paige who provokes readers admirers and being EXTRAAA clingy and overprotective over reader
ragebaiter
pairing: uconn!paige!teammates!dating x uconn!reader!teammates!dating
wc: 1.6k
summary: dating paige was supposed to be simple, but no one warned you how addictive it would feel to be wanted out loud.
🏷️: @timunhater, @yourmom-25s-blog, @shisinterlude, @333dee, @sammiejane22, @marleymarleymarleymarley
dating paige should be simple. it’s not.
for most people, girlfriends give you kisses, compliments, maybe a sweatshirt. paige gives you headaches and chaos. she also gives you the sweatshirt, but only after wearing it for three days straight to make sure it smells like her.
you think the roster would have warned you. they didn’t. if anything, they teased you into the relationship like it was a group project they were personally invested in. they shoved you toward her, then acted shocked when it worked.
the ragebaiting starts online.
instagram live after practice, 6:47 pm. hair still damp, practice gear on, kk sprawled across the couch beside paige like she pays rent there. paige has the phone angled just right—not flattering, just powerful. it’s very her.
you’re off to the side at the desk, hunched over psych homework, sneakers kicked off, headband still in. minding your own business. trying to pass college. trying to win games. trying to keep your gpa and relationship from collapsing simultaneously.
chat isn’t minding theirs.
IS Y/N THERE??
SHOW HER
paige are you guys still together??
blink twice for yes
blink once for no
kk reads the comments like she’s reading the morning news, chewing gum and unbothered. “they’re obsessed,” she mutters, amused. paige doesn’t even look up. “she’s here. and no, i’m not showing her. this is my live.”
chat reacts like the world is ending.
GATEKEEPING??
what do you mean YOUR live
we want proof the girlfriend exists
paige glances sideways at you, tiny smirk, like she knows exactly what she’s doing. like she enjoys lighting matches and then sitting back to watch everyone choke on the smoke.
she raises her voice—not for kk, not for you, for the gremlins behind the screen. “people always forget i’m the one dating her,” she says, casual. “not the internet.”
your pen stops mid-sentence. heat crawls up your neck.
“paige—”
“what?” she shrugs. “i’m right.” kk snorts. “you’re gonna start a riot.”
“already did,” paige replies. the comments have a full emotional breakdown in real time, half outrage, half shipping war, half conspiracy theories. somehow that’s three halves but the internet doesn’t care.
but the in-person ragebait is worse. because online, people just scream. offline, they try their luck.
campus is full of admirers—athletes, regular students, and the ones who pretend they “don’t watch women’s sports” but can list your shooting percentage from last season. being on the team doesn’t help. it makes it worse. someone’s always flirting or complimenting or staring a little too long after weights.
there’s also the height thing—paige at six feet and you at five-three. people think it’s cute. paige thinks it’s leverage. she’ll rest her chin on your head during stretches like it’s instinct. azzi calls it “her booster seat moment.” you throw a resistance band at azzi for that one.
after practice one day, a guy from your chem class stops you outside the gym.
“hey—can i ask for your number? totally cool if not.” before you can answer, paige materializes—hand sliding around your waist, casual but tight, head dipping to rest against yours because she can. because she likes when people witness it.
“she has a number,” paige says. “i use it.” the guy blinks. “i meant—like—”
“i know what you meant,” paige cuts in. smile sharp, eyes warmer than they should be for someone issuing a threat. “still no.” azzi strolls by eating a granola bar. “L take,” she announces to the guy like she’s reporting scores.
you don’t even get a chance to be annoyed before paige is already walking you away by the wrist, muttering, “chemistry major, seriously?”
“he was nice,” you say.
“so is the lady who works at the dining hall,” paige replies. “i’m not letting you date her either.”
she says it like she’s being reasonable. and somehow it works. then there’s game day. you wear her jersey—her actual jersey, not the bookstore one. the team notices. the students notice. twitter notices. azzi wolf whistles. ice and kk do the “oooooooh” chorus until geno threatens laps.
after she sinks a filthy midrange, paige turns her head and looks directly at you in the stands, chin tilted up, full ego, smug like she invented shooting. every camera catches it. the commentators don’t say a word but their souls are screaming. someone on twitter edits it into a fancam within twelve minutes.
after the game on live someone comments: y/n looks good in paige's jersey 👀
paige doesn’t blink. doesn’t hesitate. “yeah. that’s why she’s wearing it.”
"do you get jealous??"
“only when people think they have a chance,” she says. so…you get jealous a lot? “i get entertained a lot,” she corrects. “not the same.” later, in her dorm, legs tangled on the tiny couch that fits neither of you, she pokes your cheek and whispers: “i like when people want you,” she admits. “makes it more fun.”
“fun?” you laugh. “you enjoy threatening the student body?”
“i’m not threatening,” paige says, offended. “i’m clarifying.” you raise an eyebrow. “clarifying what?”
“that you’re mine,” she says, soft but smug. “and you're mine.” and maybe that’s the real reason she ragebaits—not to prove she loves you, but because she already knows you’re hers and she enjoys watching other people realize it.
finals season turns the dorm kitchen into an unofficial second home.
paige insists she can cook. she cannot. azzi calls it “culinary fraud.” you stand on your toes to grab pasta from the top shelf (height difference clowning itself), paige just plucks it down effortlessly and drops it on the counter.
“rude,” you mumble. “efficient,” she corrects. you chop vegetables like a sane person while paige stares at the stove like it disappointed her. eventually she gives up and wraps her arms around your waist, chin on your head. “multitasking,” she says.
“you’re not doing anything.”
“i’m supervising.” kk walks in, sees it, shakes her head. “osha violation.” azzi follows. “they’re nesting again.” ice grabs a fork to sample the pasta before it’s done. paige slaps her hand away. “back off, parasite.”
“she’s protective of her girlfriend’s cooking,” azzi narrates. “and my girlfriend,” paige adds. you kick her ankle, but you’re smiling, warm in a way you don’t say out loud.
you’re shivering in the ice bath, curls pinned up, hoodie waiting on the chair. paige climbs in across from you, long legs and longer suffering.
“i hate this,” you mutter. “recovery builds character,” paige parrots from strength & conditioning. azzi states “that’s propaganda.”
your teeth chatter. without thinking, paige taps your knee with her foot. “come here.” you blink. “it’s cold.”
“i’m taller. i block more surface area.” it’s stupid. not how physics works. but you shuffle over anyway and end up between her legs, back to her chest, her arms bracketing yours.
“better?” she asks softly. “shut up,” you say, which is yes. azzi snaps a picture. aubrey posts it to close friends with the caption: prison romance but make it d1
film room is dangerous because the lights go off and everyone’s attention span dies. you’re reviewing defensive rotations when your head drops onto paige’s shoulder. she doesn’t react. doesn’t move. just shifts enough so your curls won’t get crushed, hand coming up to cup the back of your neck like a human pillow.
kk whispers to azzi, “look, it’s nature. the short one succumbs to sleep.” azzi: “shh let them cook.” geno: “if i hear one more whisper i am retiring.” you wake up twenty minutes later and paige pretends it’s no big deal even though she didn’t take a single note.
night before an away game, you’re detangling after showering, sitting cross-legged on her floor. paige comes over with your edge brush and moisturizer like it’s part of her equipment bag. “turn,” she says. you raise an eyebrow. “you sure?”
“i’ve been observing,” she says, like this is research. she’s careful—extra gentle at the roots, avoiding snagging, asking if it hurts before tightening anything. she doesn’t do anything fancy, just helps you moisturize and braid the front so you don’t have to hold your arms up forever.
“there,” she says, satisfied. you check in your phone camera. it’s not perfect, but it’s honest. “good?” she asks, suddenly shy. you nod. “yeah. thank you.”
protective isn’t always blocking people—sometimes it’s making space. the roster shows up to a party two apartments down. music loud, lights low, jerseys on wall hooks.
some guy you barely know slides up beside you. “you’re on the team right? the short guard?” you nod. “you ever think about transferring?” he asks, leaning closer. “i could show you around—” before he completes the sentence, paige materializes behind you, one hand on your waist, voice flat.
“she’s good where she is.” the guy blinks. “i was just—”
“yeah,” paige cuts in. “i know exactly what you were just.” he leaves. fast. azzi watches from across the room, arms crossed. “nature documentary voice: the blonde protects her mate from lesser-men and weird-transfer-talk.”
ice: “put that on national geographic.”
back at paige’s after the party, you’re yawning mid-sentence. “hoodie,” she says, already pulling it over your head. you sink into it. sleeves over your hands, hood over your curls, swallowed whole. kk sets her cup down. “the chrysalis stage is complete. butterfly pending.”
paige tugs you into her side, thumb rubbing your shoulder through the cotton. “leave her alone,” she says. “she’s sleepy.” kk raises both hands. “bro i’m not fighting the hibernating girlfriend.”
and it’s ridiculous, all of it—the chaos, the teasing, the live streams, the jealousy, the physics-defying cold tub logic—but somewhere under the noise is the quiet truth: dating paige shouldn’t be simple. it should be exactly this—unbearably stupid, occasionally tender, always loud, and somehow soft in the places that matter.
