#Diana Taurasi

Diana Taurasi x fem!rookie!reader

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Summary:. At every practice, every press moment, every Live—you quote Dirty Diana just loud enough for her to hear.

Word Count: ~ 4.2k

Warnings: SMUT, dom!Diana, rookie!reader teasing and submitting, age gap (reader early 20s, Diana late 30s), possessiveness, mild choking, reader is so down bad it’s funny, Diana ruins her (lovingly).

Genre: Smut, Flirtation, Power Play, Age Gap, Tension, Enemies-to-Lust

I swear I didn’t mean to start a bit.

At first, it was just a little joke. A running thing I had going. I repost edits of my teammates all the time—sometimes it’s funny, sometimes it’s out of pocket, but it’s all love. All gas, no brakes. But Diana? Diana was different. Diana Taurasi made it delusional.

She wasn’t even my vet. Ain’t never assigned herself to me. Never offered to “take me under her wing” or none of that cute mentor stuff. But for some godforsaken reason, I attached myself to her like a demon in a conjuring movie. Wherever she went, I was five steps behind. Holding her Gatorade. Squeezing her knee mid-film. Sitting on the edge of her seat like mine wasn’t two inches away.

It’s not even intentional. I’ll be sitting next to her, locked into practice footage, and my hand’ll just… slide. Light touch on her thigh, maybe tracing something dumb like a spiral or a letter. No awareness. No shame. I’m watching the screen, not even clocking the fact that I’m damn near fondling the inner muscle of one of the coldest to ever do it. And the worst part?

She lets me.

She says nothing. Just glances once, then goes back to whatever she was doing. I smile when she holds eye contact too long—like a slut. But hey. That’s just how I am.

And then I started quoting Dirty Diana. Loud. Dramatic. Out of nowhere. I’d pop into the locker room like:

“She looked me deep in the eyes—”

Everyone: “No—NO. Again?”

Me, already spinning: “She touchin’ me so to start!”

The first time it happened, Diana looked up real slow like a cat clocking prey. Didn’t say nothing. Just watched me act a fool across the gym. I saw her smirk, though. Not a smile. A smirk—just the left side of her mouth. Barely there. But I saw it.

That same night, I posted a slo-mo of her stretching pre-game, MJ crooning in the background. Captioned

“Diana walked up to me / She said, ‘I’m all yours tonight’ 😵‍💫”

Another post: A candid of her mid-argument with a ref.

Caption:

“I have the stuff that you want / I am the thing that you need 😭😭”

I play it off like I do this with everybody—and I do. But not like this. Not this level of obsession. Not this frequency. With her, I be in the comments like I’m locked in a parasocial relationship.

“Y’all don’t get it. I seen her irl. 😭”

“I’m mentally employed under her. That’s my supervisor.”

“She told the ref to back up and I almost passed out.”

I tag her. Because why wouldn’t I? I’m already annoying, might as well go all the way. She never likes. Never comments. But she knows. I know she knows.

’Cause in person? She’s confusing as hell.

Diana will ignore me completely one day—walk straight past, no eye contact, like I’m a ghost in the hallway. Then the next, she’s cracking jokes, tossing her towel at me, stealing my charger like it’s hers. She’s serious 90% of the time. Locked in. Vet mode. But that other 10%..That’s what’s ruining me.

Like today. Practice was hell. Nobody could shoot. Everyone dragging. Coach yelling. We’re running suicides and I’m dead tired, panting, bent over, hands on knees. Diana walks by cool as hell, not even winded, and says:

“Get your ass up, MJ.”

I blink. “Huh?”

“You like singing ‘Dirty Diana’ so damn much, go ahead and run it back.”

She walks off. I’m stunned. No comeback. Just standing there smiling like she proposed.

Later, I sit next to her during cool down and I don’t even realize my hand’s rubbing her arm. Like, soft circles. Not trying to be slick. Just soothing myself, apparently. She don’t stop me. Just shifts a little so I’ve got more room. I swear she lowkey leans into it.

My mouth moves before I can stop it.

“She’s saying, ‘That’s okay… hey baby, do what you want…’”

Diana raises a brow without turning her head.

“…I’ll be your night lovin’ thing, I’ll be the freak you can taunt…”

She laughs. Quietly. Barely. But I catch it.

“…You’re sick,” she says.

“Baby, I’m talented.”

I post another story that night. Just a blurry pic of her walking into the locker room. Caption:

“She trapped me in her heart. Dirty Diana, nah 😩🧎🏽‍♀️”

I tag her. Again. Still nothing. Still addicted.

This not even flirting no more. This is torment. This is soul possession. This is a grown woman who could end my entire career entertaining me. Watching. Letting me linger. Touch. Tease. Lose my mind.

I swear I heard her humming Dirty Diana in the locker room today. But maybe that’s just the demons I summoned talking.

Either way I’m not scared. I’m not stopping.

The win was clean. Easy, even. Everybody played well, nobody got hurt, and for once, Coach wasn’t breathing down our necks. We loaded up the bus all smiles, loud music, popcorn being thrown, and just enough chaos to feel like a team that loves each other. Spirits were high.

I was bored. Bored like the kind of bored that makes you flight risk.

Everybody’s room was standard. Basic keycard, bland lighting, twin beds too stiff for rest. But not hers. She’s a vet. The vet. Meaning she had the Presidential Suite. Double doors, blackout curtains, two showers, a fridge full of things she didn’t buy, and silence.

Most importantly: space.

She didn’t invite me. Of course not. Diana never invites me anywhere. She just tolerates the fact that I show up anyway. But I wasn’t in the mood to sneak tonight. I wanted to be let in. Wanted to watch her roll her eyes and open the door anyway.

So I call her. It rings twice.

“…Why are you calling me?”

I smile. “Why not?”

There’s a pause, then the sound of her breath leaving her nose like she already regrets answering. “…It’s late. And I’m tired.”

“I’m bored.”

“You’re in a hotel. Go find something to do.”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t?”

“I need stimulation.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“No—wait. Can I stay with you?”

Silence. Then: “No.” I grin, stretched out across my own boring-ass bed, phone resting on my cheek.

“You didn’t even let me plead my case.”

“There is no case,” she says flatly.

“I’m restless. My room sucks. And I just….wanna talk.” I pause. “You like talking.”

“I like peace.”

“And yet, I’m on your phone.”

Another long silence. I imagine her laying there in her expensive-ass bed, jaw tight, regretting every choice that led her to being on a roster with me.

“….Come Here.” she snaps. The line goes dead.

No sweet invitation. No “okay, fine, come cuddle.” It’s that low, fed-up tone. That ‘get your ass up here before I change my mind’ kind of tone. I throw on my hoodie like I’m suiting up for war and head to the elevator, smug as hell.

When I knock, she opens the door already mid-eye-roll. Arms crossed. Hair loose. Sports bra and joggers. No makeup. No braids. No effort.

Still fine as fuck. I smirk. “Missed me?” She steps back, says nothing.

The suite smells expensive. Clean linen, subtle cologne, faint lemon. Lights low. One huge king bed, made perfectly. A leather chair sits angled in the corner beside a full-length mirror and a table with half a glass of wine. There’s an untouched fruit tray on the dresser. Everything about it screams veteran luxury.

“I see you used your powers,” I say, stretching as I look around. “They got us in shoeboxes and you got a whole spa suite. Must be nice.”

She closes the door behind me with a sigh. “It’s what I deserve.”

I turn to her slowly. “What do I deserve?”

She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t flinch. Just walks past, brushing my shoulder on the way to the fridge like I’m just there. I follow her movement, eyes trailing her back. Long, lean, loose. She opens the fridge and grabs another mini wine bottle.

“You came all the way up here to annoy me?”

“I came up here because I was bored.”

“You are bored,” she mutters, cracking the seal. “Clearly.”

She doesn’t offer me any. Just walks to the leather chair and sits, crossing her legs like I’m not still standing in the middle of her space, trying to soak her up.

“So what now?” she says, leaning her cheek against her fist. “You gonna sing to me?”

I chuckle. “You know the lyrics better than I do at this point.”

“Unfortunately.”

I start wandering. Not sitting yet. Just trailing fingertips over the cool marble table. The edge of the mirror. My reflection flickers in the low light and I glance over my shoulder. She’s still watching.

I turn fully. “Why you got that chair set up like that? Facing the bed and the mirror?”

She raises a brow. “Why you asking questions you don’t want the answers to?”

I pause. Lips part slightly. The tension creeps in slow like fog.

“Maybe I do want the answer,” I say quietly.

“Maybe you don’t know what you’re asking.” I swallow. The way her voice drops. It’s not loud. It’s not even mean. It’s just direct. L I step closer. Still not cocky. Still lighthearted. Still playing that thin line between teasing and testing.

“You’re not scary, you know.”

“I don’t have to be scary. I just have to be real.”

I smile. “I like real.”

She tilts her head slightly. “No. You like games. Drama. Noise. You like saying my name in the locker room like you understand what it means.”

My eyes narrow, grin lingering.

“Dirty Diana,” I murmur, almost like I’m tasting it.

She finishes her wine in one slow sip. Then uncrosses her legs and leans forward.

“You sure you’re bored… or just stupid?” I step closer to the bed, finally sitting on the edge. My knees touch the floor. My hands rest between them.

“Maybe both.” She leans back again, slow and deliberate, watching the way I settle into her space.

The mirror reflects the shape of me. Her. The room. I see her shift in the chair, see her eyes trailing down my legs. No words. No move. Just patience. The kind that don’t come with warnings. The kind that lets you cook in your own decision.

I glance toward the bed. “I’m not tryna sleep, by the way.”

“Oh,” she hums, rising from the chair. “I know.”

No smiles. No flirting. No jokes. Just heat. Weight. Silence. And the door clicks shut behind me.

I’ve been messing with Diana for damn near a year.

Not messing messing. Not like that. Emotionally? I’ve been tormenting her with dramatic Michael Jackson lyrics, stalking her around the practice facility, and using every excuse to touch her like I don’t know what boundaries are. And she’s let me.

Teased me back sometimes. But never crossed that line.

I’m walking around her suite. Fingertips on her dresser, nose in her candle collection, peeking into the closet just to annoy her.

She hasn’t said much, just sits there in that leather chair with one leg crossed over the other, watching me like she’s the principal and I’m the reason she drank today.

“You know you like the attention,” I call over my shoulder, tugging on the edge of her bathrobe hanging off a hook. “Why else you upgrade your room like this? Wanted me to see the view?” No answer. I glance over.

She’s staring. Still. I grin, lean against the glass. “You gone say something or just undress me with your—”

“Sit.”

I blink. “Huh?”

Her voice sharpens. “Sit. Down.”

That tone. Oh, I sit. Not on the bed like I expected. But on the low bench at the foot of it. Still warm from my wandering.

Still a little smug. But I’m listening. I’d always listen to her. Even if my mouth stay smart, even if I act like I’m in control—I like following her lead.

She stands slowly. Stalks over. Quiet. Calm.

I’m still in a hoodie and shorts. Comfortable. Loose. But I feel exposed as hell the moment she gets in front of me. Not touching. Just towering. Her gaze pins me down like weight. My stomach flips.

“You wanna see dirty Diana?” she asks, low and slow, like a threat and a promise all in one.

I shift. “Girl don’t—” But it’s too late.

She leans down and her thumb traces my bottom lip—soft, then firm, dragging over the center. My lips part automatically. Breath caught. Knees tight. The air between us gets hot, heavy, wet with anticipation.

“You think you can handle me?” she murmurs. My thighs clench.

Deadass—I could’ve cum from that alone. Her voice. The nerve of her. The control. I stare at her with parted lips and dazed eyes, so clearly gone, and she smirks like she knows.

She does know. I shift again, about to speak, about to say something sarcastic—but she’s already walking back to her chair. Cool. Collected. She sits.

“Take your pants off.”

My heart skips. “What?”

“Take them off. And touch yourself.” I don’t move.

“If we’re doing this,” she says, voice cool and clear, “you’re gonna do it my way.”

Her eyes stay locked on mine. I look down for a second. My hoodie is bunched at my thighs. My fingers tremble when I hook into the waistband. She raises a brow. I breathe deep and slide them down, slow. It feels too slow, but maybe that’s the point.

Now I’m bare, thighs spread, still seated at the foot of her bed, her eyes drinking me in like she’s waited for this. Like she knew I’d fold eventually.

My fingers trail down softly. Just the outer lips at first. Teasing. Slow.

But she doesn’t let me settle into it. Doesn’t give me a chance to get comfortable. Not when I start to look away, flustered, trying to calm the heat flooding me.

“Don’t look away,” she says sharply. “You wanted this, right?”

My eyes shoot back up. It’s hard to keep them there. My legs are shaking, mouth parted, breath catching on every inhale. My fingers dip lower. Find that soft, sensitive spot and circle it slowly. My hips twitch. But it’s the eye contact that breaks me.

It’s her face.

It’s the way she watches me, lips slightly parted, one hand gripping the arm of the chair, that dark gaze fixed like she’s inside me already.

I moan—soft, high, breathy. My head tips back for a second but I catch myself. Glance up. That’s when she stands.

She walks over. No rush. No sound. She crouches in front of me, between my knees. Lifts my chin with one hand. Firm grip. Steady.

“Eyes on me,” she says. “You keep ‘em open.”

Her thumb brushes the corner of my mouth again, and I gasp. My fingers are still working but it’s not even that anymore. It’s her. It’s the power she has over me. The way she can command my body without touching anything but my face.

And when our eyes lock. I fall apart.

My other hand reaches up, clutching her wrist like a lifeline. My back arches. I try to keep breathing but every moan is a sob now. Not loud—just desperate. Messy. Deep from the gut.

“Fuck,” I whisper, voice barely there.

She leans in, nose brushing mine. “That’s it.”

My eyes flutter again but she holds my face tighter. “Look at me.”

And I do. I look. I fall. And I cum. It’s not violent. It’s not fast. It’s sensual. Warm and wet and slow, like being swallowed whole by a wave I never saw coming. I can’t stop it. I don’t want to.

My fingers slow. My thighs twitch. My hand is shaking against her wrist and she finally lets my chin go. But I don’t move.

I just breathe. Chest rising and falling. Hoodie damp with sweat. Face hot. Body trembling.

She watches me the whole time. Silent. Smirking. Like Dirty Diana finally showed her teeth.

I should’ve paid attention.

Not to the way she said “come up,” not even to the cuffs she somehow already had on hand like this was a setup—but to her silence. The way she didn’t smirk when she snapped the second cuff behind my back. The way she didn’t warn me.

Real killers don’t announce themselves.

She just watched me with this calm, focused look, like she wasn’t undressing me—just deciding which part she wanted first.

I was still recovering from the orgasm she dragged out of me with a single command and her voice, wrists locked behind me now, legs open like I forgot how to close them. I’m dazed. Hot. Breathing heavy. I’m stupid enough to think we’re done.

She hasn’t even started.

She drops back between my legs without ceremony—like she lives there, like it’s hers. Her hands smooth over my thighs again, a little slower this time. Gentle, almost. Like she’s checking to see if I’ve caught on yet.

I haven’t. Then she slaps me.

Not hard. Not the way people expect when they hear the word—but sharp enough to sting, timed perfectly with her palm landing flat between my thighs. I jerk. Suck in air.

“Oh, you like that,” she mutters, almost to herself. “Of course you do.”

She does it again, just to prove a point. The wet sound of her palm meeting me is loud in the room, louder than my choked little moan, louder than my pride slipping out the cracks of my mouth.

“You get off on this, huh?” Her voice is lower now. “Acting like a brat all season. Quoting songs. Touchin’ me without permission. You wanted me to break you.”

I try to deny it—try to say something—but my words die in my throat. Because when she spits on it—again—and drags her fingers slow through it, I nearly fall forward.

She clicks her tongue. “Keep those legs open.”

I nod before I can think. “Y-yeah.”

“Yeah?” she repeats, fingers sliding up to circle my clit with a light, taunting pressure. “Yeah what?”

I freeze. Fuck. “…Yes ma’am.”

Her pause is immediate. Her hand stops moving, but her eyes..They burn. She tilts her head just slightly, lips parted, like she’s never been more entertained in her life.

“What’d you just call me?”

I swallow, embarrassed. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did,” she interrupts. “You meant it.”

She leans in. Mouth brushing over my inner thigh, slow and warm and close enough to feel but not enough to satisfy. Her breath is so hot it makes me twitch.

“You ever been ruined, baby?” she asks softly. “Not fucked. Ruined.” I can’t even answer.

She doesn’t wait.

Her tongue replaces her fingers like they never existed—slick and slow, dragging the wetness she stirred back up with steady pressure that makes my head spin. And just as I start to fall into it, her fingers slide in—deep, slow, patient.

I cry out. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a quiet, raw sound that slips out of me before I can catch it.

“Oh, that’s cute,” she says against me, lips brushing my clit. “I haven’t even done anything.”

Her fingers move in this rhythm that feels learned. Not fast. Not brutal. But heavy. Intentional. Like she’s been waiting a whole year to give me exactly what I need—and make me beg for what I can’t take.

She sucks my clit again, a little harder this time, and her fingers curl just right. My back arches. My knees try to close, and she slaps the side of my thigh again—just a tap.

“Don’t you dare,” she warns. I whimper.

“What’s the matter?” she murmurs, fingers dragging out slow just to push back in deeper. “Cat got your tongue? Where’s all that mouth now?”

“I—I can’t—”

She chuckles. “Oh, you will. I want you sayin’ everything. Loud.”

She slows again. Just enough to make me ache. Her mouth barely there. Her fingers still knuckle-deep.

“Say what you called me again,” she says, tongue flicking lightly. “I dare you.”

I hesitate. I’m shaking. Panting. I look down at her and instantly regret it—she looks too good like this. Jaw locked. Cheeks flushed. In full control. Like she owns me.

“…Yes ma’am,” I breathe again. Soft. Fragile. And she grins.

“Good girl.” It’s over. No, it’s on.

She drags her mouth over me again with purpose, not mercy. Fingers fucking up into me with new pace, more depth. Her tongue tight and consistent, sucking and circling until I’m losing track of myself. Of time. Of how I ended up here.

She’s not saying anything now. Doesn’t need to. She just works me. Turns me inside out. I hold onto the only thing I can—her wrist.

Because I’m dripping. Legs trembling. Head back, teeth clenched. Every inch of me feels open and alive and owned.

This was never a game to her. Not really.

It looked like one because I was the one playing loud—joking in the locker room, quoting lyrics like I wrote ’em, touching her arms, her thighs, posting her on my story like she was just another crush.

She was silent. Measured. Plotting.

I fell for it. Cocky, flirty, too dazed off a soft orgasm to realize the cuffs weren’t a reaction—they were premeditated. She came prepared. Not just with the chain around my wrists or the quiet, slow-deep fingers making me forget how to breathe. No.

She had everything. Because Coach tells her things first.

Like hotel plans. Room arrangements. Which floor the rookies are on. And how close our doors are.

She didn’t just bring wine and sweats and a charger—she brought a whole strap. Packed it like a toothbrush. Because she knew.

Knew I’d find my way to her. Knew I’d test her limits. Knew eventually I’d sit right where she wanted, legs open, wrists bound, breath shaky, wet enough to slide into without warning.

So when she stands again, eyes slow-dragging over me like I’m a mess she enjoys cleaning up, I know. This isn’t heat-of-the-moment. This was step six in a playbook I never got to read.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just walks to her travel bag like she’s grabbing a hoodie. Unzips it casual. Quiet. Then I see it.

Black harness. Clean, sleek, no-nonsense. She doesn’t turn to look at me when she straps it on. Just adjusts it like she’s done it a thousand times and always knew this one would be for me.

I shift. Legs still open. Wrists aching a little behind my back, but I’m not tapping out. Not yet. She comes back slow, voice cool.

“You done?”

I blink, breath still shaky. “What?”

She tilts her head. “All that mouth you got. You done now?”

I nod before I realize I’m nodding.

She climbs onto the bed like a storm. Stalks over me, pushing me flat, flipping me quick so my cuffed wrists are pressed into the sheets and her hand is fisting the back of my hoodie to keep me still.

“You wanna be fucked like a problem?” she says low, lips by my ear. “Then don’t run.”

I moan on instinct. She hasn’t even touched me again yet.

“This what you wanted, huh? Acting up all season. Thinking I wasn’t watching you.” I whimper, thighs spread.

“No warm-up,” she murmurs, pushing her hips forward against me with one slow grind. “You get what I give you, baby.”

The first thrust makes me gasp. Loud. My mouth opens but nothing comes out except breath. I wasn’t ready. She knew that. That’s why she did it.

“Take it,” she says. I do. Because I have no choice.

Her hand’s on my neck now, pinning me to the bed while her hips roll with steady, unrelenting force. She’s not trying to be sweet. Not trying to make it pretty. This is work. This is ownership.

I try to catch my breath, try to say something—anything—but her mouth is already there. She kisses me hard, sloppy, open-mouthed. Tongue in my throat. Swallowing the sounds before they ever make it out.

“You don’t need to say anything,” she breathes, biting my bottom lip. “Ain’t nothing you got to say that matters right now.”

I moan against her mouth. “D-Diana—fuck—”

She thrusts harder. Deeper. One of her hands slides down, finding my clit like it lives there. Rubbing it in rough circles while she fucks into me like it’s personal.

“Don’t look away now,” she hisses when my head starts to turn.

I can’t help it. My eyes roll. My hips push back. I’m whining now—soft, helpless.

“Yeah,” she growls. “Cry. Pass out. Scream if you want. I’ll stop if you tap…but you not gone do that.” She’s right.

My body’s shaking. My legs won’t stay still. She bites my shoulder as she keeps going, never slowing, like this was her job and I’m just her project.

I breathe her name again—more like a prayer than a plea. I feel her grin against my neck.

“Don’t ever play with my name again,” she whispers.

Then slaps my ass, hips hitting harder.

I almost do. Almost tap. But I don’t. I just take it. Exactly like she knew I would.

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