ꨄ — summary: a game between usc and uconn brings juju right to the girl of her dreams—literally and then a moment between the two of you during the game goes viral
ꨄ — word count: 2.07k
ꨄ — warnings: none
ꨄ — 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.
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 “admired” 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 “admire” 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 crazy—in the best way.
After 4 state championships and whispers about you committing to USC—which excited 17-year-old JuJu—you 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 dream—though 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 crazy—and 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 awards—almost 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 reposted—you 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, “Soooo…”
You raised your eyebrows, “Can I help you, KK?”
Paige stood on the other side of your locker. “So, how do you feel about going up against your admirer?” Paige wiggled her eyebrows, clearly insinuating something.
You frowned, “Admirer?”
“You know, JuJu,” KK grinned
You stopped frowning, and your face settled into something between recognition and amusement, “Ohhhh, JuJu.”
Paige and KK shared a look, clearly looking for something juicy.
“What about her?” You shrugged
KK gave a deadpan look, “Girl, boo, what do you mean ‘what about her?’ ”
Paige quickly cut in, “She has a crush on you.”
You shrugged again, “So?”
Paige and KK shared another look, then in unison they yelled, “So?!”
“She doesn't have a crush on me.” Paige and KK opened their mouths to interrupt, but you ignored them and continued, “Just because you caught her staring at me during one game, doesn't mean she likes me.”
“Uh—” KK went to say something, but you cut her off again.
“And, even if she did, it doesn't matter.”
Paige and KK stared blankly at you, KK in slight annoyance from being interrupted so many times.
“We'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.”
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 “Butterfly” 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. “#15 blocks #12 JuJu Watkins,” 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, “Sorry.”
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. “#12 JuJu Watkins flustered from #15?”
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 wanted—no, needed—more.
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 you—and she loves it.
𝗌𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒: you and juju broke up months ago but her family still invites you around.
𝗌𝗈𝗅á𝗇𝖺’𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌: someone asked for a juju series so that’s what i’m going to do. part two coming sunday
it’s been almost five months since you and juju broke up, but no one in her family seems to accept that it’s been over.
you and juju’s breakup was super unexpected to everyone. you guys were like a match made in heaven. everyone around you knew you loved each other deeply.
juju wasn’t a bad partner, she just was never there for you. not physically, she was always there, but emotionally she’d shut down when things got hard. whenever you needed reassurance, she could never give it. she’d just get quiet.
when you’d ask her about it, she’d try to change the subject. the more you tried reaching for her, the more she pulled away, so you just decided to end things.
even after that, juju’s parents still love you and they still invite you places, whether it’s their house, a restaurant, or some type of gathering. you’re always invited.
sari still calls you every day to see if you’re doing okay. robert always looks forward to you coming by, and with her siblings, you talk to mali like you guys are best friends.
juju can’t stand it, and it doesn’t help that her parents and siblings adore you. she feels like it just makes everything awkward and weird.
tonight sari and robert are hosting a family dinner, and sari decided to invite you. and juju is trying to persuade her to uninvite you.
“mom, why did you invite her?” juju says.
“juju, it’s a family dinner. why are you so upset about it?” sari says as she’s setting the table.
“yeah mom, keyword family.”
“she is family, juju,” sari says sternly.
“no, she is not, mom. why are you inviting my ex to have dinner with us?”
robert walks into the kitchen. “what’s all the commotion about?” he asks.
“she’s upset about me inviting y/n,” sari says.
“it’s not that big of a deal, juju,” he says.
“that’s exactly what i told her. she keeps acting like it’s such a big deal though,” sari adds.
juju puts her hands on top of her head and lets out a sharp breath. “oh my gosh. why does no one see the issue here? why would you invite my ex? that’s so weird. it’s going to be awkward.”
she turns and walks upstairs, heading straight to her bedroom. she drops onto her bed, staring at the ceiling as if it’s going to give her an answer that makes any of this make sense.
for a moment, it almost works. her eyes start to get heavy, the tension finally loosening just a little.
then her mom’s voice cuts through from downstairs.
“juju, come open the door for your sister.”
she doesn’t move right away. just lies there for a few seconds, staring at nothing.
then she exhales, pushes herself up, and drags herself out of the room.
by the time she gets downstairs, she already feels drained in a way she can’t shake off.
she reaches the front door, unlocks it, and swings it open.
mali is standing there, purse in hand. she pauses for a second before stepping inside.
“you good?” she asks, closing the door behind her.
juju stands there with her arms crossed.
“no,” she says flatly.
mali raises a brow, already knowing what this is about.
“juju, it’s not that serious.”
“it is that serious,” she shoots back, voice tightening. “y’all keep acting like it’s normal.”
“you’re the one making it weird,” mali says casually, hanging her purse up on the hall tree before walking toward the kitchen.
juju follows her. “i’m making it weird?” she lets out a short laugh. “she’s my ex, and she’s coming to our house for dinner.”
mali shrugs. “you guys were dating for so long she’s practically part of the family now, juju. get used to it.”
that hits something sharp in her, and she doesn’t respond.
because that’s the part she hates the most.
they walk into the kitchen and juju takes a seat at the island, watching as mali greets their parents like nothing is wrong in the world.
“you guys are in—” mali starts, but she’s cut off by a knock at the door.
“she must be here,” sari says.
sari wipes her hands and walks out of the kitchen, heading to the door. she opens it.
and there you are.
“hi, mrs. watkins,” you say softly, hugging her.
“hi, honey. you look so beautiful today. come inside so we can get ready to eat.”
you step in and close the door behind you.
the house shifts immediately, like it always does when you’re there.
you walk into the kitchen. mali smiles and greets you, robert does too.
juju, on the other hand, avoids your eyes completely.
everyone eventually moves to the dining table while sari finishes bringing out the plates.
mali and robert are talking to you, asking how you’ve been, what you’ve been up to, like time didn’t split anything in half.
sari sets down the last plate. everyone starts eating.
except juju.
she takes a few bites, then just starts picking at her food, eyes distant, jaw tight.
then mali, too casually, like she doesn’t feel the weight of what she’s about to say, speaks up.
“i hope you two figure it out. you guys were an amazing couple.”
sari and robert glance up.
the air changes.
you freeze.
juju freezes.
for a second, she just sits there, processing it, staring at the table like she can rearrange the moment if she looks hard enough.
then she exhales.
“why are you doing that?” she says, voice low.
mali blinks. “doing what?”
juju shakes her head slightly, like she’s trying to hold herself together.
“being weird.”
“you know what?” she says suddenly, pushing her chair back. it scrapes loudly against the floor. “i’m not doing this.”
she stands, grabbing her phone from the table.
for a second, she pauses, like she wants to say something else but can’t find a version of it that won’t come out wrong.
then she looks up.
“and so everyone is aware, i’m done.”
she turns and walks out of the dining room.
no one stops her.
before anyone can say a word, the front door slams shut.
ᝰ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | men being STUPID, jealous!juju, fluff
ᝰ 𝒆𝒗'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | i missed writing for my wife:(
You never really planned on dating someone like Juju Watkins. Not because she wasn’t your type (she absolutely was) but because people like her seemed to exist in their own atmosphere, somewhere above the regular air everyone else had to breathe.
You’d met her through a friend-of-a-friend situation that had no reason to go anywhere, yet somehow she’d texted you later that night asking if you wanted to “grab food, or do something dumb.” You’d said yes before your brain had caught up.
Now it’s months later, and “doing something dumb” has become the recurring theme of your life. You, who once thrived on order and routine, now have your evenings dictated by spontaneous late-night drives, playlists that change moods every ten minutes, and Juju showing up at your door wearing a hoodie she swore she “just found” (which always turned out to be yours). She was energy condensed into a person - every room shifted a little when she walked in and you never stopped noticing it.
She wasn’t the jealous type. At least, that’s what she said. (oops micheal scott reference 👀)
“I don’t do all that possessive girlfriend stuff,” she’d claimed one night, legs draped across your lap as you sat on the couch watching something neither of you were actually paying attention to. She’d said it with that same nonchalant shrug she used when talking about missing free throws or acing interviews, like she was immune to small, human insecurities. You’d laughed and believed her because it was easy to believe Juju when she said things like that. Her conviction always came packaged with a grin that made everything sound like truth.
Still, there were little moments that said otherwise.
The way her hand always found your waist when you talked to someone new, the slight tension in her jaw when another girl complimented your outfit a little too eagerly, the soft, near-silent “come here” she’d murmur at parties whenever you drifted too far from her. It wasn’t jealousy, not really - more like instinct, like she had this need to keep a hand on you, a reminder that you were hers
You didn’t mind. In fact, you found it almost endearing. Juju’s brand of protectiveness wasn’t suffocating; it was quiet, like she didn’t want to own you - just to be certain you knew she was there.
That morning, you’d both decided to stop by the Starbucks near campus because Juju had declared she “deserved” a drink after surviving three back-to-back workouts (even if she was technically missing morning lifts).
The Starbucks is packed.
It’s that first week of November chaos, the kind that always hits when the seasonal drinks drop - red cups, new foam combinations, the vague scent of cinnamon and capitalism hanging in the air. The line snakes past the pastry case and wraps around a display of holiday mugs. You and Juju slide in near the end, your phones both out, trying to pretend the wait isn’t going to take twenty minutes.
“Why are there so many people?” she mutters, tilting her head to peek over the crowd. “It’s not even ten a.m. You all got jobs?”
You laugh. “Says the girl skipping her morning lift.”
She smirks, barely looking up from her phone. “You say it like you didn’t beg me to stop for coffee first.”
You bump her shoulder, smiling. “I said I suggested it.”
Her lips twitch, like she’s fighting a grin. “Riiiight, like that makes a difference.”
The two of you settle into the rhythm that always feels easy - a mix of teasing and warmth that has become your love language. She scrolls absently through her phone, occasionally showing you something funny, occasionally leaning close enough that you can smell her shampoo, faint and clean. Every now and then, someone glances her way. USC basketball’s rising star, standing in line like she’s not used to cameras or clout.
She doesn’t care, or at least she pretends not to, and well, Juju’s good at pretending.
When you finally reach the counter, she steps up first. “Venti caramel brulée latte,” she says, then looks back at you, eyebrows raised. “You want your usual?”
“Yeah, please.”
She repeats your order like it’s second nature which, by now, it is and pulls out her card before you can even move.
“Juju,” you protest, half-hearted.
She doesn’t even look at you. “Don’t start. You can get the next one.”
“You said that last time.”
“And I meant next time,” she says easily, grinning when the barista hands her the receipt. She’s got that little flicker in her eyes that always shows up when she knows she’s won something small.
You roll your eyes but let her have it. It’s not worth fighting over when she’s like this - relaxed in her element. You grab the drinks when they’re ready and find a small corner table near the window, tucked between the noise of espresso machines and the soft buzz of conversation.
She slides into the seat across from you, stretching her legs out until they brush yours under the table. “You’re quiet,” she says after a moment, taking a sip. “What’s going on in that brain?”
“Just tired.” You rest your chin in your hand, watching the street outside. People rushing past with scarves and red cups, everything cold and alive. “Also thinking about how we’re never getting a table this good again.”
“Because you manifested it,” she says seriously like she actually believes it. “We’re sitting in the manifestation zone.”
You snort. “That’s not a thing.”
“It is if I say it is.”
Her grin is soft and slow-spreading, the kind of look that makes you forget other people exist, which is probably why you notice the guy.
He’s tall, maybe early twenties, wearing a puffer jacket and a smile that’s way too confident for someone you’ve never seen before. You look up instinctively, caught off guard.
“Hey,” he says, voice smooth in that performative way some guys talk when they think they’re charming. “Sorry, I don’t wanna interrupt but I just had to come over.”
Juju’s eyes flick up from her phone, her body going still. You can feel the shift - the way her easy posture straightens just slightly, the playful energy draining into something colder.
You blink, trying to figure out what he’s about to say. “Oh, uh-”
He smiles wider, nodding toward your drink. “Didn’t I see you here last week? You had the same drink, right? The - what is it, shaken espresso thing?”
You’re caught between confusion and politeness. “Maybe...? I come here a lot.”
“Yeah, thought so.” He laughs, leaning on the edge of the table like he belongs there. “You’ve got good taste. Anyway, I was gonna ask if I could get your Snapchat or something. You seem cool.”
For a second, you freeze. Not because he’s asking (that happens sometimes) but because of the way he’s asking. Too easy, too sure of himself. Like Juju sitting across from you doesn’t exist.
And maybe he really doesn’t realize. You and Juju aren’t exactly the “public PDA” type - her hand isn’t on yours, you’re sitting across from each other and she’s got that unreadable face that makes it hard for strangers to place her. Still, the air feels suddenly charged.
You open your mouth, ready to respond, but Juju’s voice cuts through before you can.
“She’s taken.”
It’s calm. Flat. Almost bored but there’s something in it that makes the guy stop mid-smile.
He turns toward her, eyebrows raised. “Oh-uh, I didn’t-”
“Yeah,” she says, leaning back in her chair, eyes fixed on him. “You didn’t but you do now.”
You can see the corner of her jaw working, the smallest flicker of annoyance in her expression. Her hand wraps around her coffee cup like she’s forcing herself to stay collected.
He laughs awkwardly, trying to brush it off. “My bad. I just thought you guys were friends or something.”
You try to step in, to diffuse it. “It’s fine, really-”
Juju’s gaze doesn’t leave him. It’s not harsh, just sharp, the kind of look that says she’s not joking but doesn’t need to raise her voice to prove it.
Her leg nudges yours under the table, deliberate, claiming without fanfare.
The guy looks between you both, clearly realizing he’s misread the entire situation. “Right. Yeah. My bad, seriously. Didn’t mean to step on anything.”
Juju hums, taking a slow sip of her latte. “You’re good. Just - maybe next time, try paying attention before you walk up to someone else’s girl.”
There’s no bite in her voice now, just that quiet finality that leaves no room for argument.
The guy mumbles another apology and retreats toward the exit, his confidence dissolving somewhere near the door. The air he leaves behind feels lighter but also buzzing, like static after lightning.
You sit back, exhaling slowly. “You didn’t have to-”
“Yes, I did.” She doesn’t even let you finish, her eyes still following the door for a second before turning back to you.
You raise an eyebrow. “You’re really gonna act like you’re not the jealous type after that?”
She gives a low chuckle, setting her cup down. “I’m not jealous,” she says, and you can tell she believes it. “I just don’t like when people act stupid.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m serious,” she insists, her grin creeping back, slow and defiant. “Jealous would be if I started a scene. That was just me being... informative.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “Informative?”
“Yeah,” she says, leaning forward a little, elbows on the table. “Like, public service announcement level. Everyone benefits.”
Her tone is teasing now but there’s still that edge of protectiveness underneath - the same current that had flared up the second someone else stepped into your space.
You look at her for a moment, trying to read her expression. The tension has faded, replaced by that usual warmth, but something lingers behind her eyes - a flicker of something fierce.
“You know,” you say quietly, “you don’t have to prove anything. I know where we stand.”
She studies you for a long second before her lips curve into a small, genuine smile. “I know you do,” she says softly. “Doesn’t mean other people don’t need reminding sometimes.”
The way she says it makes your heart tug in that stupid, uncontrollable way it always does around her.
You nudge her ankle under the table. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah, but I’m yours,” she says, smirking now, leaning back again like the whole thing never happened.
And just like that, the tension breaks completely. The noise of the café folds back in - laughter, coffee grinders, holiday music spilling faintly from the speakers.
You watch her as she scrolls through her phone again, pretending to be unbothered, but the corner of her mouth keeps twitching upward every few seconds, like she’s fighting a grin she doesn’t want you to see.
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anon asked: hi honey! i saw that your requests were open but you didn’t have your inbox out so i thought i’d just send you a chat. was wondering if i could request a paige or juju fic based on risk it all by kwn. i’m picturing a relationship that hasn’t been launched yet even though it’s been a while and it’s all star weekend. basically reader is a bit tipsy and is seen in the back of the studbudz stream singing the song to p or juju and dancing/ making eyes and fans freak. you’re amazing thank you!!
summary: you weren't supposed to be visible, you weren't supposed to be anything but a blurry shape at the edge of somebody else's livestream, mouthing along to a song you didn't think anyone was watching you sing and then the internet found the eleven seconds where you forgot to be careful.
you have gotten good at the math of it six months of practice will do that you can walk into a room full of people and know, within about four seconds, exactly how far away juju is standing, exactly which door she came in through, exactly whether tonight is a night you get to stand near her or a night you have to orbit her from across the room like she's a planet you're not allowed to land on.
tonight you're orbiting all-star weekend, it does that to you, it turns every hallway into a red carpet and every open door into a camera you didn't consent to and you've been together really together, not situationship together, not maybe-something together since february quietly carefully.
the way you'd tend something you weren't sure would survive being looked at too hard it started as texting that went too late, then it was her jacket in your car and you not giving it back on purpose, then it was a night in march you don't talk about because talking about it makes it feel like it needs a name, and you weren't ready to name it yet still aren't, technically six months in and you still don't have a word for what you post, if you post anything, which you don't.
it isn't that you're ashamed you want to be extremely clear with yourself about that, standing here in a ballroom with a signature cocktail sweating in your hand, watching juju laugh at something one of her teammates said from fifteen feet away like she isn't also tracking exactly where you are in the room.
it isn't shame it's math it's the fact that the second this becomes a known thing, it becomes a discussed thing, and discussed things get dissected, and dissected things get ugly, and you have watched it happen to enough people you know to understand that "ugly" isn't a worst-case scenario, it's a baseline expectation some slice of the internet is always going to have opinions about who a girl like her should be seen with you'd rather not test how big that slice is.
so; the orbit of the careful four-second math, the not-touching in public that has become its own kind of intimacy, actually a whole vocabulary of look and don't look, stand near but not next to, laugh at the joke but don't laugh at her.
you're good at it, you've had practice what you have not had practice at is three vodka sodas on an empty stomach at a party that started at eight and somehow it is now almost midnight, and someone's phone is playing a song that goes straight into your sternum every single time, and juju is standing under a string of gold lights looking like this is just a regular tuesday for her, unfairly gorgeous, laughing with her head tipped back, and you are for the first time in six months of careful math not doing any math at all.
you're just looking at her, the studbudz stream is not supposed to be your problem it's set up in the corner of the after-party a ring light, two mics, a couch, a rotating cast of players stopping by to talk trash and do bits for the fans watching live and you clocked it hours ago the way you clock every camera in a room, which is to say; know where it's pointed, stay out of the frame, treat it like a landmine with a very generous blast radius.
you were staying out of the frame you want that on the record, later, when you're replaying this in your head at 3am you were staying out of the frame, for hours, doing the geometry perfectly, keeping the couch and the ring light and the two mics in your peripheral vision at all times like a very well-trained dog and then the song happens.
you don't even clock it as a decision that's the part that will keep you up it's not like you thought i am now going to do something it's more like the second vodka soda had worn a groove into your brain smooth enough that when the opening bars came through the speaker that low, slinky bassline, the kind of song that sounds like it was written specifically to be sung to someone across a room your body just went you swayed before you decided to sway.
your mouth was already shaping the first line before you clocked that your mouth was doing anything at all and juju was right there eight feet away, laughing at something, half turned toward you without fully turning, the way she does when she's performing not looking at you as hard as you're performing not looking at her.
you don't remember choosing to look at her instead of away you remember the moment after that the moment where you were already singing, already halfway through mouthing the first line, hips already moving on their own recognizance, and you had a single, sober, horrified thought; you are singing this out loud, to her face, in public and then the vodka soda and the string lights and the way she was looking back at you, like you'd hit a switch in her she didn't have full control over either, just steamrolled the horrified thought completely.
so you kept going you sang the part about wanting somebody enough to risk everything sane for them, and you swayed your hips like the floor was tilting toward her specifically, and you made eyes actual, unmistakable, movie-poster eyes across eight feet of ballroom, at juju watkins, at all-star weekend, while a livestream ran twenty feet to your left with a couch full of players doing bits that nobody at home was watching anymore, because something in the corner of the frame had gotten a lot more interesting.
you didn't know that last part yet you were still just singing juju's whole face changed you watched it happen in real time the careful, practiced, we don't do this in public stillness cracking down the middle, replaced by something dumbfounded and delighted and just slightly panicked, like she was watching you set fire to something she'd been protecting for six months and couldn't decide if she wanted to help you fan the flames.
she laughed a real laugh, surprised out of her, hand coming up to cover her mouth like that would undo it and mouthed something back at you that you'll never be able to prove in a court of law but that you are ninety percent sure was you're insane, and forty percent sure was also i love you, because juju's face does this thing when she's overwhelmed where every emotion just runs together into the same helpless grin.
you did a little spin you want it on the record that you did a little spin, unprompted, because the song asked for it and you had, apparently, stopped being a person who says no to things and behind you, twenty feet away, the studbudz camera which had been pointed at the couch the entire night, faithfully documenting a conversation about somebody's rookie season free throw percentage caught, in the soft-focus background of its frame, eleven full seconds of you.
you find out at 12:41am you're in the bathroom, the good kind of tipsy where the room is warm and pleasant instead of spinning, reapplying lip gloss you don't need because your hands want something to do, when your phone buzzes against the marble counter hard enough that you jump it's your group chat with six unread messages in the time it took you to walk from the ballroom to here.
azzi: WAIT azzi: WAIT WAIT WAIT azzi: are you singing to juju watkins on the studbudz stream right now azzi: i am SCREAMING azzi: send help i am on the floor azzi: ARE YOU OKAY BECAUSE THE INTERNET IS NOT
you stare at your phone for a full four seconds before the words rearrange themselves into something your brain can actually process.
studbudz stream.
you thought you were background you thought genuinely, sincerely thought, in whatever alcohol-softened corner of your brain was doing risk assessment that you were eight feet outside the frame, safely tucked into the part of the party that wasn't anybody's business you open twitter with fingers that don't feel like your own.
the clip has forty-one thousand views it is one minute and eight seconds old, according to the timestamp on the earliest repost, and it already has forty-one thousand views, and the caption on the top quote-tweet eleven thousand likes, still climbing while you watch, the number ticking up like a stock price just says; ok so who is she and why is juju watkins looking at her like THAT
you watch the clip, you make yourself watch the whole clip, all eleven seconds of it, hand pressed flat against your own sternum like you can hold your heart in place through sheer physical pressure it's you have to be honest with yourself it's bad not bad like ugly, bad like undeniable.
the camera isn't even fully on you; you're soft-focus, half-cropped by the edge of the frame, but the choreography of it does all the talking anyway. you, swaying, singing, unmistakably at someone and then the camera doesn't even have to cut to juju for the internet to know exactly who because for one full second, right at the end, right when you do the stupid unplanned spin, the frame catches her too catches her face doing the thing it did catches her not looking away.
eleven seconds that's all it took eleven seconds and six months of very careful math evaporate into forty-one thousand views and climbing your hands are shaking you set the phone down on the marble counter face-down like that will make it stop existing, and you look at yourself in the mirror flushed, gloss half-applied, eyes too wide and you think, with a clarity that cuts straight through the vodka; oh my god. what did i just do.
juju finds you four minutes later you haven't left the bathroom you've locked yourself in the single-occupancy one at the end of the hall, sitting on the closed lid of the toilet with your phone in your lap, doing the thing where you refresh a number over and over even though watching it climb is actively making everything worse.
fifty-eight thousand views there's a soft knock. "hey it's me."
you almost don't want to open the door some small, cowardly part of you wants to just sit in this bathroom until all-star weekend is over and pretend this whole night happened to somebody else but it's juju, and you have never in six months not opened a door for juju, so you get up on legs that feel unreliable and let her in.
she looks okay, first; she looks like she ran here, a little, hair slightly less perfect than it was twenty minutes ago, and second; she looks like she's trying very hard to arrange her face into something calm for your benefit, and third; underneath the calm, she looks scared you know her scared face you have seen it exactly twice before; once during a game she thought she'd lost before the buzzer, once during a phone call from her mom that she wouldn't talk about after this is a version of that face.
she shuts the door behind her and locks it and for a second neither of you says anything. "okay," she says finally, low. "okay. so."
"i know." your voice comes out smaller than you want it to. "i know, i'm so sorry, i wasn't even thinking, i didn't realize the camera was—"
"hey. hey." she crosses the bathroom in two steps and takes your face in both hands, tilting it up so you have to look at her instead of at the floor. "i'm not mad at you."
"you should be. i just —" your voice cracks embarrassingly. "i just outed us to the entire internet because i had three vodka sodas and a song came on." something flickers across her face and here's the thing you'll turn over later, in the dark, trying to catalog it honestly instead of how you want to remember it, it isn't only fear.
there's a beat, half a second, where something in her just lights up like some part of her that's been holding its breath for six months finally got to exhale but then the fear catches up and swallows the light whole, and her thumb brushes your cheekbone, and she says, quiet: "i'm not mad. i promise i'm not mad. i just —" she exhales, long, through her nose. "i need like five minutes to figure out how scared i'm supposed to be right now. is that okay? can you give me that?"
you nod, because it's the only thing you can do, and you watch her pull out her own phone with hands that are not quite steady, and you watch her face do the thing your face has been doing for the last four minutes the scroll, the flinch, the swallow.
"okay," she says again, mostly to herself. "okay, it's — it's not as bad as it could be. people are mostly just —" she huffs something that's almost a laugh. "people are mostly just losing their minds in a good way. there's a whole thread doing a timeline of, like, old photos. someone found a picture from your friend's birthday in march where i'm apparently 'looking at you like a whole meal.'" a real laugh escapes her this time, short and disbelieving. "i don't even remember that photo being taken."
"judea."
"i'm not — i'm looking, okay, i'm being honest with you, i'm not gonna pretend it's all good, there's some stuff that's not —" she stops herself. "what stuff."
she hesitates as that hesitation tells you everything. "judea."
"there's some stuff," she says carefully, "that's not about you being a girl who sang to me. there's some stuff that's about the fact that i'm gay and public about it now, whether i chose that or not, tonight, in about an hour."
her jaw works. "and there's people who have opinions about that. there's always people who have opinions about that. i knew that going into this — i've known that since i was fifteen and figured out who i was — but knowing it in the abstract and watching the first ugly reply come in are two different things." your stomach drops somewhere below the tile floor. "i did this to you."
"no." her voice sharpens, just slightly, just enough to mean it. "no. don't do that. you didn't do anything to me you sang a song at a party because you love me and you'd had a couple drinks and your guard was down. that's not a crime. the ugliness isn't your fault, it's theirs. i need you to actually hear that and not just nod at me."
you nod you're not sure you actually hear it but you nod you don't go back to the party juju texts someone you don't ask who, you're too tired to ask who and ten minutes later a car is waiting at a service entrance you didn't know existed, and the two of you are in the back seat of it, not touching, because even now, even in the middle of the wreckage of six months of careful math, some old habit keeps your hands folded separately in your own lap.
it's juju who breaks it halfway through the ride, in the dark, with the city sliding by gold and blurred outside the window, her hand finds yours on the seat between you and laces through it, and you both just look straight ahead, holding hands like it's a secret, in a car, alone, when the entire internet already knows.
it feels stupid it feels like muscle memory that hasn't caught up to the new reality yet you don't let go anyway. "my phone's been going off," she says quietly, eyes on the window. "team group chat found out. coach knows. my mom texted." your stomach lurches. "what did she say?"
a pause. "she said, and i quote, 'well it's about time, i was wondering when you were going to stop being weird about her.'" juju huffs something that's almost a laugh, almost. "she's known about you since april. i just never told you that because i didn't want you freaking out about one more person knowing."
"your mom knew?"
"my mom notices everything. she saw one photo of us from a distance and just knew. she's been very patiently waiting for me to say something for four months."
you don't know whether to laugh or cry, so you do a strange, hiccupping combination of both, and juju's hand tightens around yours, and for a second just a second the fear recedes far enough that you can feel the other thing underneath it.
the thing that's actually funny the thing that's actually, in some upside-down way, a relief it doesn't last by the time the car pulls up to the hotel, you've checked your phone four more times, and the number has climbed to two hundred and something thousand, and there's a screenshot circulating of your face clear enough this time, someone did the work of stabilizing and zooming captioned with your first name, which someone dug up from god knows where, and the fear comes rushing back in all at once, cold and total.
the hotel room is dark except for the city coming in through the window, all that gold and glass climbing up into a sky that doesn't have any real stars in it, just satellites and planes and the specific insomnia-glow of a city that never actually goes to sleep.
you sit on the edge of the bed with your shoes still on juju, stand by the window for a long minute, arms crossed, phone face-down on the dresser like she's trying to physically distance herself from it, and neither of you talks for a while. "can i say something," you finally manage, "that's going to sound stupid."
"always."
"i keep thinking about the part where it was before i knew anyone saw. like, there's this eleven seconds in my head that's just you, and me, and a song, and it was the best eleven seconds of my whole life, actually, no exaggeration, i have never in six months felt as unguarded as i felt in that eleven seconds. and now that same eleven seconds is a thing two hundred thousand strangers have opinions about, and i don't know how to hold both of those at the same time. i don't know how the best moment of my year and the scariest moment of my year are the exact same eleven seconds."
juju turns from the window in the low light, her face is unreadable for a second, and then it isn't then it's just open, just tired, just twenty-something and scared and in love, all at once. "i know," she says. "i've been sitting here trying to figure out the same thing."
she crosses the room and sits next to you on the edge of the bed, close enough that your knees touch, and for a long moment neither of you says anything else outside, the city keeps doing its indifferent glittering thing, unaware that anything in your life just changed.
"can i tell you the honest, ugly version of what's in my head right now," she says. "not the reassuring version. the real one."
"please."
"okay." she picks at a loose thread on the comforter, not looking at you. "the honest version is: i'm scared about my family not my mom she's fine, she's been fine, she's ready. but my grandma's a different story, and i don't know how she's gonna take it, and i don't want to find out over a viral clip instead of me telling her myself, on my own time, in my own words. that's already been taken away from me and i'm still figuring out how to feel about that." your chest aches. "i'm sorry."
"i know you are. let me finish, though, because there's more, and some of it's not sad." she looks up at you now, and there's something steadier in her eyes. "the honest version is also: i've been performing carefully for five months and some tiny, exhausted part of me is relieved. i'm tired of doing the geometry. i'm tired of not being able to hold your hand at a party. i'm tired of being asked in every single interview if there's 'anyone special' and having to build a whole careful sentence around the fact that yes, obviously, there is, and i'm not allowed to say her name."
"judea—"
"and the honest version is also," she goes on, quieter now, "that i'm scared about my career. i'm scared about sponsors. i'm scared about the two percent of every comment section that's going to say something genuinely cruel, and how it's going to feel to read that while also trying to play basketball on national television. i'm scared about being the story instead of being a basketball player who happens to be gay, because i've watched that happen to other people and it swallows them whole for a whole season. that's the scary, ugly, real version. i'm not gonna pretend i don't feel all of that just to make you feel better." you sit with that for a second it's heavier than the reassurance you wanted, but it's honest, and honest is worth more right now than comfortable.
"and the other part," you say slowly. "the relieved part. tell me more about that part."
something in her face softens, just at the edges. "the relieved part is that i don't have to pretend anymore that the way i look at you across a room is nothing. i've been doing that for six months and it's genuinely exhausting, holding my own face still like that. the relieved part is that my mom already knows and she's happy for me. the relieved part is that somewhere in that clip, underneath the panic, there's a version of tonight where a girl sang a whole song at me in front of god and everybody because she loves me too much to keep doing the math. and i don't actually want to go back to a world where that never happened. i just wish it happened on our terms instead of the internet's."
you reach for her hand again this time neither of you hesitates you don't sleep much you lie in the dark with your head on her chest, her heartbeat steady and a little too fast under your ear, both of your phones face-down and buzzing periodically on the nightstand like something feral that hasn't quite been put down for the night.
around 2am you break and check yours anyway it's not all bad that's the thing you weren't braced for you were braced for a wall of ugliness, had steeled yourself for it, and what you actually find, scrolling with your thumb shaking slightly, is mostly noise, and the noise is mostly delighted.
there are entire threads doing forensic archaeology on your friendship group's instagram, finding a photo from a birthday in march, a blurry background shot from a wnba game in may where you're apparently visible in the crowd wearing her number, a comment she left on a photo of yours in june that someone's now dissecting word by word like it's the dead sea scrolls.
there's a fancam there's already, unbelievably, at not-quite-2am, a fancam, cut to a pop song, of the eleven seconds looped four times with hearts drawn around your faces in bad photoshop.
"the way she just STARTED SINGING i'm never recovering," one reply says. "juju's face in the last second i am NOT okay." "pls be soft with them you guys they're just two girls in love let them cook."
and then, threaded in between all of that, the other kind fewer than you feared, but present, unmissable once you see the first one; a reply calling it disgusting. a quote-tweet with a bible verse and nothing else, someone dragging up an old, cruel joke about women's sports that has nothing to do with either of you specifically and everything to do with the fact that the internet has never needed a real reason.
you feel juju's chest go still under your ear she's awake she's been awake this whole time, and she felt you tense, and now she's looking at your screen too. "don't read those," she says, low. "you're reading them too."
"i've had longer practice at not letting them land." a beat. "doesn't mean they don't. just means i've got scar tissue you don't have yet."
"i don't want you to need scar tissue for this."
"i know. i wish that for both of us too." she takes the phone gently out of your hand and sets it face down again, and pulls you in closer, chin resting on the top of your head. "can we just — not do this part tonight. can we let tomorrow be the day we deal with the ugly stuff, and let tonight just be the day we admit we're happy underneath all the scared. i think we're allowed to have that. one night. before the discourse cycle really gets going."
you let yourself exhale for what feels like the first time in three hours. "yeah. i think we're allowed to have that."
so you let yourselves have it somewhere around 2:30am, still tangled together, still half-lit by the useless glow of a city that never sleeps, juju hums the first few bars of the song quiet, almost to herself, like she's testing whether it still feels like something you can touch without flinching you still go against her chest. "too soon?" she asks.
"no." your voice comes out thick. "no, i just — i can't believe you remember it well enough to hum it."
"i've had it stuck in my head since you started singing it at me in a ballroom. it's not exactly a song i'm gonna forget the melody of anytime soon." she hums another bar, and this time you feel her smile against the top of your head. "you know you can't ever sing to me in public again, right. legally. it's a liability now."
you laugh a real one, surprised out of you the way hers was surprised out of her, eleven hours ago and a lifetime ago, across a ballroom. "i genuinely didn't decide to. my body just did it."
"i noticed. i almost dropped my drink."
"you did not."
"i absolutely did. ask literally anyone who was standing near me. i had a whole conversation with paige about free-throw percentage and i don't remember a single word of it because i was watching you do a full spin like you were auditioning for something."
"i wasn't auditioning for anything, i was just —" you stop.
"just what." you're quiet for a second, turning it over honestly, the way she asked you to turn over the scared parts honestly.
"just done pretending i didn't want everybody to know," you admit. "i think some part of me has been done for a while. i think some part of me heard that song and thought good. let them see. i'm tired too. i just didn't let myself know i was tired until three vodka sodas made the decision for me."
juju's arms tighten around you. "that's the part i keep coming back to," she says, quiet. "underneath the scared, underneath everything i'm gonna have to deal with tomorrow with my team and my sponsors and my grandma there's a part of me that's just so happy someone loves me enough to make a fool of herself over it in public. i don't think i've had that before. i don't think anybody's ever wanted me like that, out loud, where people could see."
"i've wanted you like that the entire time. i just kept doing the math instead of saying it."
"i know. i was doing the same math. i think we're gonna have to learn how to stop." morning comes anyway, the way it does, indifferent to how little either of you slept.
it comes with juju's phone buzzing itself half off the nightstand her agent, her PR contact, a group text from three teammates variously supportive and losing their minds, a missed call from her mom that turns out, when she calls back with you sitting cross-legged beside her on the rumpled comforter, to just be her mom laughing so hard she can barely get words out, saying something like "i TOLD you, i told you back in april, you two are about as subtle as a marching band"— and it comes, for you, with a single text from your own mother that just says: you didn't tell me you had a girlfriend. we'll be discussing this. i'm proud of you. call me later.
you cry a little at that one good crying, the kind that doesn't need explaining by ten am there's a statement not from either of you, from the league's official account, a bland, professionally warm little post about "celebrating our players' full, authentic lives on and off the court" that both of you read together, propped up against the headboard with coffee neither of you has touched, and juju snorts. "that's corporate for 'please stop asking us to comment on this.'"
"is that bad?"
"no. actually that's — that's them not making it weird. that's them not making me issue some big coming-out press release i didn't write and don't want. i'll take vague and warm over a headline any day." by noon, her actual, personal instagram the one she barely posts to, four photos a year, mostly gameday fits and one dog picture has a new post.
it's not dramatic it's a single photo, one you didn't even know she'd taken; you, from the side, mid-laugh at some point earlier in the weekend, unposed, unaware, before any of this happened, before the song, before the eleven seconds, before the two hundred thousand strangers with opinions.
the caption is four words. she's the whole thing.
no hashtag, no grand statement, no acknowledgment of the clip at all, which is, you realize, watching the comments flood in within seconds, exactly the point she's not confirming a scandal, she's just quietly, unbothered, letting you be real your phone buzzes in your hand a text from her, even though she's sitting eight inches away from you on the same bed.
i figured if the internet's gonna know either way, i wanted the first real thing they see from me about it to be true instead of somebody else's clip. hope that's okay.
you look up at her she's watching you with the same face she had in the ballroom, dumbfounded and delighted and just slightly scared, all running together and you don't have a single careful, mathematical thought left in your entire body. "it's okay," you tell her. "it's more than okay."
the discourse doesn't die that day you don't expect it to, not really juju was honest with you about that, and honesty means you know there will be a cycle of it, days maybe weeks of strangers having opinions about a relationship that used to belong only to the two of you.
there will be the ugly comments, thinner than you feared but not zero, and there will be interviews where she has to find careful new sentences that are the opposite of the old careful sentences, sentences that finally get to include your name.
there will, probably, be a conversation with a grandmother that neither of you is looking forward to, and a longer conversation with sponsors, and a slow unlearning of six months of practiced distance that neither of your bodies will forget overnight, the way you'll probably still flinch, just slightly, the first few times you reach for her hand somewhere public and open, before you remember you're allowed.
but that's a tomorrow's problem, and several tomorrows after that right now, it's just early afternoon, hotel light slanting warm and gold across a bed neither of you have made, and juju is teaching you the second verse of the song properly this time sober, unhurried, no vodka soda involved, just her voice low and a little off-key, laughing every time she messes up the words, you laughing harder at her getting them wrong than you ever laughed at yourself getting them right.
"okay but you have to actually sing it back to me now," she says. "properly. sober. no excuses this time."
"i already sang it to two hundred thousand strangers, i think i've filled my quota."
"you sang it to me," she corrects, pulling you closer by the hand until your knees are tangled together on top of the comforter. "the two hundred thousand strangers were just an accident. i want the version that was actually for me."
so you sing it again quieter this time, no ring light twenty feet away, no accidental audience, just her face six inches from yours, still doing that helpless, overwhelmed, all the feelings running together thing it did the first time, and you understand, singing it slow this time, on purpose this time, exactly what the song was asking for all along not the eleven seconds the internet got, but this: the version where you mean it, and she gets to hear it, and neither of you has to do the careful math anymore.
when you get to the end she doesn't say anything clever she just leans in and kisses you soft, unhurried, the kind of kiss that isn't performing anything for anyone, that exists purely because two people who love each other are finally, finally allowed to be looked at doing it. "for the record," she murmurs against your mouth, "i would let you make a fool of both of us in public again. any day. any song."
"even though it's a liability."
"especially because it's a liability." she pulls back just enough to look at you properly, eyes soft, the fear from last night quieter now, not gone, just sitting alongside something bigger. "i spent six months being careful and it turns out i didn't actually want careful. i wanted this. i wanted you brave enough for both of us."
"i wasn't brave. i was tipsy."
"you were tipsy and brave," she says. "those aren't mutually exclusive. and for what it's worth — i've never in my life been so glad somebody risked it all on me."
months later after the discourse has mostly gone quiet, after the grandmother conversation turned out gentler than either of you feared, after the sponsors issued their own bland warm statements and moved on, after "she's the whole thing" became a phrase your friends won't let either of you live down you'll still find the original clip sometimes, resurfacing in some corner of the internet during a slow news week, eleven seconds looped and re-looped, captioned by strangers who will never know the half of what came after it.
you'll watch it, sometimes, just the two of you, curled up on a couch that's actually yours now, in an apartment you actually share now, and juju will laugh every single time at the exact moment you do the unplanned spin, and you'll groan and hide your face in a pillow every single time, and neither reaction will ever get old. "i still can't believe you just started singing," she'll say, for maybe the fortieth time.
"i still can't believe you didn't drop your drink."
"i told you, i almost did." and somewhere in there, underneath the teasing, underneath the running joke you'll probably still be making a decade from now, there's the quieter truth neither of you says out loud very often, because you don't have to anymore that the scariest night of your relationship turned out, eventually, to also be the best thing that ever happened to it.
that being seen, once the fear burned off, was never actually the threat it felt like at 12:41am with your hands shaking over a phone screen. that some things are worth the eleven seconds of exposure it takes to finally stop doing the math that some things are worth risking it all.
To thee most unbothered, undefeated, unhinged page in your entire web experience. You’ve landed on UCONN — a shrine of dominance, drama, and dangerously well-written women.
If you’re here, you clearly have taste. Whether you’re looking for locker room tension, mic’d up confessions, or casually coded flirting that Geno pretends not to notice…
You my friend…are home.
Of course, should you wish to explore further chaos, you may return to my [NAVI].
May your little hearts leave here screaming, kicking, & re-reading. It’s better the 2nd time. ❄️
Well what are you waiting for. Choose your Player. And don’t be shy to leave a request. Anonymous or public. We don’t judge over here.🤍💙
It’s 12:17 a.m. when my phone rings; buzzing violently on my dorm desk like it has a personal vendetta against sleep.
Normally, I’d ignore it.
But the name flashing across the screen… JUJU 💛⭐️….makes something in my chest sit up and stretch like a cat.
I swipe before the second ring even finishes.
“Hello?” I mumble into the speaker, voice thick with sleep.
There’s a beat of silence, then that familiar low laugh washes through the phone and immediately dissolves the tension in my shoulders.
“I wake you?” Juju asks, smug and gentle at the same time; her specialty.
“No,” I lie. Badly.
“Uh-huh,” she says. “You sound like you got tranquilized mid-dream.”
“Can’t you go and bother someone else?”
“I could,” she says, then pauses. “But you’re my favorite person to annoy, so… not really.”
My face warms under the blanket even though she can’t see it.
“Juju,” I groan. “Some of us have morning lifts at 8.”
“Some of us have ACL rehab at 7:30,” she fires back.
“Which is why you should be asleep!”
“And yet,” she says, “here we are.”
Which means:
She couldn’t sleep again.
She’s been having a lot of those nights since the injury.
She says it’s not nightmares… just an itch under her skin that won’t let her rest. A buzzing. Restlessness that turns her ceiling into a battlefield.
So she calls.
And I answer.
Every time.
“Wanna hear something stupid?” she asks suddenly.
“That you called me instead of, I don’t know, literally anyone else with working brain cells?”
“That,” she says, “but also…. Team USA was today? Light workouts? They let me do some workouts but I mostly observed.’”
“That’s great, Juju!”
“No,” she says with a long exhale. “It freaked me out.”
My eyebrows knit.
“I don’t get it.”
“It’s like… if I’m healing, then I’m closer to getting back on the court. And if I’m closer to getting back on the court, then I’m closer to messing up again.”
My chest tightens.
There she goes, her voice dipping into that soft place she hides from the world but hands to me like something fragile.
“You’re not messing up again,” I say quietly. “You’re too stubborn.”
She laughs under her breath. “Stubborn doesn’t protect ligaments.”
“No,” I agree. “But it protects dreams.”
Silence. A warm kind.
“I wish you could see my face right now,” she murmurs.
“Why?”
“’Cause I’m smiling like an idiot.”
I swallow, heartbeat skipping.
Dangerously.
“Well good,” I say quickly. “Because clearly embarrassing you is the only thing I’m good at.”
“Not true,” she argues. “You’re good at volleyball. And pep talks. And being awake at midnight.”
“I wasn’t awake,” I remind her.
“Yeah,” she says softly. “But you stayed.”
I don’t have a response for that — at least, not one I’m brave enough to speak.
Which is probably why my eyelids start drooping mid-silence, and next thing I know, her voice sounds far away, like she’s talking down a long hallway.
“Hey,” she says. “Hey, don’t fall asleep on me.”
“M’not,” I murmur.
(This is, in fact, a lie.)
“You definitely are.”
“No,” I protest, drifting.
“Y/N.”
“Hm?”
“If you’re gonna fall asleep, at least tell me goodnight—”
Her voice fades out as everything softens.
I think I mumble something about pancakes.
Or maybe forks.
Definitely something stupid.
And then I’m gone.
I wake up to a vibration.
Then another.
Then—**
My phone rings again.
Same caller ID.
Same contact emoji.
Same sudden, intense jolt of alertness.
I scramble upright, hair everywhere.
“Hello?” I blurt out, much too loudly.
Finally, I’m greeted by a breathy laugh.
“You really knocked out on me,” Juju teases, voice warm, lighter than earlier. “I hung up ‘cause someone was done talking. But guess who wasn’t?”
I rub my eyes. “You called back?”
“Well,” she says, “I wasn’t done talkin’, yet.”
My entire face heats.
“You can’t say things like that,” I whisper.
“Why not?”
“Because,” I mumble, “I’m—awake now.”
“Perfect,” she says. “Keep me company.”
Decision-making? Gone.
Impulse control? Who is she? Never met her.
Suddenly, I’m starving.
I pad into the tiny USC apartment kitchen and start grabbing bread, peanut butter, Nutella, a banana — sleep be damned.
“What are you doing?” she asks, hearing the rustling.
“Making a sandwich,” I say. “A toasted Nutella, peanut butter, and banana masterpiece.”
A beat.
Then Juju groans dramatically.
“Oh my god. I want one.”
“Well…” I say, smirking even though she can’t see me, “that sounds like a personal problem.”
“Nope. It sounds like your problem,” she counters. “Because I’m coming over.”
“Juju—”
“The door better be unlocked,” she says. “I’ll be there in ten.”
I blink at my phone.
“You’re not serious.”
“So serious I’m putting on sweatpants.”
There’s shuffling. Keys. A determined huff.
“You think after teasing me with a toasted Nutella-PB-banana sandwich you can just hang up?”
“I didn’t tease you, I—”
“Baby,” she interrupts.
I freeze.
Baby.
She said it so casually, like she’s been calling me that for years.
Then I let out a soft yet nervous “hm, ju?”
“You left the door unlocked, right?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I manage. “Whatever. It’s open.”
“Good,” she says, voice low, playful. “Stay on the phone with me til I get there.”
About ten minutes later…
My kitchen smells like toasted bread and warm sugar. I cut the sandwich diagonally and set half on a plate, taking a tiny bite of the other half.
Ans then, the front door clicks open.
“Y/N?” her voice calls out, closer than the phone now.
“In the kitchen!”
She rounds the corner, hoodie half-zipped, curls in a messy bun, keys hooked on her finger. Her phone is still pressed to her ear even though she sees me.
Then her eyes drop to the plate.
“You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“Is that—”
“Yes.”
“Half?”
“Yes.”
“You saved me half?”
I shrug. “Wanted you to taste it while it’s warm.”
Her smile hits me right in the stomach.
She walks over, plucks the sandwich half off the plate, and takes a bite without permission.
A big bite.
“Juju!”
She chews slowly on purpose, eyes never leaving mine.
“Mmm,” she hums, “tastes like you love me.”
My heart stutters.
“You’re so annoying,” I mutter.
“You love it,” she fires back, nudging my shoulder with hers as she leans against the counter, chewing contentedly.
We share the sandwich, literally passing the last pieces back and forth like it’s a movie cliché we’re too sleepy to avoid.
When it’s gone, Juju licks a smear of peanut butter off her thumb and says, softer:
“Can I tell you something?”
My pulse jumps. “Always.”
She meets my eyes, and her voice loses all teasing.
“When I got hurt… everything felt like it stopped. Like the whole world kept moving but I couldn’t.”
She inhales.
“And you—you were the only thing that kept feeling steady.”
My throat tightens.
“Juju…”
“I’m serious, Y/N,” she says. “Every phone call. Every stupid joke. Every time you told me it wasn’t my fault even when I didn’t believe you…”
She steps closer.
“I think I started falling for you somewhere in all that.”
The room spins; slow, warm, dizzying.
I swallow.
Hard.
“You’re not just saying that ‘cause it’s 1 a.m. and you’re emotional, right?”
“No,” she whispers. “I’m saying it because it’s 1 a.m. and I’m finally brave enough.”
I feel every hair on my body stand on end.
I take a breath.
Another.
And then…
“I started falling for you freshman year,” I admit, voice shaking. “But then you became… you. Juju Watkins. Superstar. National name. And I didn’t wanna be distracting or clingy or—”
She presses her forehead to mine.
Close enough I can feel her breath.
“You’ve never been a distraction,” she murmurs. “You’re the only thing that makes me feel normal.”
My lips part, heartbeat in my throat.
“And also,” she adds softly, “you make really good sandwiches.”
I laugh.
Like the breathless and shaky kind of laugh, and she smiles like she’s memorizing it.
“So…” she says, thumb brushing the back of my hand, “what do we do now?”
I lift her hand, threading our fingers together.
“We eat,” I say.
“We talk.”
“And then maybe…”
I look up into her eyes.
“…you kiss me?”
Her cheeks flush.
“Oh,” she whispers. “I can definitely do that.”
And then she does.
Gentle.
Warm.
Slow, like she has all night.
Like she’s waited three years.
When she pulls back, she presses her forehead to mine again.
“This okay?” she breathes.
“This is perfect.”
She exhales, relieved, and nudges me back toward the counter.
“Good,” she whispers. “’Cause I’m staying. At least until the sun comes up.”
“Fine by me,” I say.
“Good.”
“Good,” I echo.
“Good,” she repeats, grinning.
We’re both smiling like idiots.
And somewhere between shared sandwiches, stupid jokes, late-night confessions, and a healing knee that doesn’t define her anymore
𝐋𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐀𝐫𝐠𝐮𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 - Juju Watkins x Fem!blackreader
★ - summary: Reader and Juju get into an argument about what she saw on twitter
★ - word count: 2.8k
★ - warnings: none
★ - Authors note: Ahhhhh first post kinda nervous, requests are always open hope you enjoy❤️
You didn’t fall in love with Juju all at once.
It happened in pieces—quiet ones. Stolen glances across the gym, late-night texts that turned into phone calls, the way she always waited to make sure you got home safe even when she was exhausted from practice. By the time you realized what it was, it already felt permanent.
You and Juju had been together for almost two years now. Long enough that her teammates knew your name without her having to say it, long enough that her hoodie drawer had quietly become your hoodie drawer. Long enough that “us” felt natural.
Juju wasn’t the type to be overly loud with her love. She showed it in actions—her hand finding yours in crowded places, the way her voice softened when she said your name, the way she always made space for you no matter how hectic her schedule got. Being with her felt steady. Safe. Real.
The couch dips beneath you, worn in the exact shape of your body like it knows you too well. One leg is tucked under the other, bonnet loose on your head, phone balanced lazily in your hand while the TV hums in the background—something you’re not really watching.
You’re scrolling. Mindless. Comfortable.
Until you aren’t.
A tweet slides onto your screen.
“JUJU OUT HERE MOVIN QUICK 👀👀”
attached photo
Your thumb freezes.
It’s Juju. Clear as day. Basketball cap pulled low, familiar smile half-there like it always is when she doesn’t know a camera’s on her. And next to her—too close for comfort—is a girl you don’t recognize. Her hand is on her arm. Not brushing. Not accidental.
Placed.
Your chest tightens before your mind even catches up.
You tap the picture, zoom in like it might change if you look closer. It doesn’t. The comments are worse.
“ain’t she got a girl?”
“not her cheating on that fine Black queen 😭”
“she better than me cause I’d be in JAIL.”
Black queen.
You exhale sharply, lips pressing together. Funny how people only remember you exist when they think you’re being embarrassed. When you’re hurt. When you’re the headline nobody tagged but everybody knows.
You’ve been with Juju for almost two years. Two years of building something real in a world that’s always waiting to tear Black women down first. You trusted her—not blindly, but intentionally. Because trust is a choice, especially when you’ve been taught your whole life to guard your heart twice as hard.
Your phone buzzes again. A DM this time.
“girl please tell me that’s not your girl .”
You lock the screen.
For a moment, you just sit there. Let the hurt wash over you, hot and heavy. You think about every time you stood beside her quietly, every time you chose peace over assumptions, every time you defended her when people swore athletes were all the same.
Your jaw sets.
You’re not dramatic. You’re not reckless. But you are self-respecting.
And Juju is about to explain—because you refuse to be the woman left questioning her worth on a couch she paid for, in a life she built, over a girl who knows exactly who she’s with.
You unlock your phone again.
Not to tweet.
Not to cry online.
You open her contact.
And you call.
The phone rings once.
Twice.
You almost hang up on the third.
“Hey, baby—”
“Don’t,” you cut in, voice sharp but controlled. “Don’t start with that.”
There’s a pause on the other end. You can hear movement—shoes on concrete, maybe. She’s out. Of course she is.
“What’s wrong?” Juju asks, but her tone shifts, cautious now.
You let out a short laugh. Not amused. Not surprised. “You really don’t know?”
Silence.
Then, slower, “I don’t—”
“Twitter,” you say. One word. Heavy. “You and some girl. Real comfortable. Real public.”
Another pause, longer this time.
“…It’s not what it looks like.”
Your grip tightens on the phone. “That’s crazy,” you say quietly. “Because it looks like you.”
“I didn’t do anything,” she says quickly. Too quickly. “She’s just a friend. We were leaving the same place.”
“A friend with her hand on your arm?” Your voice cracks despite yourself. You hate that part. Hate giving her that. “Since when do your friends get that close?”
“You’re reaching,” she says, defensive now. “It was a picture. One second.”
“Don’t tell me what I’m doing,” you snap. “I’m not reaching—I’m reacting. Because I’m the one sitting here looking stupid while everybody else got opinions about my relationship.”
“That’s not fair,” she says. “You know I’d never embarrass you like that.”
“But you did,” you fire back. “Whether you meant to or not, you did.”
She exhales hard. “Why are you believing Twitter over me?”
Your chest burns. “Why am I seeing Twitter before I hear it from you?”
That lands.
She doesn’t answer right away.
You push on, hurt turning into anger now. “You know what it’s like for me, Juju. You know how people wait for Black women to look dumb behind their partner. You knew better than to be out like that and think I wouldn’t feel some type of way.”
“I can’t control how people take pictures,” she says.
“No, but you can control boundaries,” you reply. “And right now? It looks like you forgot them.”
“That’s not true.”
“Then explain it,” you demand. “Because I’m not about to be gaslit into thinking my feelings are the problem.”
Her voice rises. “I’m not gaslighting you. I’m telling you nothing happened.”
“And I’m telling you it doesn’t matter,” you snap back. “Because trust isn’t just about cheating. It’s about respect. And tonight? I don’t feel respected.”
There’s frustration in her breathing now. “So what, you just gonna assume the worst?”
“I’m assuming what you showed me,” you say. “And what you didn’t bother to protect.”
That one hits her hard.
“Why you acting like I’m some stranger?” She asks, hurt slipping through the anger.
You swallow. Your eyes sting. “Because right now, I don’t recognize this version of you.”
Silence stretches between you, thick and uncomfortable. Not the kind that soothes. The kind that cracks foundations.
Finally, she speaks. Lower. “You know I love you.”
Your voice comes out steady, even though your heart isn’t. “Love doesn’t look like this.”
The line goes quiet again.
And for the first time since the phone rang, you wonder—not if you’re wrong—but how much more you’re willing to take before something breaks.
The call cuts off
Juju stares at her phone like it personally betrayed her.
“Damn,” she mutters, dragging a hand down her face.
She knows that silence. Knows what it means when you stop arguing and start protecting yourself. That hurts worse than yelling ever could.
She exhales, sharp, then opens Twitter.
Big mistake.
The picture is already everywhere. Cropped. Zoomed. Captioned. Stripped of context. And the comments—she doesn’t even finish reading them. She doesn’t need to. She already knows how this looks, and worse, she knows how it feels for you.
For a Black woman who’s always had to be composed. Always had to be strong. Always had to hold dignity while people speculated about her pain like it’s entertainment.
“I messed up,” she admits out loud.
Not because she cheated—she didn’t. But because she didn’t protect you. Didn’t shut it down. Didn’t move with the care she promised she would when she asked you to trust her in a world that’s always watching.
Juju grabs her keys.
She doesn’t text. You deserve more than “can we talk?” typed in panic.
First stop is the corner store you love—the one that stays open late and always smells like incense and candy. She knows exactly what to get without thinking.
Your favorite chips—the ones you only buy when you’re stressed.
The chocolate bar you swear you’re “not addicted to.”
That lavender candle that helps you sleep.
And the drink you always steal from her fridge anyway.
Then the flower shop. Not roses—you hate when people default to that. She gets the sunflowers instead. Bright. Honest. Just like you.
By the time she pulls up to your apartment, her chest is tight with nerves. She’s played in front of thousands, but this? This is scarier.
She stands outside your door for a second, bag in one hand, flowers in the other.
Knock.
Nothing.
She knocks again, softer this time. “It’s me,” she says through the door. “I know you’re mad. I know I deserve it. I just—please.”
A pause.
Then the lock clicks.
You open the door just enough to see her. Your face is calm in that dangerous way. Guard up. Walls high.
She doesn’t smile.
She holds everything out instead.
“I’m not here to argue,” she says quietly. “I’m here to make it right.”
Your eyes flicker—just for a second—to the snacks. The candle. The sunflowers.
She swallows. “I should’ve protected you. I should’ve checked her. I should’ve thought about how that would look to the world and to you.”
Her voice cracks, barely. “You’re my partner. And I failed you tonight.”
The hallway is silent.
“I’m not asking you to forgive me right now,” she adds. “I just needed you to know… I choose you. Every time. And I’m willing to do the work to prove it.”
She waits.
Not pushing. Not rushing. Just standing there, hoping you’ll let her in—not just the apartment, but the space she almost damaged.
You watch her step over the threshold, bag of your favorite snacks in one hand, sunflowers in the other. The lavender candle winks at you from its paper wrapping. For a moment, you just stare.
Juju doesn’t move closer right away. She stands in the middle of your small apartment, taking in the quiet—the TV muted, the faint scent of your perfume lingering from earlier. She doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches.
“I’m not here to argue,” she repeats, softer this time. “I just… I want to make it right.”
You cross your arms. “You already know how bad it looks, Juju. That’s not something words can fix.”
She nods. “I know. And I’m not trying to fix the world. I’m trying to fix us.”
You bite your lip, resisting the urge to snap at her. There’s hurt in your chest, raw and sharp, and the image from Twitter keeps replaying in your mind. You trusted her. And tonight, you felt like the world was laughing at you behind your back.
“I should’ve thought about how it would feel for you,” she says, stepping closer. Her hand hovers in the air like she’s afraid to reach for you. “I should’ve protected you. I should’ve checked her. I… I messed up, and I can’t take that back. But I can start by showing you how much you mean to me.”
Your walls have been up all day. The anger, the fear, the humiliation—they’ve built a fortress around your heart. But now, looking at her,holding the things that are unmistakably you, you feel the edges of that wall soften just a little.
Juju kneels down, setting the bag and flowers on the counter. “These aren’t a bribe. I’m not trying to say everything’s okay. I just… I know you, I know what makes you feel safe, what makes you happy. I want to remind you—you matter. You always have.”
You watch her, taking a shaky breath. Her eyes are honest. Vulnerable. The kind of vulnerability only comes when someone is terrified of losing you.
“You scared me,” you admit finally, your voice quieter than you expected. “Seeing her like that… seeing you like that… I felt like everything we built could just disappear overnight.”
“I know,” she whispers. “And I hate that I made you feel that way. I hate that my actions—or lack of them—made you question us. You are my world. You are my home. And I should’ve shown it in every way that matters.”
A long silence stretches between you. Then, slowly, cautiously, you take a step forward. Juju’s gaze meets yours, tense, waiting. And without saying a word, you let her pull you into her chest.
You feel the tension in her arms—she’s holding herself back from engulfing you too fast, respecting your space—but you let yourself melt into the warmth anyway. The scent of her, familiar and grounding, fills the room.
“I hate that I made you cry,” she murmurs into your hair. “I hate that I let you feel less than you are.”
“You’re lucky I still love you,” you whisper, your hands gripping her shirt. “But you better never make me feel like this again.”
“I won’t,” she promises. Her hands cup your face now, thumb brushing over your cheek. “I can’t promise perfection, but I can promise effort. Every day, for you. I swear to you.”
You pull back slightly, looking into her eyes. The fight inside you softens, replaced by relief, warmth, and love that’s been tested and stretched but not broken. “You’re going to have to prove it,” you say, half-smile tugging at your lips.
“I will,” she says, and it’s not empty words this time. You can feel it in his chest, in the vibration of his voice, in the way she’s willing to be patient with your hurt. “I’ll spend every day showing you. You’re the best thing I’ve ever had, and I don’t want to lose you over something stupid.”
You let out a shaky laugh, leaning into her again. “I’m not easy to keep, you know.”
“Good,” she says, smiling against your hair. “I like a challenge.”
And for the first time since you saw that Twitter post, the tight knot in your chest loosens. The hurt is still there—it doesn’t just disappear—but being in her arms, hearing her honesty, feeling her commitment, reminds you why you fell in love with her in the first place.
She holds you a little longer, letting the silence speak for both of you. And you finally realize that tonight isn’t about social media, or assumptions, or even hurt—it’s about choosing each other. Again.
The apartment feels warmer now, lit by the lavender candle Juju brought and the soft glow of the TV she didn’t even touch. The snacks are sprawled across the coffee table like a small victory feast.
“You seriously brought all this?” you ask, laughing as she sets the chocolate bar in front of you like a peace offering.
“I didn’t know which one would fix us faster,” she says, smirking. “Chocolate? Sunflowers? Lavender? I’m covering all bases.”
“You’re ridiculous,” you reply, rolling your eyes but smiling. “But I appreciate it.”
She flops onto the couch next to you, stretching out like she owns the place. “I do,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows. “Do I get points for effort or do I need a trophy too?”
“You’ll get points if you survive the night without saying something dumb,” you tease, tossing a bag of chips at her.
She catches it with a laugh. “Okay, fair. But first… I need to address the elephant in the room.”
You raise an eyebrow, waiting.
“You mean Twitter?” She asks casually, like she’s talking about the weather. “Look, I know it looked bad. But I swear to you, it was just… a friend thing. I promise. And if anyone’s tryna spin that into a whole drama series, they’re crazy.”
You snort, shaking your head. “You make it sound so chill. I almost feel dumb for being mad.”
“Almost,” she corrects, nudging you gently. “Almost mad. Never fully, because I get why you were upset. You’re right to feel that way. But I also gotta say—I look way better with you, anyway.”
You laugh harder this time, covering your face. “Stop it. You’re lucky I’m too tired to throw something at you.”
She grins, leaning back on the couch and stretching her arms over your shoulders. “See? That’s teamwork. Laughter and snacks fix almost everything.”
You lean into her, letting your head rest against her chest. Her heartbeat is steady, familiar, grounding. You can feel the warmth of his body seep into yours.
“You know,” she says, her voice soft but playful, “if anyone tweets about this night, they better tag it: Juju officially owned in cuddles by her girl.”
You punch her arm lightly. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I know,” she says, laughing. “And it’s one of my best qualities.”
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” she replies, squeezing your hand. “More than chocolate. More than sunflowers. More than… Twitter drama, for sure.”
The night unfolds with the kind of intimacy that doesn’t need grand gestures. You feed each other snacks, steal kisses between jokes, and laugh until your ribs hurt. Juju pulls you closer every time you drift a little, whispering little jokes about the world outside and the crazy rumor.
“Imagine them making memes about this,” she teases, pretending to be scandalized. “Me, embarrassed on the internet while I’m literally sitting here with the love of my life.”
“Embarrassed?” you say, nudging her. “You’re ridiculous. This is cute, Juju.”
“I’m cute,” she confirms, mock-offended. “Finally, someone recognizes it.”
You roll your eyes but don’t move. Not from the couch, not from her. Not from the safety of this moment.
Later, as the chocolate bar dwindles and the sunflowers sway slightly in the candlelight, Juju’s hand drifts to your cheek. “I’m really sorry again,” she murmurs. “I hate making you feel even an ounce of doubt about us. I never want to do that.”
You brush your fingers against hers,your smile softening. “I know. And you’re making up for it now, Juju. Honestly… this night? Totally worth it.”
She leans in and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Good. Because I plan on making it up to you like this… forever.”
You laugh, wrapping your arms around her, and for the first time since the Twitter post, everything outside the apartment—rumors, drama, stress—feels distant. Tonight is just the two of you. Funny, intimate, and unapologetically yours.
And what you didn’t know was that Juju posted a story on instagram of you in her sweater from tonight with the caption, “ my girl forever, I love you “
ɴᴏᴡ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ ★ — the chain by fleetwood mac ( 2004 remaster ) .
You rolled your eyes.
And that’s when everything shifted. The room went quiet. JuJu's jaw clenched. Her gaze darkened like a storm pulling in fast and violent. "You wanna try that again?" she said slowly.
You scoffed from the bed, tossing the remote aside. “I said, maybe if you passed the ball instead of showin’ off every game, y’all wouldn’t be losing.” You were joking. Kinda. But JuJu? JuJu wasn’t laughing.
She stalked over to you in two long strides, grabbed your ankle, and yanked you down the bed until your back hit the sheets with a thud. "You think that mouth’s cute when it’s talkin’ back?" "Maybe I do."
Wrong answer.
Her hand slid around your throat, just tight enough to make you gasp, her body pressing down into yours. "Yeah?” she hissed, face inches from yours. “Then let’s see if it’s still cute when you’re moaning my name.”
You opened your mouth to sass her again, but her fingers were already inside you.
Two. Deep. Fast. No teasing. No build-up. Just punishment. Your hips jerked up off the bed. “F-Fuck—JuJu—”
She didn’t let up. Her other hand gripped your thigh, pinning you down like a warning. Her eyes stayed locked on yours, watching every twitch of your lips, every whimper you tried to hide.
"Talk back again," she growled, curling her fingers right against that spot that made your vision go white. “Say one moresmart thing.”
You whimpered, breath shaking. “I— I didn’t mean it—” She pulled her fingers out. Slap. Her palm smacked your pussy, making you yelp.
“Don’t lie,” she said. “You love pushin’ me.”
You nodded, tears springing in your eyes, mouth open like you couldn’t form a full sentence anymore.
“Yeah,” JuJu whispered, bringing her fingers back in, slow now, curling perfectly. “That’s what I thought. All that attitude… just beggin’ for me to fuck it outta you.” And she did.
Harder. Rougher. Until your moans weren’t even words anymore — just breath and broken little cries. Her name, again and again, caught on your tongue like it was the only thing keeping you alive.
When you came, your whole body arched. You grabbed her arm, thighs trembling, and she didn’t stop until she felt it — that deep, full-body kind of orgasm that left you twitching and babbling her name like a prayer. After, she kissed your forehead. Gently. Her voice soft.
“Still got somethin’ to say?” You blinked up at her, flushed and ruined. “...Thank you.” She smirked.
“That’s what I thought.”
an. first ever juju smut fic !! im actually rlly proud of myself
tags. tysm @courtsidewithlani . i reposted your juju fic , it’s actually soooo good . your like the best 🤗
