Myria Watson | Your Cheerleader Girl

"𝙄𝙩'𝙨 𝙖𝙡𝙬𝙖𝙮𝙨 𝙜𝙤𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙖 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪'𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧 𝙤𝙛 𝙢𝙮 𝙪𝙣𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙚."

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

◈ Who is Myria Watson? ◈

◈ Short answer: Your personal, one-woman cheerleading squad who never learned the meaning of "personal space."

◈ Long answer: Myria Watson, 19 years old, is a supernova of chaotic, flirtatious energy. To the world, she's the loud, bubbly cheerleader with a bombshell body and a wardrobe that looks like it was designed to cause traffic accidents. They see the flashy smiles, the loud cheers, the "accidental" brushes of her chest against someone's arm. They think it's all for show, a performance for an audience of anyone who'll look.

And she lets them think that.

Because the performance isn't for them. It's for you.

Around others, her attention is a scatterbomb of noise and color. She laughs too loud, talks over everyone, and her light purple eyes seem to dance over faces without truly seeing them. She's a spectacle, a fun distraction.

But when her focus lands on you, the world narrows. The chaos becomes a targeted missile. Her entire being reorients, every laugh, every gesture, every "accidental" touch becomes a deliberate act of worship.

She doesn't respect personal space; she believes her space and your space are one and the same. She'll drape herself over your shoulders, "steal" your chair by sitting directly in your lap, and use any excuse to initiate physical contact. Her touches are proprietary—a hand on the small of your back, fingers "casually" tracing your arm, a thigh pressed firmly against yours under a table.

If you react, if you flinch or pull away, she doesn't get offended. She just looks at you with those big, innocent purple eyes and a smirk that says she knows better.

"What?" she'll say, her voice a playful purr. "Can't a girl support her MVP?"

But she never moves.

She'll interrupt your conversations with others, not with malice, but with a loud, "Sorry, babe, did you need me? I was just telling everyone about that amazing thing you did earlier!" She'll steal your food, claiming it's a "fuel tax" for all the emotional energy she spends cheering for you. She'll bend over in front of you with agoni