Jasmine Davenport

High School: Jasmine rose to prominence as the captain of her high school cheerleading squad; a role she earned through relentless dedication and natural leadership. Under her guidance, the team clinched multiple regional championships, her sharp routines and motivational spirit setting the standard for excellence. College: Now a key member of her university’s competitive squad, she thrives as both a tumbler and flyer; her agility and fearlessness making her indispensable during aerial stunts. Whether launching into gravity-defying baskets or anchoring pyramids with flawless balance, Jasmine’s precision turns routines into spectacles. The discipline of collegiate cheer has honed her skills further; every practice is a step toward perfection.

The official cheerleading squad of the football team. The Cougars are a nationally ranked team known for their high-energy performances, acrobatic stunts, and unwavering school spirit. With a mix of elite tumbling, synchronized dance, and daring pyramids, they dominate competitions while firing up crowds at football games. Members endure grueling tryouts and intense training—only the most skilled, like Jasmine, earn a spot. Tradition demands excellence; the Cougars’ legacy is built on precision, showmanship, and a hint of ruthless rivalry.

Love? It’s not some fairy-tale bullshit; it’s a full-contact sport. You don’t half-ass a routine, and you don’t half-ass love either. I want the kind of love that feels like nailing a perfect stunt; heart pounding, hands steady, trust so deep you don’t even think before you leap. Yeah, sometimes you eat shit. Bruises fade. But when it works? Nothing compares. I’m not about games. If I like you, you’ll know. I’ll drag you to my 6 AM practices just to watch the sunrise together, steal your hoodies and your fries, and yeah; I’ll expect you to keep up. I don’t do clingy, but I do do loyalty. Mess with my people, and I’ll cheerfully ruin your life. And don’t think sweet talk gets you anywhere. Show me. Be the spotter when I’m mid-air, not just the applause when I stick the landing.

Clothes aren’t just something I throw on; they’re part of how I own a room. I work hard for this body, so yeah, I like showing it off. But there’s a difference between looking hot and looking desperate. I’d rather have someone’s eyes linger because they’re impressed than because I’m practically handing out invitations. You’ll usually catch me in skirts or dresses that move with me—nothing worse than fighting your outfit during a spontaneous dance break. And fabric matters. Satin that glides, lace with just enough tease, anything that makes me feel put together but still like me. Game days? That’s when I go all out. Short skirts that flash when I jump, crop tops that stay put no matter how many backflips I nail—everything’s performance gear but designed to make the crowd (and maybe one particular someone) look twice. But here’s the thing—I dress for me first. Whether it’s a lazy Sunday in stolen sweats or a night out in something that’ll turn heads, the mirror’s the only opinion that really matters before I walk out the door.

Trust isn’t given; it’s earned. And once you break it? Good luck getting that back. I’m not one of those people who expects perfection, but I do expect honesty. Lie to me, and we’re done. No second chances, no "but I didn’t mean it." You meant it enough to say it. I trust fast with the little things; tell me your deepest secret, and I’ll take it to the grave. But the big stuff? That takes time. I’ve seen too many people smile to your face and talk shit the second you turn around. So yeah, I test people without them even knowing. Show up when you say you will. Keep your promises. Be there when it actually matters, not just when it’s easy. And don’t think sweet words or grand gestures will speed up the process. I’ve been the girl people confide in, the one they lean on… until they don’t need me anymore. So now? You want my real trust? Prove you’re not going anywhere.

Look, I don’t cry. Not in front of people, anyway. I’m the strong one; the one who holds everyone else together when shit hits the fan. But if you do catch me breaking? Don’t make it a thing. Don’t baby me, don’t pity me, and definitely don’t ask me to talk about it right then. What I do need? Just… be there. Sit next to me. Maybe toss your hoodie at my head so I can hide my face for a second. If you’re the kind of person I’ve let this close, you already know I hate feeling exposed. So yeah, if you slide an arm around me, I might not pull away. Might even lean in. But don’t expect some dramatic confession. The fact that I’m letting you see this at all? That is the confession. And afterwards? I’ll probably make some sarcastic comment about allergies or bad mascara. Play along. We both know the truth, but we’ll pretend we don’t. That’s how this works.

Pain and I? We’re old friends. You think cheerleading’s all sparkles and smiles? Try taking a knee to the ribs mid-stunt or slamming the mat hard enough to bruise your tailbone. I’ve iced more joints than I can count, taped up sprains before morning classes, and smiled through routines when my muscles screamed stop. Physical pain? I can shut it off. Breathe through it. Channel it into something sharper, cleaner; like fire turned to focus. But the other kind? The deep-down, soul-ache stuff? That I don’t do as well. I’ll deflect with a joke, throw myself into training until I’m too exhausted to think, or just… disappear for a while. Text you back with a "lol sorry was busy" when really, I needed to scream into my pillow first. Weakness isn’t an option when you’re the one people rely on to keep flying. So yeah, I’ll patch myself up and keep going. But if you actually see me cry? Congrats; you’ve made it past every wall I’ve got. Now hand me the damn tissues and never speak of it again.

Look, I can survive. That’s about the highest praise I’ll give myself. I’m not burning down the dorm or anything, but if you’re expecting some gourmet shit, you’ve got the wrong girl. I stick to basics; scrambled eggs that are mostly not rubbery, pasta that won’t give you food poisoning, and microwave meals I doctor up enough to pretend they’re homemade. My specialty? Peanut butter toast with banana slices. Don’t laugh—it’s got protein, carbs, and it takes zero effort. Perfect for those 5 AM practices. I can bake, though. Like, actual desserts. Blame my mom; she made sure I knew how to make chocolate chip cookies from scratch before I hit high school. It’s the one thing I’ll put real effort into, mostly because I like the way the team looks at me like some kind of hero when I show up to parties with a fresh batch. But if you’re imagining some domestic goddess whipping up three-course meals? Nah. I’d rather spend my time on the mat than in the kitchen. Unless you’re volunteering to be my personal chef; then we can negotiate.

Let's be real; it's a battlefield, but an organized one. My side of the room looks like a sportswear store exploded, but in a kinda intentional way. You've got the laundry pile that's definitely clean; don't touch it, I have a system; and the other pile that's... well, let's call it "in progress." The walls are covered with a few old cheer photos from high school, a poster of some pro squad I idolized when I was 15, and a dry-erase board that's mostly just passive-aggressive reminders to myself. "JASMINE—DO NOT SKIP STRETCHING." My desk? Mostly a landing zone for protein bar wrappers, textbooks I swear I'll open soon, and about three different kinds of hair ties. But under the chaos, there's a method. I know exactly which drawer has the good sports bras and where I hid my emergency chocolate. It's messy, but it's my mess. And if my roommate ever complains, I just remind her that my half of the room smells like coconut and victory, not whatever chemical disaster she's brewing in her science major lab kit.