. She was physical and aggressive, talking trash with every possession.

"That's weak, baby!" "Come on, is that all you got rook?" "My grandmother plays better defense than that!"

You hit the floor three times in the first ten minutes. Diana's elbows were everywhere. Ribs, arms, shoulders. She wasn't trying to hurt you— actually it kinda felt like she was. This was league-level physicality, and you were getting a crash course.

But a tension beyond the game was happening. Every time your bodies collided, the feelings from the bathroom came roaring back. You were hyperaware of her. The smell of her sweat. The strength in her arms. The way her eyes tracked your every movement.

The score was 28-20, Diana's favor, until you started to get pissed. You stopped thinking. Stopped being polite. Started playing the way you did when you were eleven years old and basketball was the only thing that mattered.

You threw an elbow into Diana's ribs on a drive. She grunted but didn't call the foul. You fought through her screens, matched her physicality, started talking your own trash.

"That's a travel, D!" "You're getting slow, old woman!" "Is that your best shot?"

Diana's eyes lit up. This was what she wanted. This was the player she'd been trying to unlock. You scored four straight points, cutting the lead to 28-24. Diana brought the ball up, that cocky grin on her face, and you got up in her space, denying her the three-point line.

She drove left, you stayed with her, and when she went up for the shot, you contested hard. Your body crashed into hers, and you both went down in a tangle of limbs. The ball clanged off the rim.

"Fuck," you gasped, the wind knocked out of you.

Diana was laughing, actually laughing, as she rolled away and got to her feet. She grabbed the rebound, drained a three-pointer with her arms up in mock celebration.

"What's wrong, rook? Can't take it?"

The anger in you snapped. You shoved yourself off the floor and pushed her. Hard enough to make a point. Diana's eyebrows shot up. Then she pushed you back, still grinning.

"Oh, now you want to get physical?"

"Fuck off," you said, and pushed her again.

This time, Diana caught your wrist. Her hand was large and strong, her grip firm but not painful. She pulled you forward, closing the distance between you until you were chest to chest, both of you breathing hard from the game.

"Or what, rookie?" she whispered, her lips inches from your ear.

Your brain short-circuited. You tried to pull away, but her grip tightened. You struggled. Your bodies pressed together with hands grappling, and it wasn't quite fighting , but it was charged with so much tension you could barely breathe.

"Let me go," you said, but it came out weak.

"Make me."

For a moment, you just stared at each other. Both breathing hard. Both knowing exactly what was about to happen.

Diana finally kissed you again. Her tongue swept into your mouth and you let her, your hands fisting in her tank top, pulling her closer even as your brain screamed that this was stupid.

She bit your lower lip and you gasped. Her hands were in your hair, on your waist, everywhere. You were making sounds you'd never made before, desperate and needy, and you didn't care. Didn't care about anything except the feeling of her mouth on yours and her body pressed against you and— you froze.

You turned your head, breaking the kiss. "Stop. I-I have to go."

Diana pulled back immediately, her eyes searching your face. "Hey. You okay?"

"I'm fine. I just—" You scrambled out from under her, grabbing your bag. "I have to go. Practice starts in two days and I need to focus and I can't—"

"Rook—"

"Thank you for the practice," you said, already backing toward the door. "I'll see you at training."

You practically ran out of there. Diana called twice that night. You let both calls go to voicemail.

You told yourself it was because you needed to focus. Because the season was starting and you had to earn your spot on the roster. But really, you were just terrified. Scared that if you let yourself fall, you'd never find your way back.

╰┈➤

The start of the season continued to be a blur of practices, scrimmages, and media appearances. You kept your head down and your game sharp. The coaching staff loved your work ethic. Your teammates respected your hustle. And the sports media started buzzing about the "eleventh pick who plays like a top-five talent."

Your game had changed. You were more aggressive and more willing to take over when the moment called for it. Everything Diana had said in her private gym was clicking into place.

You saw her at the arena, of course. But it was different there. professional, focused. She'd nod at you across the court, offer the occasional pointer, but she didn't push. Didn't corner you. Gave you space. You told yourself you were relieved. You were 100% lying.

The regular season opener was against the Dallas Wings, and you were a nervous wreck. Not just because it was your first official WNBA game. Or because the Wings had Paige Bueckers (who definitely has been in the weight room this off season) and Azzi Fudd (recent first draft pick, and the peoples princess) on their team.

But because Diana was in the stands as a guest moderator for the broadcast. You saw her during warmups, sitting courtside with the commentary team, wearing a blazer and looking unfairly good. She caught your eye and winked, and you nearly tripped over your own feet.

Focus, you told yourself. This is your moment. Don't blow it.

From the opening tip, nothing went right. Paige was everywhere, her screens suffocating. Azzi of course dominated the paint. And you... you were just in your own head.

Every time you touched the ball, you second-guessed yourself. Pass or shoot? Drive or pull up? You made the safe play every time, and every time it was the wrong choice. By the end of the third quarter, you'd been benched.

You finished the game with thirteen points, most of them garbage time. The Mercury lost by eighteen. And you sat in the locker room afterward, staring at your hands, feeling like a complete failure. You blew it.

"Tough game," said Kahleah, patting your shoulder. "It happens. You'll bounce back."

But you weren't sure you believed her. You went home to your apartment, still in warmups, and sat on your couch in the dark thinking about every mistake. Thirteen points. In your WNBA debut. You'd proven everyone right. You were just an eleventh pick. A bust.

Fuck it. You went to the grocery store, bought a bottle of red wine, and came home to drown your sorrows. You weren't supposed to drink during the season. It messed with your training and your recovery. But tonight you didn't care.

By the second glass, you were thinking about Diana.

By the third glass, you were pulling out your phone.

The call rang twice before her rough voice answered. "What's up, kid?"

"Hi," you said, and your voice came out smaller than you intended. Sad.

There was a pause. "You okay?"

"Not really." You took another sip of wine. "I played like shit tonight."

"You played scared," Diana corrected with a sigh. "There's a difference."

"I don't know what happened. I just... froze. Paige and Azzi were everywhere, and I couldn't—"

"You couldn't handle playing against the best," Diana said bluntly. "You got in your own head. Started thinking instead of playing."

"Thanks. That makes me feel sooooo much better."

"I'm not trying to make you feel better, rook. I'm trying to make you better." Her voice softened slightly. "You've got the talent. I've seen it. But talent doesn't mean shit if you don't have the confidence to use it."

You closed your eyes. "I don't know if I can do this."

"Bullshit. You can. You just need to remember who you are." There was a pause. "Let me take you to dinner. Before the next game. I'll get your head right."

"Diana—"

"Not a request, kid. I'm not letting you spiral. You've got the Lynx in four days. You're going to show up, and you're going to show them what you're made of. But first, you're having dinner with me."

Despite everything, you felt a small smile tug at your lips. "Okay."

"Good. I'll have my driver pick you up. Friday night, seven o'clock. Wear something nice."

"How nice?"

"Nice enough that I can't stop looking at you," Diana said, and hung up before you could respond.

You sat there with your phone in your hand and your heart in your throat, wondering what the hell you'd just agreed to.

╰┈➤

You changed outfits six times. The first was too casual. The second too formal. The third made you look like you were trying too hard. The fourth not hard enough. The fifth was perfect until you spilled water on it ten minutes before the car was supposed to arrive.

You finally settled on a skirt. Black, hitting just above the knee with a fitted top that was nice without being over the top. No heels, because the last thing you needed was to roll an ankle before the next game. Just clean white sneakers that you'd only worn twice.

The car arrived right on time. A sleek black town car with a driver in a suit who opened the door for you like you were someone important.

"Ms. Taurasi is waiting for you at the restaurant," he said politely.

The drive took twenty minutes, winding through an area you'd never been. Old Town, but the expensive part. The car pulled up in front of a restaurant with no sign, just a discreet number on the door.

And there, waiting for you, was Diana. Black slacks, a black button-down shirt that probably cost more than your rent, sleeves rolled up to reveal toned forearms. Her hair was down, falling in dark waves past her shoulders. She looked up when you approached, and the smile that crossed her face made your stomach flip.

"There she is," Diana said, standing to pull out your chair. "I was starting to think you'd bail on me."

"I considered it," you admitted, sitting down.

"Honest. I like that." Diana settled back into her own chair, looking completely at ease. "You look good, rook."

"You look..." You gestured vaguely at her outfit. "Expensive."

Diana laughed. "This old thing? It's just Tom Ford."

"I don't even know what that means."

"It means I've been in the league for twenty years and I like nice things." She poured you a glass of wine from the bottle already on the table. "But enough about clothes. Let's talk about your game."

You groaned. "Do we have to?"

"Yes. Because you're going to play the Lynx in two days, and I'm not letting you go out there with the same scared energy you had against the Wings."

"I wasn't scared—"

"You were terrified," Diana interrupted. "I could see it from the broadcast booth. You were playing not to lose instead of playing to win. That's not the player I saw in your college tape. That's not the player who pushed me in my gym."

You took a long sip of wine. "But Paige Bueckers is really good."

"So are you."

"She was the first overall pick—"

"And you were the eleventh. So what?" Diana leaned forward, her eyes intense. "You know what the difference between a first pick and an eleventh pick is? Marketing. Hype. Luck. Not talent. You've got just as much skill as Paige. You just don't believe it yet."

"How am I supposed to believe it when I played like that?"

"By remembering that one game doesn't define you." Diana reached across the table and took your hand. Her palm was warm, calloused from years of basketball. "I believe in you, kid. Now you need to believe in yourself."

You stared at your joined hands. This was surreal. Diana was holding your hand in a fancy restaurant, telling you she believed in you, and you were supposed to just... what? Be normal about it?

"Why do you care?" you asked quietly. "Why does it matter to you if I succeed or not?"

Diana was quiet for a moment. When she spoke, her voice was softer than you'd ever heard it.

"I see myself in you. Something special. And I don't want to watch you waste it because you're too afraid to take what's yours." She squeezed your hand. "And maybe because I like you, rook. Maybe I want to see you succeed because I want to see you happy."

Your breath caught.

"Let's order," she said, releasing your hand and picking up her menu. "I'm starving. And you need to eat."

The moment passed, but the warmth of her touch lingered.

Dinner was incredible. You ordered some kind of Chilean sea bass that melted in your mouth. Diana kept telling stories about her early years in the league, the players she'd competed against, the championships she'd won. You found yourself relaxing, laughing, forgetting to be nervous. She was easy to talk to. Surprisingly vulnerable when she talked about her divorce, about the loneliness of coming home to an empty house.

"It's weird," Diana said, swirling the wine in her glass. "You spend your whole career chasing greatness. Sacrificing relationships, time, everything. And then one day you wake up and realize you've got all these trophies and no one to share them with."

"Do you regret it?" you asked.

"No. Yes... sometimes." She smiled ruefully. "I don't know. I love basketball. I always will. But there's a cost to being great. And sometimes I wonder if I paid too much."

You didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know how to comfort a legend who seemed, in that moment, achingly human.

"Sorry," Diana said, shaking her head. "That got heavy. Let's talk about something else. Tell me about you. What made you fall in love with basketball?"

You told her about being eight years old and watching the WNBA finals with your dad. About spending every afternoon at the rec center, playing pickup games with boys twice your size. And the first time you made a game-winning shot and felt like you could fly.

"Basketball saved me," you admitted. "When everything else in my life was chaos, I had the court. I had the game. It was the one place I felt like I belonged."

Diana's expression softened. "I know that feeling."

The check came. Diana didn't even look at it, just handed over a black credit card. Suddenly the night was ending. You didn't want it to end. Didn't want to go back to your tiny apartment and your anxious thoughts.

"Come on," Diana said, standing and offering her hand. "I'll walk you to the car."

Outside, the night air was cool and desert-dry. The driver was waiting, but Diana didn't immediately open the door. Instead, she turned to face you, her expression unreadable in the dim light.

"You're going to be great, babe," she said quietly. "I know you don't believe it yet. But you will."

"Diana—"

She reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, just like she had in the bathroom that first night. But this time, she didn't pull away. Her hand cupped your cheek, her thumb brushing your skin, and you stopped breathing.

"I'm going to kiss you now," Diana murmured. "If you don't want me to, say so." You didn't say anything.

Diana's lips met yours, soft and sure. Not the desperate, heated kiss from the gym. This was slower. Like she was savoring it. When she pulled back, you were dizzy.

"Text me after the game," Diana said, opening the car door. "Win or lose. I want to hear from you."

You nodded, not trusting your voice, and climbed into the car. As the driver pulled away, you looked back to see Diana still standing there, watching you go. You touched your lips, still tingling from her kiss, and wondered how you were supposed to focus on basketball when all you could think about was her.

To be continued...

tags ★

@fleetingjake @c-grace56 @savagemickey03 @ghostlytraitortale @groovyblazepanda @mikromoon @aonungsfreak @ashleighscodina @dammitj4net @probioticpro @paigespinkhair @kiltersworld @babe0601 @slutforabbyanderson

⋮ taglist ⸝⸝

[rickeajacksons]

i learned it from you, i learned it from you!

[azzi355]

they funny for this one 😂😅

[wlwnba]

“she stalked me on IG,” "i was not stalking, i was looking!": alyssa thomas, dewanna bonner, and falling in love with your teammate

if you were a wnba fan in 2021, the phrase "dewanna had twins—count that twice!" likely rings in your head from time to time. 2021 marked the 25th anniversary of the wnba, and the league released an advertisement with the slogan "count it". lisa leslie listed all of the things "they said women couldn't do", like dunking, playing after having kids, promoting activism, and more. the shoutout to DB stuck in fans' minds.

let's be clear: dewanna did a lot before she had twins. she was drafted fifth overall to the phoenix mercury in 2009, when she was lucky enough to be named sixth woman of the year and a wnba champion as a rookie (and, yes, she made the all-rookie team too).

she'd win sixth woman of the year three years in a row, become a WNBA champion again in 2014, and by the start of the 2021 season, she'd been a three-time all-star.

in the middle of her success, she found love with her phoenix mercury teammate candice dupree, whom she married in 2016.

shortly after their nuptials, they started planning their family—and twins were not part of that plan (at the beginning). what they did know was that dewanna would carry the baby and miss the 2017 season, while candice would continue playing to support their new family. but candice was a twin, and she wanted their kids to have the same upbringing she did.

Just thirty minutes before Bonner was set to undergo in vitro fertilization — with a single embryo — she finally caved. Dupree had been hearing it from her twin sister and her mother. Just do it! Go for twins! “Shoot, they talked us into having twins,” Dupree said, before laughing. “Well, I kind of talked (Bonner) into having twins.” “It came down to the very last second,” Bonner said. “Because I said no. Nope. just one.” Bonner's doctor told her twins would be twice as hard. Worse morning sickness, weight, fatigue, stress on joints and even heartburn. And Bonner wasn't about all that. But Llanos [Candice's mother] was telling them that it's actually easier to raise twins than a single baby. "They always had a friend growing up," she said. Dupree couldn't argue that. She's still tight with [her twin] Crystal. And they have that weird twin thing where one knows when something is wrong with the other. She loves it. During their interview with IndyStar, Dupree broke out of the conversation to ask Bonner a question. "If you could go back would you have just one?” Bonner laughed. “You can’t ask me that now!” She eventually transferred two embryos. The twins are here and she can’t very well go on the record saying she’d rather have just one. She loves them more than she thought possible. But things are busy. “When I’m on the road, she’s up all night with both of them," Dupree said. "At least I get a break.” —"How a married WNBA couple is raising newborn twins. 'It’s my turn to sacrifice.'", Dakota Crawford, IndyStar, Sept. 6th, 2017

being married and raising twins while one mom is busy with the wnba season is hard enough, let alone when both are playing. however, candice was traded to the indiana fever in early 2017, meaning that they would be trying to raise the kids across two teams' schedules, two timezones, and two people that couldn't be together for five months out of the year (and that's before you factor in overseas travel). the difficulty of this arrangement was chronicled many times, including in a profile posted by the wnba itself.

Inside The W: Love & Basketball for Dupree, Bonner

On this particular day, DeWanna Bonner is sitting in an airport waiting to board a flight to Chicago, the start of a 10-day road trip for th

when the wnba started to plan its bubble season in 2020, many wnba moms were asked whether they'd bring their kids with them. when dewanna spoke about bringing the twins (both before entering the bubble and while playing inside of it), her quotes included no mention of dupree. candice was still playing with the fever, and this would've presented a unique scenario for their family to be united during the season. the silence on the situation seemingly confirmed what'd been rumored for months: candice and dewanna weren't together anymore.

perhaps the biggest clue had been that dewanna chose to go to the connecticut sun in free agency earlier that year. she was definitely closer to indiana now (850 miles instead of 1,700), but had shared no word of closing the gap in her relationship. they'd spent the previous "offseason" apart, too: candice was in hungary playing for sopron basket, and dewanna was in russia, playing for dynamo kursk.

in connecticut, dewanna would be joining 2019 runner-up championship players jonquel jones, brionna jones, a young natisha hiedeman, jasmine thomas, theresa plaisance... and sun franchise player alyssa thomas.

alyssa thomas had been a fixture in connecticut since she was drafted fourth overall in 2014 from the university of maryland, former ACC juggernaut. by early 2020, she'd been a two-time all-star, made the all-defensive second team twice, and led the sun to their best season finish since curt miller was named the head coach—and had already torn both of her labrums.

she was a star, but she preferred keeping to herself. she'd quietly been in a few relationships before (including with teammate jasmine thomas), but she seemed to be single and happy heading into the 2020 season.

however, dewanna had a crush. it started with some innocent instagram story-watching, and then she told a mutual friend... who told alyssa. (major party foul, but i digress.)

they started talking regularly over instagram during the 2019-2020 euroleague season. dewanna was in russia with dynamo kursk, while alyssa was in czechia with usk praha. it was nice to make friends that shared similar goals in their careers, especially knowing that they'd be on the same team for the 2020 wnba season.

then, the 2020 season came... sort of. covid-19 put a wrench in the sports world. the wnba season was indefinitely postponed on april 3rd, and the draft was held two weeks later on zoom for players that didn't know if they'd get a rookie season that year. the league didn't get approval on holding a shortened regular season until june 15th, and players wouldn't arrive at the wnba bubble at the img academy in bradenton, florida until about a month later.

wnba moms were split on how to handle childcare while playing in the bubble. dearica hamby famously brought her daughter, amaya, while diana taurasi's son leo stayed at home in phoenix with penny. dewanna had family about an hour away from the bubble that was able to watch the twins and give them the care they would need without disrupting their schedules, as they were old enough to start attending school that fall.

leaving her babies for seven weeks was difficult, but it also meant that dewanna had time to focus on herself for once.

“Inside that Bubble, I had all the time… I’d never been that free since I had them. I wasn’t trying to get into another relationship, especially with a teammate, after I’d just come off of one. That just was not in my goals or vision at all,” says Bonner on her mindset entering the Bubble. —"Alyssa Thomas and Dewanna Bonner are chasing a WNBA championship with the Sun while planning their wedding", Mark Schindler, SBNation, Jul. 29th, 2024

alyssa and dewanna kept it strictly platonic, focusing on learning to work together as a team.

in the bubble, every team was spending all of their downtime together, too. their feelings became harder to ignore, but they tried to approach them maturely:

Poolside lunches, walks around IMG’s campus, and playing cards were how they passed time early on as they talked. The couple openly admit that everyone there seemed to recognize their chemistry immediately, before they were even dating. Each had concerns about how a relationship might work when life returned to normal, or whatever semblance of normal there would be outside Bradenton, Florida. “I’m a mom first, and I wasn’t sure if she’d be able to handle that and understand that,” Bonner says now. “I didn’t know if I wanted to give that a chance or just keep my normal routine just me and my kids, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to put that on (Thomas).” “I wanted to make sure that we were doing everything the right way, you know? We really communicated everything about each other before we just jumped into a relationship,” adds Thomas. —"Alyssa Thomas and Dewanna Bonner are chasing a WNBA championship with the Sun while planning their wedding", Mark Schindler, SBNation, Jul. 29th, 2024

once they realized they were on the same page, they decided to go for it while still inside of the bubble. dewanna shared that their first date involved alyssa taking her to the movies, quarantine-style: she slid a handmade movie ticket under dewanna's door and surprised her with popcorn and all of her favorite snacks.

the gesture was only the first of many that has made their relationship feel special, even when basketball gets in the way. for example:

Bringing in the New Year together at the end of 2021 remains their favorite date. New Year’s is Thomas’ favorite holiday, and she was able to find some time away from Prague to close the year and surprise Bonner with a trip to Florida just the two of them. Thomas rented a house, had it decorated still with a Christmas tree and lights, and hired a personal chef to make dinner for them. “We just had good food and good music, sat down and vibed and talked. I was kind of shocked, it turned out to be perfect,” says Bonner. “I thought she was going to propose and I was like, okay way too soon.” “And then we got COVID,” chimes in Thomas. But they reminisce that the following week and a half quarantining together and enjoying their own company was unforgettable, even if unplanned. —"Alyssa Thomas and Dewanna Bonner are chasing a WNBA championship with the Sun while planning their wedding", Mark Schindler, SBNation, Jul. 29th, 2024

alyssa and dewanna would publicly confirm their relationship with a sweet instagram post on valentine's day in 2021 (archived post source here)

their relationship didn't change anything on the court, though. they became vital pieces for the sun, making it to the 2021 wnba semifinals (where they lost to the underdog chicago sky), then the 2022 finals (where they lost to the first-time champions, the las vegas aces). slowly, they were getting closer to a championship.

they were also undeniably adorable, growing closer in their relationship, and melting all of our hearts the whole time 🥹

in 2023, they were both named all-stars (dewanna had been an all-star in 2021, then alyssa in 2022). however, alyssa had much more on her mind than the all-star game that weekend, when she asked dewanna to marry her!

dewanna, of course, said yes. they're still engaged today, deeply in love and showing up for each others' biggest moments. when alyssa was named to the 2024 olympic team, dewanna was her biggest cheerleader.

around the same time, they were also the cover story of SLAM 251.

most recently, they both ended up with the mercury for the 2025 season. unfortunately, the 2025 season would end with another wnba finals loss to the las vegas aces for them. it's okay, though: their time is coming, and more importantly, they have each other.

[lyricii]

younger reader forcing dt to do a stupid tiktok trend

for the algorithm

pairing: phoenix mercury!diana taurasi (vet) x phoenix mercury!rookie!reader

wc: 3.6k

summary: you’re a rookie with a phone, a tiktok draft, and absolutely no fear. diana taurasi is a veteran with zero interest in trends—until you make it impossible for her to say no.

join the 🏷️: @timunhater, @bbreezyxoxo, @shisinterlude, @imadethiscauseiwasbored

lyricii yaps: just imagine that diana has a tiktok in ... cause we know she doesn't (allegedly)

you learn very quickly that diana taurasi hates two things more than anything else.

losing. and tiktok. the losing thing makes sense. the tiktok thing feels personal. “absolutely not,” she says, flat and immediate, before you even finish your sentence.

you’re still tying your shoes in the locker room, phone balanced against your water bottle, scrolling through drafts. practice is done, sweat still clinging to your skin, the room loud with music and chatter and vets half-arguing about dinner plans.

you glance up at her. “i didn’t even say what it was yet.” she’s already shaking her head. “don’t need to hear it.”

“dee—”

“nope.”

she’s sitting two lockers down from you, towel draped over her shoulders, hair still damp, ice pack resting lazily on her knee. she looks relaxed in that way only veterans do—like nothing in this league can surprise her anymore. arms crossed. eyebrow raised. already done with you.

you grin anyway. because you’re a rookie, yes—but you’re also fearless in the way only rookies are.

“it’s the one where you just—” you stand up, demonstrate quickly. a couple of steps. a shoulder bounce. a stupidly smooth hand wave you practiced in your kitchen at 1 a.m. “—and then you hit the little spin at the end.”

silence. diana stares at you like you just suggested ritual sacrifice. “i’m not doing a dance,” she says. “for the internet.”

“it’s fifteen seconds.”

“that’s fifteen seconds too long.”

you bite your lip to keep from laughing. “c’mon. everyone’s doing it.”

“everyone is an idiot.”

“you do realize,” you say, sweetly, “that you already went viral last week for aggressively chewing gum on the bench.” she narrows her eyes. “that was different.”

“how.”

“i wasn’t aware of it.” you step closer, lowering your voice like it’s a secret. “this one’s easy. no jumping. no knee risk. very veteran-friendly.” someone down the row snorts. you don’t look to see who. diana points at you with one finger. “you’re pushing it, rook.” you shrug. “coach already left.”

“don’t care.”

“practice cameras are off.”

she sighs. deep. dramatic. like she’s mourning the life she could’ve had if she’d retired earlier. “why me,” she mutters. “because you’re iconic,” you say instantly. “and because if i make brittney do it, she’ll try too hard and ruin it.”

from across the room, brittney looks up. “i heard my name.”

“nothing,” diana says. “go away.”

you tilt your head, softening just a little. “please?”

it’s not dramatic. not begging. just… hopeful. bright-eyed. the kind of look rookies still have before the league hardens them.

diana exhales through her nose. “one take,” she says. “if i look stupid, i’m blaming you forever.” you light up. “deal.”

you set the phone up against the lockers, angle it just right. you make sure the lighting isn’t awful, that the phoenix mercury logo peeks in the background like proof. the song starts—one of those smooth, looping beats that’s been haunting your for you page for weeks.

you take your place next to her. “don’t rush me,” diana warns. “i won’t.”

“don’t touch me.”

“wasn’t planning on it.”

“and if anyone posts this without my approval—”

“relax,” you laugh. “i’ll show you first.”

the countdown starts.

3… 2…

you start the steps, easy, fluid. you’ve done this a hundred times in your apartment mirror. you glance sideways. diana is stiff. arms barely moving. expression locked in a scowl like she’s being held hostage.

“loosen up,” you whisper. “it’s a vibe.”

she mutters, “i hate you,” under her breath. but then—something shifts. it’s subtle. barely there. a shoulder rolls. her timing locks in with yours. she catches the beat, instinctively, because of course she does—she’s diana taurasi. rhythm lives in her bones.

when the spin comes, she doesn’t fully commit—but she smirks. actually smirks. the video ends. you stop the recording, breathless with excitement. “that was perfect.”

“let me see it,” she says immediately. you hand her the phone. she watches it once. then again. “okay,” she admits, grudgingly. “i don’t hate it.”

you grin. “you kinda ate.” she scoffs. “don’t ever say that to me again.”

“comment section’s gonna love you.”

“i’m turning my comments off.” you sit back down, still buzzing. “can i post it?” she hesitates. looks at you. really looks—like she’s clocking the joy in your face, the pride, the way this stupid little moment clearly matters more to you than you’re letting on.

“tag me,” she says finally. your eyes widen. “seriously?”

“yeah,” she shrugs. “might as well do it right.” you post it before she can change her mind. it blows up in under an hour. by the time you’re on the bus heading home, diana’s phone won’t stop buzzing. she pretends not to notice. you don’t pretend at all.

“half a million views,” you whisper dramatically. “unbelievable.”

“top comment says ‘dee got more swag than the whole league.’” she smiles, just barely. “that one i’ll allow.” you lean back in your seat, satisfied. “see? tiktok isn’t so bad.”

she glances at you, amusement softening her eyes. “don’t get it twisted. i did this for you.” your chest does a little flip. “yeah?” you ask.

“yeah,” she says. “rookies should get at least one stupid memory their first year.”

you smile to yourself. because somehow, forcing a legend to do a dumb tiktok dance feels like exactly that. and you have a feeling this won’t be the last one. the problem with doing one stupid tiktok with diana is that the internet never believes it’s just one.

you learn this at 7:14 a.m. the next morning. your phone is vibrating nonstop on the nightstand, screen lighting up your dark apartment in staccato flashes. you groan, half-asleep, rolling over and grabbing it with one eye still closed.

notifications stack on notifications.

likes. comments. duets. screenshots.

and then—diana taurasi liked your post. you sit straight up in bed. “oh my god,” you whisper to no one. by the time you get to practice, it’s already out of your control. “rook,” one of the assistants calls as you walk past, grinning. “nice moves.” you freeze mid-step. “you saw it?”

“everyone saw it.” your stomach flips. the locker room is louder than usual, buzzing with that specific kind of energy that only comes when something leaks out of the team bubble and into the world. a couple of vets are scrolling, laughing, shoving phones at each other.

brittney points at you. “you’re never allowed to say you’re shy again.”

“i am shy,” you mutter, dumping your bag. “i just—made a poor life choice.”

“nah,” she says. “you made history.” you risk a glance down the row. diana’s already there. hoodie on. coffee in hand. phone face-down on the bench beside her like it personally offended her. she looks… calm. too calm. which somehow makes you more nervous.

you sit two lockers away, pretending to be very invested in rewrapping your ankle. “you good?” she asks casually, not looking at you. “yeah,” you say too fast. “are you?” she hums. “my cousin sent me the video.” you wince. “oh.”

“my mom too.”

“oh no.”

“and three former teammates.”

you close your eyes. “i’m so sorry.” she finally looks over at you. there’s no anger there. no annoyance either. just something amused, a little fond, and entirely unreadable. “don’t be,” she says. “they think it’s funny.”

“they?”

“everyone who’s been texting me like i just discovered electricity.” you laugh despite yourself, tension easing. “comment section’s obsessed with you.”

“comment section needs a job.”

practice starts like normal—but it doesn’t feel normal. every drill, you’re hyper-aware of her. the way she watches you during scrimmage. the way she calls your name sharper than usual when you miss a rotation, softer when you nail a read.

“good cut,” she says when you pass her on the sideline. your chest warms. “thanks.” later, when you’re subbed out, she takes the seat next to you on the bench. close enough that your knees brush. close enough that you can smell her coffee, feel the heat still radiating off her arm. “you know,” she says quietly, “you might’ve started something.” you glance at her. “what do you mean?”

“social media team just asked if i’m ‘open’ to more content.”

you choke. “no.”

“that’s what i said.”

“thank god.”

“but,” she adds, “they also asked if you’d help.” your heart stutters. “me?”

“you,” she confirms. “apparently you’re ‘good for engagement.’” you hide your face in your hands. “i just wanted one video.” she nudges your knee with hers. “relax. i told them we’ll see.” you peek at her. “we?”

she smirks. “you dragged me into this. you’re not disappearing now.”after practice, the locker room empties faster than usual. people have places to be. lives to return to. you linger, taking your time, retaping your wrists even though they don’t need it. diana’s still there when you finally stand.

“you heading out?” she asks. “yeah,” you say. “just—uh—waiting on my ride.” she raises an eyebrow. “you drove.”

busted.

“…i can wait,” you offer weakly. she laughs, low and quiet. “c’mon. i’ll walk you.” the hallway outside the locker room is quieter, lights dimmer. your footsteps echo as you fall into step beside her, shoulders nearly touching.

“you nervous about all this attention?” she asks. you shrug. “a little. i’m not really…internet like that.”

“yeah,” she says, glancing at you. “i noticed.”

“hey.” she smiles. “it’s a good thing. keeps you grounded.” you nod, then hesitate. “did i cross a line?” she stops walking. you stop too. she turns to face you fully now, hands in her pockets, expression serious in a way that makes your chest tighten.

“listen to me,” she says. “you didn’t force me to do anything. i could’ve said no.”

“you did say no.”

“i changed my mind,” she corrects. “that’s on me.” you search her face, making sure. “okay.” she studies you for a beat longer, then nods once. “okay.” the moment lingers. quiet. charged.

then she clears her throat. “but for the record—”

“yeah?”

“no more dances.”

you grin. “no promises.” she scoffs, shaking her head, but there’s a smile there. real this time. unguarded. as you reach the exit, your phone buzzes again. another notification. you glance down.

dianatauarsi_#3 commented: don’t get used to this.

you laugh out loud. “what?” she asks. you hold up your phone. she groans. “i knew i shouldn’t have figured out how to comment.”

“too late,” you say. “you’re officially one of us.” she opens the door, holding it for you. “don’t push it, rook.” but the way she says it—warm, familiar—makes it sound less like a warning. and more like an invitation.

 media day is a nightmare. this is not a controversial opinion. this is a fact. lights too bright. cameras too close. questions that feel like they’re trying to pull something out of you instead of learn anything real. you’re standing on a taped X on the floor, jersey crisp, hair behaving for once, hands clasped in front of you like that will stop them from shaking.

“rookie over here!”

you flinch. someone laughs. you don’t know who.

“how does it feel playing alongside a legend?”

you answer automatically. respectful. rehearsed. grateful. everything you’re supposed to be. from across the room, you feel her before you see her.

diana is leaned against a table, arms crossed, watching you with an expression that looks suspiciously like pride. when your eyes meet, she lifts her chin in a tiny nod.

you exhale. five minutes later, the universe decides to be funny. “can we get diana and the rookie together?” you freeze. she sighs like she’s been personally betrayed by the air. but she pushes off the table and walks over anyway, stopping just close enough that your shoulders brush. the cameras eat it up instantly.

“smile,” she mutters out of the corner of her mouth. “i am smiling.”

“that’s a grimace.” she reaches up—too casually, too easily—and adjusts the collar of your jersey. her fingers linger for half a second too long. your brain short-circuits.

click. click. click.

“great chemistry,” a photographer says. diana snorts. “we work together.”

“sure,” he replies. “hold that.” when it’s finally over, she steers you away by the elbow before anyone can ask anything else. “you good?” she asks. “yeah,” you say. “just… a lot.”

“welcome to the league.” back in the locker room, the vets are merciless.

“so,” skylar says, flopping onto a bench. “when’s the next dance?”

“never,” diana answers immediately. “coward,” someone else adds. “you’re just scared she’s better than you,” another voice chimes in. you try to disappear into your locker. diana points at them. “none of you had to keep rhythm under public scrutiny.”

“you loved it,” brittany says. “i tolerated it.”

“you smiled.”

“i smirked.”

“same thing.”

you risk a glance at her. she’s pretending to be annoyed, but her ears are pink. later that night, you’re on the couch in your apartment, scrolling through comments you told yourself you wouldn’t read. big mistake. your phone buzzes.

dee: stop doomscrolling

you blink.

you: how did you—

dee: rook. you liked a comment that said ‘they’re definitely flirting’

you bury your face in a pillow.

you: i didn’t mean to

dee: relax. it’s funny

you: is it though

three dots appear. disappear. appear again.

dee: they don’t know anything

your heart thumps.

you: yeah

dee: but

you stare at the screen.

dee: we should probably stop giving them material

you swallow.

you: probably

another pause.

dee: after one more

you laugh out loud.

you: you’re unbelievable

dee: tomorrow. after practice. one take

you don’t even hesitate.

you: deal

the second tiktok is worse. or better. depending on who you ask. it’s one of those trends where you’re supposed to stand back-to-back, start serious, then turn and match energy. simple. harmless. supposedly.

you’re in the practice facility, lights dimmed, phone propped on a chair. the song starts. you face forward, neutral expression. you can feel her behind you, solid and warm, presence grounding in a way that’s starting to feel dangerous.

when the beat drops, you turn. she turns too. and instead of just hitting the move—she mirrors you. perfectly. step for step. eyes locked on yours like she’s daring you to break first. you don’t. neither does she. the comments go feral. the vets are insufferable.

“diana,” sophie says the next day, “why do you only dance like that with her?”

“because she keeps dragging me into it.” you raise your hands. “allegedly.” diana shoots you a look. “you enjoy this way too much.”

“you posted it,” you say. “for the algorithm.”

“mmhmm.” the teasing should embarrass you. instead, it does something else. it makes things…softer. she sits closer on the bench now. lets her knee bump yours. corrects your footwork with her hands on your hips, steady and careful, like she’s acutely aware of exactly where she’s touching you.

one night after a late game, you’re the last two in the locker room again. she’s unlacing her shoes slowly. you’re rewatching a clip on your phone. “you played well tonight,” she says. “thanks,” you reply. then, quieter, “you did too.”

she smiles. tired. real. there’s a moment where neither of you moves. “hey,” she says, finally. “we should talk.” your stomach flips. “okay.”

she stands, steps closer—but not too close. respectful. measured. “i don’t want to cross any lines,” she says. “you’re my rookie. that matters.” you nod. “i know.”

“but i also don’t want to pretend i don’t feel…something.” your breath catches. “me neither,” you admit. the silence that follows isn’t awkward. it’s careful. like both of you are standing at the edge of something, deciding how brave to be. she exhales. “we take it slow.”you smile. “slow is good.”

she reaches out—not for your hand, not for anything obvious—but gently taps your knuckles with her own. “and no more tiktoks,” she adds. you laugh. “liar.” she grins. “don’t push it, rook.”

but this time, when she says it, it sounds a lot like stay. diana taurasi is not jealous. this is something she tells herself often. confidently. like a fact. she is experienced. grounded. a professional. she’s been in this league longer than you’ve been an adult. she knows how to compartmentalize, how to mentor, how to keep lines clear and clean and unblurred.

so when the visiting guard laughs a little too hard at something you say during shootaround—that’s nothing. when she stands a little too close to you during stretching, leaning in to say something you can’t quite hear—still nothing. and when you smile back, soft and polite and completely harmless—diana’s jaw tightens.

barely. she notices it immediately. corrects her posture. exhales through her nose. get it together, taurasi. you don’t notice at first. you’re just being you—friendly, open, rookie-bright in a way that still hasn’t been worn down yet. you answer questions, laugh easily, nod along. it’s normal. it’s only later, when scrimmage starts, that you feel it.

“switch,” diana calls sharply. you snap into motion, a half-step quicker than usual. the pace is faster than it needs to be. her passes are crisp, almost aggressive. when you hesitate for half a second, she’s on you immediately. “eyes up,” she says, low. not unkind—but firm.

“got it,” you answer. you do. every time. and every time you do something right, she nods once. approval without praise. grounding and steady and intensely focused on you. by the end of practice, your legs are burning. you catch her watching you from the sideline while you stretch, expression unreadable. later, in the locker room, sydney doesn’t even pretend subtlety.

“dee,” she says, loud enough to carry. “you good?” diana doesn’t look up from untying her shoes. “why wouldn’t i be?”

“you’ve been glaring like someone stole your lunch money.”

“i don’t glare.”

“you absolutely do.” you keep your eyes on your phone, pretending very hard not to listen. brittany grins. “relax. the kid’s popular.”

that does it. diana looks up. slow. deliberate. “she’s focused,” she says. “that’s what matters.” you feel heat creep up your neck at the pronoun. she doesn’t say anything else. but when you leave the locker room, she falls into step beside you without comment.

the walk to the parking lot is quiet. comfortable. until it isn’t. “you know,” she says, casual in a way that absolutely isn’t, “you don’t owe anyone anything.”

you blink. “what?”

“attention,” she clarifies. “conversations, explanations.” you glance at her. “did i do something wrong?” she stops walking. you stop too.

the lights overhead hum softly. the night air is cool, settling against your skin. she looks at you for a long moment, weighing something. “no,” she says finally. “you didn’t.”

“okay,” you reply. “then what’s this about?” she exhales. “nothing.” it’s not convincing. you hesitate, then say gently, “you’ve been different today.” her eyes flicker. caught. “have i?”

“yeah,” you admit. “a little.” silence stretches between you. taut. careful. “i don’t like distractions around you,” she says at last. your heart skips. “because i’m a rookie?”

“because you’re—” she stops herself. rubs a hand over the back of her neck. “because i care about your development.” it’s the safest answer. it’s also incomplete. you nod slowly. “i can handle myself.”

she meets your gaze. something unguarded there now. honest. “i know,” she says. “that’s not the issue.”

another pause. you step closer. not enough to touch. just enough that the space changes. “then what is?” her breath stutters. she looks at you like she’s standing at the edge of a cliff she promised herself she wouldn’t approach. “you,” she says quietly. the word lands heavy between you. your pulse roars in your ears.

“diana—” she takes a step back immediately. walls snapping back into place. “this is where i stop.”

your chest tightens. “okay,” you say, even though part of you aches. she nods once. “good.” but she doesn’t leave. neither do you. the almost-kiss happens by accident. or maybe inevitability.

you’re talking—softly now, voices low, everything slowed down like the world has narrowed to just this space. she reaches out without thinking, fingers brushing your wrist as she emphasizes a point.

the contact is electric. you both freeze. her hand is warm. steady. not pulling away. you look down at it. then up at her. she’s close. closer than she should be. eyes flicking to your mouth before she can stop herself.

the air feels too thick to breathe. your lips part. she leans in—just a fraction. enough that you can feel her breath. enough that the kiss is right there, waiting. and then she stops. forehead dropping gently against yours instead.

“fuck,” she whispers. not angry. not frustrated. just honest. your eyes close. “we can’t,” she says, voice rough. “i know,” you reply. neither of you moves.

her hand squeezes your wrist once—soft, grounding—then she pulls away fully. “i’m sorry,” she says. you shake your head. “don’t be.” she searches your face. “this doesn’t change anything.”

you smile, small but real. “it changes something.” she laughs quietly. “yeah. it does.” when she finally walks you to your car, she doesn’t touch you again. but when you open the door, she says, “be careful out there.” and it sounds a lot like don’t let anyone else get that close. quietly. obviously.

[lupinqs]

why are they the same person

[slutzforbueckers]

attitude

pairing: diana taurasi x fem!reader

warnings: smut

synopsis: having diana correct your attitude.

a/n: writing for my second wife 🫠🫠🫠 I NEED HER SO BAD!!

♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

you had barely made it two steps into the bedroom before diana was on you—big hands wrapping around your waist, spinning you fast and shoving you up against the wall. she pinned you there, her front flush against your back, the heat radiating off her in waves. you could feel the strap through her pants, it made you whimper.

“you know how fucking crazy you make me?” she rasped into your ear, her voice low and dangerous, but there was an edge underneath it—like she was barely holding herself back. her hands roamed your body roughly, yanking your dress up until it bunched at your waist, pulling your panties down without finesse.

you gasped when she slapped your ass once, rough enough to sting. her other hand snaked around your throat, forcing your head back to look her dead in the eye.

“you gonna be good for me?” she asked, pressing her thigh between your legs. you reached your hand back to grab at any part of her you could, your hips grinding down against her strong thigh. “gonna take what I give you?”

“yes—yes, please, d.” you nodded quickly, your breath coming out in a desperate, choked sound.

“good,” she muttered, pressing a filthy kiss against your mouth as her fingers slid through your folds. she hummed as she felt your slick coat her fingertips. she pressed one into your cunt, thrusting in a few times just to hear you moan before pulling back. “get on your knees.”

you obeyed immediately, turning around and dropping to your knees. you reached for her pants instinctively, making work of unzipping them and pushing the down her thighs. the sight of the thick strap hanging from her hips almost made you drool, your thighs pressing together.

she gripped the base of the strap with one hand—tapping the head of it lightly against your lips— the other running through your hair. “open up, baby,” she muttered, low and filthy. “show me how bad you want it.”

you parted your lips immediately, letting her guide the tip into your mouth. the strap was heavy on your tongue and you looked up at her, eyes wide, pupils blown with lust.

“good girl,” she rasped, stroking your cheek with her thumb as you started to move, bobbing your head slowly over the strap, taking more and more of it into your mouth. diana groaned, deep in her chest, her free hand tangling into your hair, tightening just enough to sting. she didn’t force you—not yet—but she guided you, pulling you deeper, watching your lips stretch around the thickness.

“fuck, look at you,” she muttered, hips rolling forward, pushing the strap deeper into your mouth. “sucking my cock like you were fucking made for it.”

you moaned around the strap, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth as you pushed yourself deeper, your nose brushing against the base. she rewarded you with a soft, broken sound, her hand cradling the back of your head like you were something precious even as she started rocking her hips, fucking your mouth slow and deep. “taking it so fucking good,” she praised, voice tight, accent thick.

you whimpered around her, squeezing your thighs together, the wetness between your legs unbearable now. after a few more slow thrusts into your mouth, she pulled you off with a wet pop, wiping the spit from your chin with her thumb.

“get up.”

you listened, of course, standing up and letting her flip you around again. diana ran her right hand up your spine, pressing you forward as her left hand gripped your hip, pulling you back simultaneously. you pressed your hands against the door to steady herself as she nudged your legs apart.

“diana,” her name faded into a whimper as you felt the tip of the strap run through your slit, bumping into your clit. she eased into you, her head ducked to watch your pussy swallow her dick. your head fell forward, your eyes shutting as she pressed deeper, filing you to the hilt. “shit—“

she moved her hands to grab you hips as she pulled her hips back, pulling the strap out until only the tip was in and pushing back in roughly. diana grunted as she fell into a rhythm, rough and punishing. she leaned in, her lips brushing the side of your neck as she pressed you against the door harder.

her hand found its way around your hip, sliding between your thighs to rub quick, tight circles on your throbbing clit. your body stuttered, unsure if it wanted to run or push into her.

“don’t run, baby,” she spoke as she ghosted her lips over the shell of your ear, hers fingers pressing harder into your hip. “this is what you wanted, yeah? all that attitude earlier.”

you mewled, pressing your head against the door as if it was supposed to ground you. you swore you could feel her in your stomach, each thrust punching a shout from you. her body was warm pressed against you, a reminder that she was there, giving you what she wanted.

“so deep—keep going, please please—m’so close!” you squealed, thighs beginning to tremble as you felt the rapid approach of your orgasm. diana wrapped her arm around your waist, pulling you back into her chest. you were on your tiptoes at that point, leaning back into her, your head on your shoulder.

“whose pussy is this, hm?” she nipped at your shoulder, snapping her hips into you harder and harder. you could barely breathe, you choked out a sob, fingers clawing uselessly at her arm, struggling to answer through the overwhelming pressure building inside you. “come on, princess, use your words. i know you can do it.”

“yours—fuck, it’s yours,” you gasped, your voice high and wrecked.

“that’s fucking right,” she grinned against your skin, her arm tightening around you, her thrusts growing even more erratic. “mine to touch, mine to fuck, mine to ruin.”

your orgasm crashed over you without warning—violent and blinding—your entire body seizing up in her arms as you cried out, shaking hard against her chest. diana held you through it, grinding the strap into you slow and deep, wringing every last tremble from your body, every last moan from your throat.

“god, look at you,” she muttered, almost in awe, her lips brushing against your temple. “so fucking pretty when you come for me.”

you whimpered as she slowed to a stop, removing her fingers from your sensitive clit. diana let your body go as she pulled out, letting you slump forward onto the door. she bit her lip at the sound your cunt made when she pulled out, a gush of your cum following. she slapped your ass one more time with a laugh.

“glad we could fix that attitude of yours.”

♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

a/n: added a paige tag just so it gets out more but dw it won’t be on ones after this!!