The Real Barbie Is Y/n.

ao’nung is frustrated.

at least, that’s what you’ve deduced from watching him sharpen his knife for the past ten minutes straight. if he keeps going, it might get as thin as a wish bone; threatening to snap at the slightest bit of pressure. as much as you’d find amusement in the sight of that, you’d rather not be in the crossfire when it happens.

“what’s got you caught in its net?” you ask, finally, as you drop the gear you’ve been mending while ao’nung simmers.

“funny,” he mutters, but mirth is not something found in his tone. another scrape, another grating. he does not look over at you.

“i know. i’m the funniest person alive. you should be grateful you have the opportunity to bask in my presence.”

it’s a ploy—a tease. like waving fresh bait in front of a young ilu but never tossing it into the water for them to eat. your tactic with ao’nung is always the same. push and pull and prod just enough that he bites back with less venom and more demure. because sarcasm is better than spite, in all regards.

except now, he doesn’t take it. now, he simply keeps his head tucked down, his lips pressed in a hard line. whittling at his knife and spouting invisible steam out of his ears.

you stand up, make your way over to him and bend slightly at the waist to slide your hands along his sloped shoulders. his muscles go taut—just a bit—at the initial contact of your palms, but relax a second later. not to their resting state, no, but leaving the field of caught off guard at the very least. you hum, lean down further as you dip your hands over his clavicles, across the upper half of his sternum.

“what is wrong, ao‘nung?” its sincere, this time. your question. because despite the dynamic between the two of you, you really do care—jokes and jabs aside.

this silence is different. you can tell by the twitch of his ears that he’s thinking; mulling something over on his tongue before he decides whether to spit it out or swallow it down. you can never guess which one it will be, not with him. he acts on whims, never strategy. there is no speculating his next move, so you simply don’t try to.

“there has been talk among the reef.” it’s all he says; all he gives. such a shell of a man, forcing you to pry open his jaws to reach the pearl within.

it is good that you’ve always been so skilled with your hands.

“there is always talk among the reef,” you chuckle, begin to fiddle with the necklace that’s strung around his neck. hooking your chin over the top of his head, you look down to watch as he grinds his knife once again. “you know they like to keep their minds busy with silly things.”

“it isn’t a silly thing.”

“oh? then tell me, what is so dire that it could have the great ao’nung this tense, hm?”

his hands falter for the first time, a pause in his rhythmic grazing. your brows furrow at that, create a hairline crease in the middle that only smooths out as he resumes his motions. scrape, scrape, scrape again. it’s like he’s doing it in sync with his heart. if you shifted your hand over just a tad, you suppose you could test that theory.

“it is talk of you.”

quiet. a mere grumble under his breath. if you were not leaned over him like this you would not have even heard him. such an odd twinge to his tone; laced with something you can’t quite decipher. can’t quite pick up on. it isn’t necessarily anger, but something flirting along the lines of it.

“me? don’t tell me you have went around spreading rumors that i am possessed by eywa’s evil sister again. i thought you stopped that when we were kids.” you laugh through it, because the jagged edges of his timbre are making your fingers itch. “you’re going to ruin my reputation.”

he scoffs. condescending, dismissive. normally you’d take that as a good sign; a call back to his regular grating demeanor. at this specific moment, however, you find annoyance in it.

“your reputation is fine,” he tilts, gives a particularly harsh press of his knife that makes you think this just might be the time where it snaps. miraculously, it doesn’t. “so completely fine.”

“then what could they possibly find reason to speak of me for?” you press, rubbing your thumb over the cord of his necklace, twisting it around your fingers. “i have not caused any trouble lately. haven’t set fire to any maruis. why, there’s nothing that i can think of that could possibly warrant—“

“they speak of your lack of mate.”

his hands are working harder, less refined. jaw clenching, deltoids growing stiff below you. it’s all starting to air itself out, his jaws have cracked open just enough that you can finally see the pretty pink pearl that rests on the bed of his tongue. but it is not enough, not yet.

“then all they speak is the truth,” you shrug over him, keep your gaze locked on his movements. you want to be sure, before you jump to the assumptions that are creating hurdles in your mind. “there is no harm in speaking of public knowledge.”

“they—“ he hitches, twists his face up like his next words are sour on his tastebuds, “they are voicing their thoughts on potentials for you. they think.. rotxo is the best option.”

“oh, yes. rotxo would be a fine potential mate.”

and, ah. there it is. the coup de grace.

ao’nung snaps his head around towards you so fast you hardly have time to lean back to avoid getting smacked in the chin by his skull. there’s a fissure between his brows, his eyes have widened past the aggravated slits they were before. his mouth is cracked open in disbelief, of the fact that you agreed with him or another matter, you aren’t sure. either way, it is clear now what has been getting under the heir’s skin.

he's jealous. and you can't help but find that the slightest bit amusing. it's not often you have ao'nung in the palm of your hand like this; akin to a bug squirming under the pad of your thumb with no clear route of escape. you think you can play this up, just a little.

"you do not think that," he states, like he needs to speak it into existence. like if he says it then it will ring true, change your mind.

(he doesn't need to change your mind, but he doesn't need to know that right now).

"why would i not?" you hum, tip your head like you're truly contemplating it. "he is sweet. has a tender heart. and he is always so quick to help me. he doesn't even complain. i think taking him as a mate would be a good decision."

"the only thing good about rotxo is his hair," ao'nung spouts, rolls his eyes at you as his face fills up with indignation. "stupid, pretty boy goody two shoes."

"oh, you're right! and he's nice to look at," you agree, nod your head right along with it, "how could i forget?"

his cheek dips; he's sucking it in between his teeth. you've really done it, you think. setting him off has never been so easy. sure, it’s never too hard to get him riled up in the middle of a bickering match. but like this? aggravated over, what, exactly? the thought of you with someone else?

maybe you’re enjoying this a bit too much.

“he is not your type.” a bold proclamation, ao’nung spits out. grasping for straws; searching blindly. “you would not go well with him.”

“i think he is my type, actually,” you dispute, and he’s stopped all his movements now. knife long forgotten as he seethes over every word you speak. “kind. loyal. good morals. easy on the eyes. yes, definitely my type. that checks off the list.”

he purses his lips, knots up his brows. “that cannot be the list.”

“no?” you peruse, play into him. he makes this too easy, really. “what do you think is on the list, then? moody? messy? long hair? a tendency to be mouthy? being the chief’s son?”

that earns you a shove off of him; a click for him to realize you’ve been fucking with him this entire time. biting back your shit eating grin would be impossible so you don’t even try to. nor do you stop the laughter that bubbles out of you as he goes back to his knife work and curses you under his breath.

you reach for him again except this time you walk around until you’re in front of him. one hand on his shoulder, you lean down to shove the knife and sharpener out of his hands and plop yourself right into the slot his crossed legs have made. his gaze is narrowed at you, his lips jutted. you simply smile—innocent, sweet—as you slide your hands around to cup the nape of his neck.

“i don’t think rotxo could handle me,” you murmur, sickeningly saccharine in such a direct contrast from seconds before. ao’nung doesn’t budge. “and the good ones are always so boring. if he was my mate, when would i ever get the chance to get up to trouble?”

“you are trouble,” ao’nung scoffs; acting annoyed, fed up. but his hands give him away as they meet the dimples of your lower back, as they slide up your spine to hold you secure so you don’t fall backwards.

his facade of pretending to not care has never been too full proof. there’s been cracks in that glass since day one.

“your trouble,” you grin. your fingers begin to draw circles along the back of his neck, tease at his hairline. “you made me this way, you know.”

“i made you nothing,” he rebuts. “you are the one who always comes up with the pesky ideas that get us scolded.”

“ah, you’re right,” you agree with a faux sigh. “humor and brains. i guess i’m the funniest and smartest person alive. truly, you should be honored.”

ao’nung rolls his eyes, peels his hands off of you. “forget ability, i do not wish to handle you now. rotxo can have you, for all i care.”

“oh?” you quirk, begin to stand up. “should i go see what he is up to—“

“sit,” ao’nung orders before you can rise no more than a few inches off of his lap; hands gripping your waist to tug you back down. the playfulness drains from his eyes, that annoyance—jealousy—flashes across sea foam irises for just a moment. “you are not funny.”

you bite the edge of your lip, making your grin turn slanted. he is so fun to tease, to toss around. his palms are warm on the dip of your waist. sliding your hands further back, you skim your finger along the side of the braid encasing his queue. faint, light. he tries to hide the shiver it causes but you pick up on it regardless. and that only makes you grin wider.

“they will speak of me until i choose a mate,” you hum as you lean closer to him, minimize the distance between your faces. “rotxo is not the only name that will be paired with mine. they all like to place their bets, you know.”

“their bets are stupid,” ao’nung mutters; gruff and rumbling out of his chest as his attention flickers, falters, the closer you get.

being this close is nothing new. being this touchy is nothing new, either. but it’s almost like your skin is buzzing, your energies feeding off one another in the moment that sends you tumbling into a smug streak. or maybe, that’s just the power ao’nung holds over you and you’re scared to admit it.

“you only think they’re stupid because your name is being outnumbered in the betting pool.” maybe that’s a little mean, but it’s fun. your fingertips are heavier now, more directed as you trace the divots of his braid with one hand and gauge the rise and fall of his chest with the other. “if you were winning, would they be stupid then?”

“i am winning,” ao’nung conveys, so sure and lacking any sense of doubt in the slightest; a variance from a few moments before. and that, well, that actually makes you falter—for just a second.

“and how do you figure that?” you mumble out the question into the minute slot between the two of you. bated and breathy.

ao’nung hooks an arm around your waist, his other hand sliding up to grip the hinge of your jaw. not harsh, not rough, but firm. cradling you carefully but securely; solidly. your breath hitches, your fingers pause on their skimming across his queue encasing.

“because i am the only one who gets to do this,” he says. blunt and honest and certain as he closes the gap severing you.

he kisses you full and deep and warm. he kisses you like he has not eaten in days and you are the one thing that can sate his hunger. he kisses you like the ocean kisses the shore; yearning and all consuming, and rushing back once more as soon as their lips must part.

and he does; chase your lips as you pull back to catch your breath. places one, two, three pecks there before he deems it a safe retreat. his eyes are lidded, but no longer from frustration. that signature crooked, haughty smirk of his is curved into his pale lips. and instead of smacking it off, you’re considering how many more kisses it would take to wipe it away.

“oh yeah,” he chuckles, lips brushing over yours as he’s already leaning in again. “so winning.”

and you can’t help but agree.

likes & reblogs appreciated !

i hate that this intro scene was cut because 🥵

HELLO?????????

lucky number one - paige bueckers x oc!

s: you’ve been best friends with paige bueckers since you were ten. she just won a national championship, is about to be the number one pick in the draft, and is everything she’s ever dreamed of being. but tonight, she only wants to show you one thing—that she knows exactly who’s been there with her through it all.

w: smut (18+), sub!paige, alcohol, language, suggestive/explicit content, softdom reader, mutual pining, friends to lovers, years of built-up tension finally snapping, childhood best friends with so much history, lots of touching/flirting, emotional vulnerability, fluff + filth

word count: 6.9K (yeah it’s a long one)

author’s note: draft day! just wanna say so proud of paige and can’t wait to watch her in the wnba. go dallas wings 😋

you didn’t make it to the championship.

you tried—really tried—but life’s messy sometimes. your internship extended last-minute. your mom’s birthday landed on the same weekend. flights were outrageous, and honestly, you didn’t want to take away from paige’s moment by getting on a last minute flight, so instead, you sent her a four-minute long voice memo, followed by a bouquet of her favorite flowers and a text that read:

just win. then we’ll celebrate in new york like we always said we would.

and she did.

of course she did.

—

you were packing your suitcase when she called, her name popping up with that stupid contact photo of her from freshman year—smiling through a mouthful of froyo and barely holding her phone up.

“yo,” you answer, on speaker. “you alive?”

“barely,” her voice is a breathy groan. “new york. storrs. new york. hartford. back to new york tomorrow. i’m gonna combust.”

“damn,” you grin. “you really hate being famous, huh?”

“shut up,” she laughs, and you can practically hear her flopping into a hotel bed. “i miss you.”

your chest tightens. “you saw me like, two weeks ago.”

“too long,” she murmurs. “new york’s not gonna be the same until you’re in it.”

you roll your eyes, smile curling at your lips. “you always this flirty before the draft?”

“just with you,” she fires back, quick and easy.

you’ve known her since you were ten—rec league basketball, both of you too tall and too fast for your own good. you were paired up for dribbling drills and hated each other for half the season. but something shifted during a snow day makeup game, when she passed you the ball for the game-winner and tackled you in a sweaty hug before you could even react. been best friends ever since.

best friends who talked every night.
best friends who held hands under blankets.
best friends who almost kissed in the backseat of your mom’s car that one summer.
best friends who never talked about it.

until now. maybe.

—

you land in new york two days later.

paige demanded—her words, not yours—that you stay in her hotel suite. she’s not there yet, still in hartford for the uconn parade, but she left your name at the desk and made sure everything was set up.

paige buckets

paige: text me when you land. and when you get to the room. and when you lock the door. actually just facetime me. i miss your face.

you do. she answers with geno in the background yelling at someone about parking. azzi waves from the passenger seat.

“you safe?” she asks, eyes soft.

“yeah,” you say, smiling. “room’s huge. kinda lonely without you, though.”

she hums. “few more hours.”

you wander while you wait.

grab coffee. hit up a bookstore. text azzi to check up on paige, assuming she might be sleep in the car to answer. and get a long, sappy response back about how paige is good and how she’s lucky to have you.

it makes your throat tight. you don’t say it, but there was a time when you thought maybe it was azzi and paige. when their chemistry on the court bled off of it, when their inside jokes got too private, when you found yourself jealous and you hated that feeling.

but it was never like that. not really.

paige always made space for you. always answered. always showed up.

—

she shows up again, hours later.

hair tied back, hoodie slung low, tired eyes but a sleepy smile just for you. you let her in, and she drops her bag, instantly wrapping her arms around your waist.

“hi,” she mumbles into your neck.

“hey,” you whisper back.

neither of you moves for a while.

you talk that night. about the draft. the future. texas.

“i’ve never even been to dallas,” she admits.

“you’ll learn it,” you say. “you learn everything.”

she glances at you. “wish i knew what was gonna happen next.”

you don’t ask what she means. she doesn’t clarify.

—

draft day hits like a wave.

you wake up to a glam team at the door—hair, makeup, and paige’s stylist, brittany, ready with a pulled look just for you.

“she said to make sure you matched,” brittany smirks, holding up a sleek, black dress and chrome accessories. “like, matched matched.”

“she’s insane,” you mutter—but you still wear it.

when she sees you, her jaw goes slack.

“you look... wow,” she says, eyes dragging down and back up. “like, real pretty. dangerously pretty.”

you smirk. “you’re not so bad yourself, number one.”

she’s in an all-black suit, cut sharp and cropped at the waist, paired with an expensive top that leaves just enough skin. she looks like money and power and something you want under your hands.

“you look good,” you say.

“i know,” she teases—but her ears go pink.

at the draft, the lights are blinding.

paige looks calm, collected, nodding at people, shaking hands, posing for photos. but you know her. the way she tugs on her thumb ring. the slight bounce in her shoe. she’s nervous.

you squeeze her hand under the table.

“with the number one overall pick in the 2025 wnba draft... the dallas wings select... paige bueckers from the university of connecticut.”

you swear you don’t breathe until she stands.

the rest is a blur—hugs, cameras, the walk across the stage. you wipe a tear before anyone sees.

—

the after party is chaos.

paige changed into a fitted black crop top and slacks, her chain catching in the light. she’s laughing, flushed, dancing with teammates, drink in hand.

she hasn’t stopped touching you.

a hand at your waist. her fingers brushing your thigh. her mouth too close to your ear when she says, “you looked so good tonight. might be the reason i got drafted.”

“stop,” you laugh.

“i won’t,” she says.

later, she leans in, warm and tipsy.

“i want you,” she murmurs, lips barely grazing your jaw.

you freeze. “what?”

“you heard me.”

your heart trips. “paige—what do you mean?”

she grins, smug. “you know what i mean.”

—

she stumbles into the hotel room first, laughing as she kicks her shoes off, one hand still tangled in yours.

“you’re drunk,” you tease, shutting the door behind you.

“i’m happy,” she corrects, spinning around to face you. cheeks flushed. pupils blown. she looks fucking gorgeous.

“and loud,” you say, taking a step forward.

she doesn’t back away.

“and maybe a little needy.”

you raise an eyebrow. “needy, huh?”

she bites her lip. steps closer. the tension has been building all night—hell, for years—and now it’s finally about to snap.

“you looked so good tonight,” she murmurs. “like... fuck, you don’t even know.”

you smile, slow and dangerous, backing her toward the bed. “oh, i know.”

she lets out a breathy laugh as her knees hit the edge of the mattress. you push her back gently until she’s sitting, legs spread just a little, hands at her sides.

“take your top off,” you say, voice low.

her eyes go wide—but she listens. always listens to you. fingers slipping beneath the hem of her crop top, dragging it up over her head. her breath catches when you lean in and press a kiss just under her jaw.

“you’re so pretty,” you whisper.

“so are you,” she says quickly. like it bursts out of her. “like... fuck. i’ve wanted this forever.”

you kiss her before she can say anything else—deep, wet, messy. you climb into her lap, straddling her, grinding down just enough to make her whimper. her hands find your hips. you grab her wrists.

“uh uh,” you smirk. “you don’t get to be in control tonight.”

her whole body shivers.

“lay back.”

she obeys.

you kiss down her chest, slow, dragging your tongue between her breasts, mouthing at her skin until she’s squirming. her breath stutters when you suck a bruise into her ribcage. when you pull her pants down, she lifts her hips for you like she’s been waiting her whole life.

“fuck,” she whispers, eyes fluttering. “please...”

you raise an eyebrow. “please what?”

she swallows. “please touch me.”

you push her thighs apart and press a kiss to the inside of her knee. “use your words.”

“i want your mouth,” she says in one breath. “please. i need you.”

“i got you baby,” you murmur, grinning.

when you finally press your tongue to her pussy, she gasps—sharp and desperate. her hips buck up immediately, but you pin her down, arms hooked around her thighs, keeping her open for you.

“fuck—fuck, please—” she moans, eyes glassy, head thrown back.

you hum into her, tongue flicking fast over her clit, then slow again—just to hear her whine. she grabs a pillow, covers her mouth, like she’s trying to stay quiet. you pull off just long enough to look up at her.

“you better let me hear you.”

she whimpers. nods. “i will—i promise, just—don’t stop—”

“i don’t plan on it.”

you keep going until her thighs are shaking and she’s begging, voice hoarse, gasping your name like a prayer. when she comes, it’s loud and messy—her whole body trembling, fingers clutching the sheets, her face twisted in pleasure.

you crawl up her body, kissing her as she catches her breath. her lips are soft, slow against yours, like she’s thanking you without words.

“you okay?” you whisper against her mouth.

“that was so hot i think i blacked out.”

you laugh into her shoulder. “you’re so dramatic.”

she pulls you down beside her, still breathing hard. “i’m in love with you.”

you smile. “i know.”

“and you’re mine now, right?”

you kiss her again. “was always yours.”

THIS IS SO 2000’ college Romcom lesbo crush💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔

svech and jack in the same picture😧🙏

Ellie asking you if it tastes good while you eat her out!☝🤓

Her pajama shirt is pushed up, over her tits. Your hand reaches up and gropes the cold flesh. Smiling against her clit, you look up, meeting her eyes. Look at that...Her pretty green eyes squinting and staring down at your face, her lips pouting, nose scrunched, and your mouth filled with her essence. Its dribbling down your chin with mixed in drool. "Oh fuck yeah..." She groans, grinding up into your tongue. You moan against her cunt. "Oh god" she sighs, reaching down to grab your hair and shove your face further into her pussy. "Yeah- fucking take it." She huffs, grinning down at you. "Tastes good? Ugh fuck" she moans, bucking her hips up. "Ah- I'm gonna cum" she whines, grinding against your tongue till her back arches and you feel the pearly cum drool into your mouth. You crawl back up her body, smiling so fucking prideful.

and happy pride month to the thirsty girls (me)

need her #BAD

𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚎 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which the next chapter begins

new york city hums like it knows what’s about to happen. there’s a kind of electricity in the air, thick with promise and nerves, and as your driver weaves through the busy streets, you watch paige take it all in from the backseat—her face turned to the window, hood pulled over her head, hand clasped tightly in yours.

“this doesn’t feel real,” she murmurs, eyes wide as they track the towering buildings, the people, the energy. “like, i’m actually here.”

you squeeze her hand. “you’re not dreaming, bueckers.”

she smirks, still dazed. “you sure? 'cause being in new york with you, about to get drafted number one… i must’ve done something right.”

you look at her—at the soft awe in her voice, the nerves she’s trying to hide—and smile. “you earned all of this.”

she leans over and kisses the back of your hand. “wouldn’t be here without you.”

the hotel lobby smells like roses and money. a few of the other top picks are checking in, media reps scattered around, coaches from various teams exchanging polite nods. paige walks in with her backpack slung over one shoulder like she’s still in college, but she’s greeted like a queen.

people look at you too—curious, trying to place you. her plus one, but not a public one. not yet.

upstairs, the suite is stunning. floor-to-ceiling windows, champagne already chilling in a silver bucket on the table, and a view of manhattan that would knock the breath out of anyone.

paige walks straight to the window. “god,” she whispers. “how am i supposed to sleep tonight?”

you wrap your arms around her from behind. “you won’t. and that’s okay.”

the next few days are a whirlwind of cameras and flashing lights, pre-draft interviews, and moments stolen in between where paige clings to you like you’re the only thing keeping her grounded.

you walk with her to early press calls, watch her shake hands with executives and talk to reporters with the perfect balance of humility and fire. she rides up the empire state building in an elevator full of pr staff, but she only holds your hand. at the top, she stands by the glass and whispers, “feels like the whole world’s watching.”

“they are,” you say, brushing your fingers against hers. “and they’re about to see what happens when a star rises.”

the suite becomes a glam studio before the sun even rises. stylists, makeup artists, wardrobe specialists—all bustling around paige while she sits in the middle of it all, cross-legged in a robe, sipping coffee like she isn’t about to have her life change forever.

her stylist calls you over as you’re about to change into the outfit you packed.

“actually,” she says, holding up a garment bag. “this is for you.”

you blink. “that’s not mine.”

“it is now. paige picked it out. said it had to be perfect.”

your chest tightens as you unzip the bag, revealing a dress so perfectly you, it feels unreal. the fabric is soft, expensive, and the color—something muted and romantic—brings out your features in a way you didn’t even know was possible.

“she did this?” you whisper.

“she wanted you to feel special today too.”

you change in the bathroom, hands shaking slightly. when you finally step out, paige is standing near the window, fully dressed in a glittery-dark colored custom suit that has her shimmering with every step, her curls falling effortlessly over her shoulders.

she turns—and everything slows.

her mouth parts. “holy... you look…”

you laugh, flushed. “you too. you clean up alright, bueckers.”

she walks up to you, cups your jaw gently. “you’re unreal. thank you for being here today.”

“there’s nowhere else i’d be.”

the red carpet outside the venue is chaos—reporters, photographers, wnba legends, fans with signs, people shouting paige’s name like it’s already etched into history.

you try to stay a step behind her, to let her soak in her spotlight, but she won’t have it. her hand wraps around your waist and stays there. through the cameras, the chaos, the interviews—she keeps you close.

you’re standing just off to the side when the espn interviewer waves paige over for a quick one-on-one. the camera is rolling, and you make a move to step back, but paige pulls you forward by the hand.

the interviewer smiles knowingly. “paige bueckers! big night. how are we feeling?”

paige smiles back, calm and radiant. “excited. grateful. nervous. all of it.”

“you’re projected to go number one overall—does that add pressure?”

“a little,” she admits. “but i try to block it out. i’m here to soak it in and be present.”

the interviewer nods, glancing at you briefly. “and you’ve got some company tonight. can we ask who your date is?”

paige glances your way, and you feel her fingers squeeze yours.

“she’s someone very special to me,” paige says, voice even but warm. “we’re here to celebrate the moment. that’s what tonight’s about.”

“so… are you confirming you’re in a relationship?”

she chuckles, not flustered at all. “i’m confirming that i’m not doing tonight alone. that’s all you get.”

“alright, alright,” the interviewer laughs. “we’ll take it.”

twitter explodes five seconds later.

inside the venue, the lights dim and the countdown begins. you sit beside paige, her hand still wrapped in yours like a lifeline. her leg bounces. her breath hitches every time someone coughs into a mic.

“paige,” you whisper, turning to her. “hey. breathe.”

she nods, but doesn’t look at you. her eyes are on the stage.

“whether you go first or fifth,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to hers, “you’re still the most incredible person in this room. and i’ll be just as proud no matter what.”

her eyes flutter closed. she exhales.

“promise?” she whispers.

“promise.”

then the lights shift. the wnba commissioner walks to the podium. the music swells.

“with the first pick in the 2024 wnba draft, the dallas wings select… paige bueckers, university of connecticut.”

the room erupts.

paige turns to you—eyes wide, heart on her sleeve—and she kisses you.

right there. full, gentle, and certain.

the room falls silent for a heartbeat, and then explodes again.

@/espnw: she’s the number one pick. she also just kissed her girl on live tv. paige bueckers is here.

@/wnba: #1 pick. #1 moment. paige bueckers delivers the most unforgettable draft night kiss of all time.

@/bleacherreport: paige bueckers. first pick. first public kiss. iconic.

@/gaysportsnerd: so like… when do we get the engagement photos?

@/dallaswings: welcome to dallas, @/paigebueckers!

@/overtime: not just #1 on the court. paige bueckers just dropped the most iconic draft night moment of all time.

@/chennedyfan99: paige bueckers said “i’m number one and i’m in love, what about it?”

later, after the cheers settles and the cameras stop flashing, paige wraps her arms around you on the balcony of the hotel suite. new york glows behind you, and she leans her head on your shoulder.

“i didn’t plan the kiss,” she says softly.

“i know.”

“but i meant it.”

“i know.”

she turns her face to yours, brushing your cheek with her nose. “i want to be number one in everything. including with you.”

“you already are,” you whisper. “you always have been.”

she smiles, soft and golden. “forever, huh?”

“hell yeah.”

Simon Riley