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pucksandpower · 2 days ago

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The Ghosts We Carry

Charles Leclerc x Bianchi!Reader

Summary: it’s funny, really, how the same tragedy can have such different effects on two people. Jules’ death drove Charles to chase the finish line with more fervor than ever, but also drove his sister as far away from any reminder of racing as possible … until their worlds collide again for the first time in nearly a decade and the flames of each other’s first loves are fanned once more

Warnings: descriptions of PTSD, panic attacks, a fatal crash, grief, and emotional abuse

“You’re doing it again.”

You don’t look up from the sink. The dishes aren’t even dirty — just rinsed glasses from this morning’s coffee — but your hands are shaking, and you need something to hold. Something to do. Something that isn’t the conversation you’ve been dodging for the last three days.

“Doing what?” You ask. Water keeps running over your fingers like it might rinse away the dread crawling under your skin.

“Zoning out.” Vincent’s voice echoes across the apartment. It’s that particular brand of annoyed he reserves just for you. “It’s like talking to a brick wall lately.”

You clench your jaw. You count to three. “I’m just tired.”

“Tired,” he repeats, laughing under his breath like you’ve told a joke. “You’re always tired.”

You turn off the tap. The silence is sudden and thick.

He’s sitting at the tiny kitchen table, all angles and Hugo Boss, scrolling through his phone like you’re an app he’s already bored of. His blazer’s still on from work. There’s a wine glass in front of him, untouched, because red doesn’t pair with takeout. You ordered Thai. He said it was too spicy. Again.

You dry your hands slowly. “I didn’t sleep well.”

“You never sleep well.” He doesn’t look up. “You should talk to someone about that. A doctor. Or maybe just try magnesium or something. That stuff’s meant to help.”

It’s always solutions with Vincent. Never space. Never softness.

You swallow. The kitchen’s warm, but your arms break out in goosebumps. “I don’t need magnesium. I need-”

“What?” His gaze flicks up. “What do you need?”

You hesitate. You hate the way his eyes sharpen like that — cool and assessing, like he’s gearing up to debate, not to listen.

Vincent stands. Moves toward you. “Hey,” he says, softer now. Calculated. “I didn’t mean to be a dick.”

You flinch when his hand reaches for your arm. You hope he doesn’t notice.

“I’m just stressed with work,” he continues. “The agency’s putting pressure on the team and then my parents started going on about the summer, and now that the invitations are here-”

You freeze. “What invitations?”

He blinks, like he didn’t mean to say it. “Monaco.”

Your chest tightens instantly. The air tilts. You grip the edge of the counter to stay upright. “What do you mean Monaco?”

He sighs, pushing a hand through his perfectly tousled hair. “The Grand Prix. My parents got us tickets. You know they go every year. They want us there.”

“No.”

It’s out before you can stop it. Reflexive. Immediate.

Vincent’s jaw twitches. “Come on.”

“I’m not going.”

“You haven’t even heard-”

“I don’t need to hear it.” Your voice shakes now, uneven. “You said you’d never ask me to go back.”

“That was years ago,” he says, as if grief has an expiration date.

You blink fast. The room starts to distort at the edges, just slightly. The refrigerator hum is too loud. There’s a faint rumble from outside — a motorcycle or maybe a sports car tearing through the Marais — and it hits you so hard your stomach flips. Your breath stutters.

Vincent notices. His expression hardens.

“I told you,” you whisper, bracing yourself on the counter again. “I can’t. I can’t be near that again.”

“You can’t live your whole life avoiding it.” His voice is cold again. “Jesus, it’s been over ten years.”

You flinch like he’s hit you.

He must see it, because he sighs and rubs his eyes. “Okay. Okay, that came out wrong.”

You say nothing.

“I just …” Vincent tries again. “This is important to me.”

Your mouth opens. Then closes.

He steps closer. “They’ll all be there. My team. My boss. Clients. It’s not just a race — it’s a whole weekend of networking.”

“Then go,” you say quietly.

“You’re my girlfriend.”

You stare at him. You want to scream. You want to run. You want to rewind the last five minutes and toss the whole conversation in the Seine.

Instead, you whisper, “I can’t watch cars go in circles without thinking about the one that didn’t come back.”

Vincent’s face changes for a beat — pity, or guilt, or something in between — but it vanishes fast. Replaced with that tired look again. The one that tells you he’s had this conversation too many times. The one that says you’re exhausting.

“I’m not asking you to sit in the grandstands,” he says, trying for gentler. “We’ll stay at the hotel. Go to a few dinners. Smile for some pictures. You don’t even have to go near the track if you don’t want to.”

You’re already shaking your head.

“There’ll be music. Parties. Beach things. You love the Riviera.” He smiles, like he’s selling it. “And it’s been a decade. You can’t even hear the engines from most of the town.”

“That’s not-” You cut yourself off. Your throat is tight.

Vincent tilts his head. “It’s not like Jules would want you to-”

“Don’t,” you snap.

He stops.

“Don’t bring him into this. Don’t you dare.”

Vincent exhales slowly, hands raised in mock surrender. “Fine. Okay. I won’t.”

The silence sits between you, thick with everything unsaid.

You press your palms to your eyes. The tile floor is cold beneath your bare feet. Your heart is thudding in your throat, and your chest still hasn’t unclenched from that sound outside.

You haven’t been back to Monaco in ten years. Not since the funeral in Nice. Not since the longest week of your life, when everything smelled like sea salt and grief and lilies. You were sixteen and trying to remember how to breathe while everyone else wore sunglasses and whispered in corners. Charles had cried through his eulogy. You’d left before the after-service lunch.

Vincent’s voice cuts back in, low now. Measured. “Look. I know it’s hard for you. But I’m asking for one weekend. That’s all. One weekend for me.”

You stare at him. There’s a buzzing in your ears.

“I’ll make it easy,” he adds. “We’ll do dinners. Some yacht party. You don’t even have to wear heels.”

You almost laugh. But you’re tired. Not just today. All the time. Of fighting, explaining, flinching at shadows.

So you nod. Slowly. “Just the weekend.”

His smile is quick, triumphant. “I’ll let my parents know.”

You don’t say anything else. You don’t trust your voice.

Vincent returns to the table, already texting. Probably confirming dinner reservations. You stay in the kitchen. You rinse the same glass for the third time. The water’s ice-cold now, but you can’t feel your hands.

Across the apartment, the TV turns on. A broadcaster’s voice echoes faintly: “… Monaco, always a spectacle, and this year promises no less …” The roar of engines rises underneath it, and you clamp your eyes shut.

You can’t breathe. You stare at the sink. At your shaking hands. At the suds circling the drain.

You think about Jules. About his last voicemail. About the way he used to tap your helmet before every karting session and say, “Don’t think. Just feel.”

You feel everything now. And it’s all too much. But still, you said yes. And Monaco is waiting.

***

The plane lands in Nice just after noon. You stare straight ahead, knuckles white on the armrest. Vincent is already checking his emails before the wheels even touch the runway.

Outside the window, the coastline yawns out in sun-washed glory. But all you can think about is how the air feels too close, too thick. You’re breathing, but it doesn’t feel like it’s working.

“You okay?” Vincent asks without looking up.

You nod once, lie through your teeth. “Fine.”

The drive to Monaco is exactly as you remember it — winding, glittering, cruel. The sea on one side, too beautiful, too eternal. And the rocks on the other, jagged like teeth.

You keep your gaze low. You used to watch this road with Jules, your noses pressed to the window of your father’s car, pointing out yachts and motorcycles. You used to count Ferraris like they were constellations. Now every curve makes your stomach twist.

Vincent talks most of the ride. Something about his boss. Something about dinner tonight. Something about a rooftop brunch where “you’ll love the view.” He doesn’t notice that your hands won’t stop fidgeting or that your voice has gone flat.

By the time you pass the faded billboard for Cap d’Ail, your chest is so tight you think it might crack.

***

Monaco looks the same. Worse, it feels the same.

A sunlit dollhouse of wealth and nostalgia. Bougainvillea climbing balconies. Pastries too pretty to eat. The glint of gold and sea spray. And underneath it all, the faint hum of something mechanical — unavoidable, omnipresent. Like a ghost just under the surface.

Vincent’s phone rings as you cross into the city. “It’s my mother,” he says. “She’s already at the hotel. Do you mind if I-”

You wave him off, still staring out the window. Still trying not to break.

The car snakes through the streets, past boutiques and awnings and roads you once knew by heart. You blink, and there it is: Rue Grimaldi. You see a little girl standing on a balcony, holding a homemade Ferrari flag, her dad lifting her onto his shoulders.

Your lungs stutter. You were that girl once.

You used to scream yourself hoarse every May, wedged between Jules and Charles, arms tangled, cheeks sunburnt. The Bianchi and Leclerc families shared a balcony back then — one big mess of folding chairs and paper cups and your father shouting split times in overly excited French. You remember laughing so hard at Charles’ sunhat once that you fell off the cooler you were sitting on and scraped your knee. Jules gave you his bandana and told you it made you look fast.

You press a hand to your chest now, like it might stop the memory from flooding your ribs.

“Hotel de Paris,” the driver says gently, pulling up to the curb.

You step out, and the heat hits you like a slap. Monaco in May always felt like standing in a champagne bottle just before the cork blows — glittering, effervescent, almost unbearable.

Vincent is already halfway through the revolving doors, still on the phone.

You hesitate. Just for a second. Then you follow.

***

The hotel is chaos in designer clothing. People check in with luggage the size of coffins, draped in linen and logos. Somewhere behind you, a woman with a British accent is yelling about VIP passes.

You stare at the chandelier.

It’s the same one from your childhood. Jules once dared Charles to touch it, and Charles tried — jumped off a bench and nearly broke his arm. You can still hear the thud, the scream, your mother’s gasp.

You can’t do this.

You turn toward Vincent, who’s wrapping up his call. “I need air.”

He glances up. “Now?”

“I’ll just be a second.”

He doesn’t argue, just nods and mouths don’t get lost like you’re a child.

You walk fast. Out the doors. Down the steps. Past the tourists and the flower carts and the too-bright race banners strung between buildings like celebration scars.

You keep going. Every corner has a memory. The bakery where Jules used to buy raspberry tarts before karting practice. The alley where you and Charles once skipped an entire dinner party and got caught kissing behind a Vespa. The gelato stand with the chipped blue awning where Jules taught you how to say “stracciatella” without sounding like a tourist.

You stop. The stand’s still there. Same old man, same tiny freezer. His hair’s gone grey, but his hands are the same — broad and kind.

He looks up. “Ciao, piccola.”

Your throat closes.

He stares a beat longer, recognition flickering. “La sorellina di Jules?”

You nod slowly. “Hi.”

He smiles, small and sad. “You’ve grown.”

You almost laugh. You want to ask how long it’s been. If he still thinks about Jules. If the whole town does. But all you can say is, “Do you still have stracciatella?”

He hands it to you without a word.

***

You walk and eat and try to feel normal. You fail.

The streets are already crowded. Men in branded polos. Girls in vintage sunglasses. Kids in Ferrari hats dart between tables and café chairs, holding autograph books with hope heavy in their hands.

You should turn around. You should go back to the hotel. Instead, you find yourself outside the building where Charles used to live.

It’s quiet here. Tucked between a pharmacy and a florist, just above a steep stone staircase. You and Charles used to race down it when you were kids, then beg for granita from the stall at the bottom.

You stare up at the second-floor windows. The old shutters are still crooked. One is open. A white curtain dances in the breeze like it remembers you.

A laugh bubbles up in your throat. Sharp. Painful.

“You okay?”

You jump.

It’s a woman — early thirties, glossy ponytail, holding a toddler in one arm and a baguette in the other. She smiles at you with the kind of easy concern strangers in small towns reserve for familiar ghosts.

“Yeah,” you say. “I’m fine.”

She tilts her head. “You look like someone I used to know.”

You force a smile. “Maybe.”

The toddler tugs her sleeve. “Maman, vite!”

The woman glances back, then looks at you again. “Take care, d’accord?”

You nod. And then they’re gone.

***

By the time you get back to the hotel, Vincent’s already changed for dinner.

He frowns when you walk in. “Where did you go?”

“Out.”

“You disappeared.”

“I texted.”

“You didn’t.”

You hold up your phone. He doesn’t check.

Instead, he moves toward you, all polished concern. “You look pale.”

“I’m tired.”

“You’re always tired,” he says again, softer this time, but it still cuts. “Maybe tomorrow we’ll just do the brunch and skip the paddock.”

You stiffen. “There was never going to be a paddock.”

He raises his hands. “Right. Sorry.”

You sit on the edge of the bed and stare out the window. The view is cruel — Port Hercules and all its glittering arrogance. The stands are already half up. You can see the trace of the track running like a scar through the city.

It feels like someone’s cracked your ribs open and stuffed Monaco inside.

Vincent is talking again. Outfit choices. Restaurant menus. Who’s coming tonight.

You hear none of it. Your eyes are fixed on the sea. On the curve of the road near the tunnel entrance. You remember the exact angle. You remember the call. The scream. The silence.

“I saw someone today,” you say, cutting through his monologue.

He pauses. “Who?”

“Just … someone from before.”

He looks confused. “From school?”

“No. From before that.”

A beat.

“Does it feel weird?” He asks, and it takes you a second to realize he’s trying. “Being back?”

You nod once. “It feels like being inside a snow globe someone won’t stop shaking.”

He doesn’t laugh. You don’t expect him to.

Vincent sits beside you, hands folded. He doesn’t touch you. Just says, “We can leave after Sunday. First thing Monday morning.”

You nod again. But deep down, you already know that something’s shifting. You felt it in the curve of that staircase. In the cracked window shutters. In the taste of stracciatella that still melts the same way it did when you were twelve.

You came back to survive a weekend. But Monaco remembers everything.And it’s not done with you yet.

***

“You’ll want to wear flats,” Vincent says, rifling through his cologne collection. “There’s a lot of walking.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, frozen with one shoe in your hand. “Flats for brunch?”

He doesn’t look up. “Change after. We’re heading to the paddock first.”

Your stomach drops.

“No,” you say quickly, standing. “You said we weren’t doing the paddock.”

Vincent straightens his tie. “Change of plans.”

Your voice cracks. “Vincent.”

“They’re expecting us.” He finally glances at you, holding his phone like a shield. “I wasn’t going to, but then Julien texted — he got us on the list. It’s not like we have to stay long.”

You’re already shaking your head. “I told you I can’t go.”

“It’s not the race yet,” he says, too casually. “It’s just the setup. Garage tours. Some driver meet-and-greets. It’ll be fun.”

Your jaw clenches. “Fun?”

He moves toward you, adjusting your hair like it’s a stray thread. “You’re being dramatic.”

You pull away. “You said I wouldn’t have to-”

“It’s been ten years, babe.” He sighs. “You’re still letting this control you.”

You stare at him, something hot and acidic rising in your chest. “This?”

He doesn’t flinch.

You walk to the window, heart hammering. The harbor below is crowded with floating palaces and people in team colors. A roar rises in the distance — an engine firing up, aggressive and guttural. You grip the windowsill. Your nails dig into the wood.

Vincent’s voice softens. “I thought if you saw it up close, maybe it wouldn’t feel so … big anymore.”

The buzzing starts in your ears. You barely hear him now.

“Babe,” he adds gently, like that might help. “You can handle it.”

But you can’t. You know that already. Still, you nod. What else can you do? You nod, and you smile, and you tell him, “Just for a few minutes.”

He kisses your cheek like you’ve just agreed to champagne, not psychological warfare.

***

The walk to the paddock is short, but every step feels like glass. The closer you get, the louder it becomes — mechanics shouting, tires screeching against pavement, that ever-present metallic scream of engines revving to life. It’s everywhere, all at once. Surrounding you.

Vincent keeps his hand at the small of your back like you’re a purse he doesn’t want to lose.

The VIP gate is chaos. Wristbands, security, lanyards that smell like sunscreen and stress. You’re barely listening. Your focus narrows to the sounds — the clang of metal tools, the sharp whoosh of a pit gun. You feel it all in your teeth.

“Hey,” Vincent whispers. “Smile.”

You try. It doesn’t work.

Then you step inside. And the past slams into you like a wave.

Ferrari red. McLaren papaya. Red Bull navy. The garage walls bleed color and history, the logos shouting louder than the engines. The track is just beyond the chainlink, but the paddock buzzes like its own electric storm.

You smell fuel.You smell burning rubber. You smell 2004, and Jules holding your hand, and Charles swinging your arms between his like a human jump rope.

You stop walking.

“I need a second,” you whisper.

Vincent barely hears you over the roar of another engine coming to life. “What?”

“I just need-”

Too late.

There’s a cluster of photographers ahead, flashes going off in rapid bursts. A driver walks by, helmet under his arm. You barely register who it is — dark hair, sunglasses, some grin that probably belongs on billboards.

You turn the other way.

And that’s when you hear it.

“Y/N?”

It’s your name, but it doesn’t sound like it’s being said for the first time. It sounds like it’s being remembered.

You freeze. It’s not a hallucination.

It’s Charles.

The voice is unmistakable. Deeper now, but still threaded with that old warmth. You don’t turn around. You can’t.

“Y/N, wait!”

You don’t wait. You bolt.

Vincent calls after you, but his voice is drowned by the chaos. Your feet slap the pavement as you duck behind a Mercedes display, then slip through a tent flap like it’s a back door out of a nightmare.

You find yourself in a quiet corridor behind one of the media rooms. Empty. Dim. The sound muffled just enough that you can hear your heartbeat over it.

You press yourself against the wall. Breathe.

In. Out. In.

It doesn’t work.

Your palms are sweating. Your chest is too tight. Your vision starts to tunnel. You close your eyes and try to count — five things you can see, four things you can touch-

But everything’s vibrating. Inside and out.

You slide down the wall, fingers gripping your knees.

You feel twelve. You feel seventeen. You feel the moment the phone rang. You hear the doctor’s voice. You see your mother’s face. You hear Charles’ sobs when they lowered the casket.

You press your hands to your ears. “Stop,” you whisper. “Stop it.”

But your body doesn’t listen. The panic blooms like wildfire.

***

You don’t know how long you sit there. Could be five minutes. Could be twenty.

Eventually, the sounds dim. Your breathing evens. Your hands stop shaking enough to pull your phone from your purse.

You have eight missed calls from Vincent. You ignore them. Instead, you call a car.

***

Back at the hotel, the silence feels dangerous. Too still. Too clean.

You kick off your shoes and sit on the floor beside the bed. Cold marble against your spine. You stare at the ceiling and try not to cry. You fail.

By the time Vincent storms in, your mascara’s dried in streaks and your hands are still trembling.

“Are you kidding me?”

You don’t respond.

He slams the door. “You ran.”

You flinch. He notices. Pauses. Swears under his breath.

“Do you know how bad that looked?” He snaps. “Julien was trying to introduce you, and suddenly you’re gone? I had to make excuses for ten minutes-”

“I had a panic attack.”

That stops him cold.

You barely whisper it, but it’s enough.

His mouth opens. Then shuts.

You look up at him. “My first one in three years.”

Vincent blinks. “I didn’t-”

“No. You didn’t.”

He kneels in front of you, cautious now. “I thought maybe it would help.”

“You lied.”

“I was trying to help you move on.”

You laugh, hollow. “You don’t get to decide how I heal.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Jesus, Y/N. I didn’t mean for-”

You stand before he can finish. “I’m going to lie down.”

“You’re mad.”

“I’m not mad. I’m exhausted.”

He stares at you like you’re a puzzle he’s finally realizing he’ll never solve.

“Okay,” he says after a beat. “I’ll be at dinner.”

You don’t answer.

When the door shuts behind him, you let yourself fall back into the pillows. The quiet creeps in again, and this time you let it.

Your phone buzzes once on the nightstand. A text from an unknown number.

Are you okay?

You stare.

No name. But you know who it’s from. Charles found your number.

Your heart lurches in your chest, but you don’t answer.

Not yet. You’re not ready for that. Not tonight.

But the part of you that ran? The part that saw him and felt everything all over again? That part is still burning.

***

The morning of the race arrives like a cruel joke.

You wake to the sound of engines — distant, but unmistakable. They start early, echoing up from the hills like thunder rehearsing for disaster. You squeeze your eyes shut, bury your face in the pillow. If you don’t open them, maybe you won’t have to exist.

But then Vincent speaks.

“We should leave by ten,” he says casually, like he’s talking about brunch. “Traffic will be hell.”

You stiffen. “Leave for where?”

He’s at the mirror, adjusting his cufflinks. “The paddock club.”

Your stomach churns.

“We agreed we weren’t doing this again,” you say slowly.

“I know, but Julien insisted. And now that you’ve already met some of the team, it’ll be easier. Plus, you’ll be in the suite this time. Glass walls. Air conditioning. Free champagne.” He glances at you like that last part might sweeten the poison.

“I can’t.”

Vincent exhales, tight and impatient. “You said that yesterday.”

“I had a panic attack yesterday.”

“I’m not asking you to watch the race,” he snaps, then softens his voice like he didn’t. “You’ll be safe. You’ll be inside. You don’t even have to look at the track.”

You wrap your arms around your knees. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because it’s been ten years. And because you can’t keep living like this.”

You say nothing. What can you say? You’re not winning this fight. He’s already picking out your dress.

***

The paddock club is worse than you expected.

Polished and gleaming, every inch of it a performance — glass walls, white leather chairs, waiters in pressed uniforms offering trays of delicate things you can’t name. The race hasn’t started yet, but it feels like a warzone already. Noise everywhere. People everywhere. A camera crew in the corner. Laughter that doesn’t sound real.

You sit in the back, clutching your phone like a weapon. Your breathing is already too fast.

“Smile,” Vincent murmurs. “At least try to look like you’re not in mourning.”

You turn to him. “I am.”

He blinks. You look away before he can say anything.

The noise builds. You hear tire warmups. Practice start simulations. Over the loudspeakers: the deep, cinematic voice of the announcer calling out the grid, each driver’s name met with cheers that rattle the windows.

And then-

“Charles Leclerc. Monaco.”

The suite erupts.

The walls are glass, but you swear they close in. Your lungs aren’t working. Your hands are clammy. Your mouth tastes like metal.

Someone bumps into you. Laughs. Another cheer.

You stand. Too fast.

“Excuse me,” you murmur, stumbling toward the hallway. “I need … I need-”

But no one hears you.

You make it halfway to the corridor before the world spins. The lights blur. Your knees buckle. The floor tilts.

You collapse against the wall just outside the suite, trembling. Hands shaking, vision fractured.

You can’t breathe. You’re not here. You’re back there.

The hospital. The priest. Your mother screaming. The casket. The dirt. Charles gripping your hand so hard you bruised.

Your heart slams against your ribs. You gasp — once, twice — but the air doesn’t come. Your skin tingles, numb and hot at once. You try to speak, to scream, to something, but your body is locked.

And that’s when you finally break.

You fall. Down to the cold cement, curled between two hospitality tents like debris, your body giving out the way buildings do in earthquakes. Silent. Sudden. Devastating.

You cry until you choke.

***

It’s hours before he finds you.

Long after the chequered flag. After the roar dies down and the fans start to leave. After the interviews, the champagne, the national anthem played on home ground for the second time in his name.

Charles moves through the back corridor like a man searching for something lost.

And he finds you there — collapsed, silent now, forehead pressed to your knees, mascara streaked to your collarbones, dress crumpled like paper.

He freezes. Then steps closer, slowly.

“Kot doudou,” he whispers, crouching down. Sweetheart.

You flinch.

“Shhh,” he says quickly, gently. “C’est moi. C’est Charles.”

Your breathing hitches.

You don’t look up.

He doesn’t touch you — not yet — but his voice softens into something only you’ve ever known.

“Je suis là, d’accord? I’m here. Tu n’es pas seule. You’re not alone.”

Tears slip down your cheeks again.

“Regarde-moi. Look at me, please.”

Your head lifts.

And there he is. The same green eyes. The same scar above his eyebrow. But older. Wiser. Softer. Still him.

Charles reaches out, so slowly, fingers hovering just above your wrist.

“Puis-je? Can I?”

You nod.

His hand wraps around yours — warm, steady, real.

“You’re okay,” he says softly. “Tu es en sécurité maintenant. You’re safe now.”

A sob escapes your lips, sharp and desperate.

He pulls you into him.

You don’t even realize it’s happening until you’re wrapped in his arms, clinging to the white of his race suit like a lifeline. He cradles you with both hands, holding your head against his chest.

“Respire avec moi, d’accord? Breathe with me.”

In. Out.

“Comme ça. Like that.”

You match his rhythm, barely.

His voice is a metronome.

“Tu te souviens quand on courait dans les escaliers derrière l'appartement de ma mère? Do you remember those stairs we used to race down behind my mom’s flat?”

You nod, weakly.

“You used to cheat,” he says, smiling gently. “Tu criais ‘regarde!’ et puis tu me doublais.”

That pulls a tiny laugh from your throat. Barely there. But it’s something.

Charles strokes your back slowly.

“Et Jules te portait toujours quand tu tombais. You always made him carry you back up.”

Another breath. This one deeper.

“Il serait si fier de toi, tu sais? He’d be so proud of you.”

Your tears come harder then. Not like a collapse this time — but like a release.

And still, Charles doesn’t let go.

“Come with me,” he says finally, standing slowly, guiding you up with him. “I have a room. You can sit. Breathe.”

You nod again, unable to speak.

He leads you gently through the maze of tents, hands warm and grounding.

***

The driver’s room is small, private, cool. One chair. One couch. A fridge full of untouched water bottles.

He closes the door quietly behind you.

“Stay here,” Charles says. “I have ten minutes of press left. Maybe fifteen. I’ll be back before you miss me.”

You glance at him, voice raw. “You don’t have to-”

He holds up a finger. “Non. No arguing. Just sit. Rest.”

You sit.

He turns to go, but pauses in the doorway.

“I won,” he says quietly.

You blink.

“What?”

“The race,” he says, almost shy. “I won.”

A beat.

Your eyes widen.

“You — Charles.”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. But his smile says everything.

“You should be celebrating,” you say quickly, standing. “This is — this is huge. It’s Monaco, your home! Go-”

He steps forward.

“No.”

You stop.

“I’ve waited all season for that win,” he says softly. “And when it happened, I looked around and still didn’t feel complete. You know when I did?”

Your throat tightens.

He steps closer.

“When I saw you again.”

You try to look away.

He tilts your chin up with two fingers.

“I don’t want champagne,” he murmurs. “I want to know you’re breathing.”

You look up at him — really look.

And the boy you knew is still there.

Not buried. Not broken.

Just older. Like you.

You nod, slowly.

“I’m breathing,” you whisper.

His voice breaks a little. “Bon.”

Then he kisses your forehead, and everything in you finally, finally quiets.

***

The ride to Charles’ apartment is slow, winding through sleepy post-race Monaco. The streets are still littered with confetti, fencing half-disassembled, tourists wandering in a daze of heat and champagne. You sit in the passenger seat of his matte black Ferrari, window cracked, fingers curled into your lap. Still silent. Still unsure if this is real.

Charles drives one-handed, his wrist slung casually over the steering wheel like it’s second nature. It probably is.

He glances at you at a red light.

“You okay?”

You nod.

“You don’t have to pretend.”

You exhale, looking down at your fingers. “I don’t know what I am.”

“That’s okay,” he says, voice low and warm. “You’re allowed not to know.”

The light turns green.

The hum of the engine should set you off again, but somehow it doesn’t. Maybe it’s the calmness of his presence. Maybe it’s the way he keeps the radio off, lets the city sounds fill the silence without trying to fix it.

His apartment is tucked up in the hills, away from the yacht parties and billionaire noise. It’s quiet, modern, all warm neutrals and clean edges, but lived-in. There’s a pair of sneakers by the door, a hoodie crumpled on a chair, a water bottle half-full on the counter. It smells like citrus and laundry detergent.

And dog.

Because the moment you step inside, there’s a scrabbling of little paws.

“Leo!” Charles laughs as a beige blur launches toward you, tongue out, tail whipping like a metronome. “Gentil! Doucement!”

Leo the dachshund ignores all commands and beelines straight for your knees, snuffling at your dress with single-minded joy.

You blink down at him. “You got a dog?”

Charles shuts the door behind you. “Last year. He picked me.”

“He’s …” You crouch slowly, letting the dog sniff your fingers. “He’s got no sense of personal space.”

“He’s a Leclerc.”

You snort. “Touché.”

Leo plops on your foot, satisfied. You scratch behind his ears. Something in your chest softens.

Charles watches you with that quiet expression you remember so well. Thoughtful. Open.

“Come,” he says gently. “You need to eat.”

***

The kitchen is bright, sun-washed even at this hour. He pours you a glass of water before he even offers you anything else. Puts it in your hand like it’s sacred.

You sip, then drain the whole glass.

“I ordered from Il Giardino,” he says, sitting across from you at the marble island. “You remember?”

Your eyes widen. “Are you serious? That place is still open?”

“Best pizza in Monaco. Of course it is.”

“You used to eat half a pie in one minute.”

He grins. “Don’t challenge me.”

The pizzas arrive ten minutes later, delivered by someone who knows him well enough not to ask for a photo. You both sit cross-legged on the floor like teenagers, plates balanced on your knees.

You don’t speak at first.

The food is too good.

Or maybe it’s that you haven’t eaten a full meal in three days and your body is finally remembering it needs to survive.

Charles watches you as you eat. Not in a weird way, just … like it matters to him that you're eating at all.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” you say quietly, after the second slice. “About the race. The panic. I ruined your day.”

He shakes his head. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

“You won Monaco.”

“And I found you again.”

Your heart stumbles.

He adds, softer, “It feels like one miracle deserved another.”

You look down at your plate. “I didn’t think you’d want to see me.”

His voice is low. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because I ran.”

“I ran too. Just in a different direction.”

You blink.

He leans back on one arm. “You left, I know. But I stayed and buried myself in the thing that hurt most.”

You watch him carefully. He’s not looking at you anymore, just out the window, where the lights from the harbor flicker like memory.

“I used to think that if I won enough, drove fast enough, gave enough interviews saying I was okay … it would mean I was.” He shakes his head. “It didn’t work.”

Silence stretches between you, tender and wide.

“I couldn’t look at a track,” you admit. “I couldn’t even listen to the commentary on TV.”

“I know.”

You glance at him. “You do?”

He nods, eyes still distant. “I saw photos of you once, maybe two years after. In Paris. Some event. You looked so far away.”

You don’t remember the event, but the far away part tracks.

“I thought about calling you,” he continues. “A hundred times.”

“So why didn’t you?”

His smile is sad. “Because I was angry.”

You nod. “Me too.”

He turns back to you.

“Were you angry at Jules?” He asks.

You hesitate.

“Yes. And at myself. And at God. And the FIA. And time. And physics. And the rain. And anyone who said, he died doing what he loved.”

Charles swallows. “I hate that.”

“Me too.”

His voice is quiet. “I still talk to him, sometimes.”

You blink. “You do?”

“When I’m driving.” He shrugs. “Before a quali lap. After I fuck up. He’s there. Always.”

You nod, tears pricking again. “I still wear his bracelet.”

He looks at your wrist. The woven red one, frayed and delicate now.

“I remember when he gave you that,” Charles says. “You were mad because he stole your gelato that day.”

“I threw a spoon at him.”

“And he said you’d go to jail, since you assaulted him.”

You laugh — really laugh — and cover your face.

Charles grins. “You told him I was the only person dumb enough to get arrested.”

You glance up at him.

The look between you settles deep.

Warm. Familiar. Real.

He picks up Leo, who immediately tries to chew on a crust, then sighs and burrows into Charles’ hoodie like he’s lived there for years.

Charles strokes behind the dog’s ears, voice softer now.

“I’m glad you came.”

“I almost didn’t.”

“I know,” he says. “But you did.”

You feel yourself cracking open again, but not in the way you did yesterday.

Not like glass.

Like thaw.

Like something cold finally learning warmth again.

You set your plate down and lean back against the wall, full and exhausted and strangely weightless.

“I haven’t eaten like that in a week,” you admit.

“You probably haven’t slept in a week either,” he says gently.

You want to argue, but you’re already yawning.

Charles stands, then holds out a hand. “Come on. You can have the guest room.”

You take it without question.

***

The room is simple. A white bed, soft sheets, windows left open to the sea air. You sit on the edge and kick off your shoes.

Charles lingers in the doorway, Leo still under one arm like a loaf of warm bread.

“I’ll be just down the hall,” he says. “If you need anything.”

You nod. Then pause.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “For not making me feel broken.”

“You’re not broken,” he says immediately.

You look at him.

“You’re just grieving,” he adds. “And grief isn’t linear.”

You nod.

He starts to leave, then turns back.

“I meant what I said,” he says. “Seeing you again … it mattered. More than winning.”

You blink slowly, too tired to fight the emotion in your throat.

“You always mattered more.”

He smiles. Small. Real.

“Bonne nuit, mon étoile,” he says.

The door clicks softly behind him.

You curl into the covers, still in your dress. And sleep.

***

Back then, everything was simpler.

You’re fourteen. He’s fifteen. You’re sitting on the roof of his mother’s apartment in the old part of Monaco, knees pulled to your chest, elbows brushing as you both watch the sea below shimmer in silver-blue streaks. The track’s still being built for the Grand Prix — steel scaffolding half-draped along the waterfront, familiar and loud and full of promise.

“Do you think we’ll remember this?” You ask, swinging your ankle in slow, lazy arcs. “When we’re old and boring?”

Charles glances at you, his hair sticking up at the crown where you’d mussed it earlier. “How old?”

“Like … twenty-five.”

He snorts. “That’s not old.”

You grin. “Feels ancient.”

He nudges your shoulder with his. “I’ll remember. Even if I’m ninety.”

You rest your chin on your knees. “What if we don’t see each other anymore? What if we grow up and forget?”

“I won’t forget you,” he says, just like that. No hesitation. “Not even if you forget me first.”

You go quiet.

He’s quiet too, but he shifts closer, like his body can’t help it. His shoulder touches yours again.

You whisper, “You’re my best friend.”

“I know,” he says. “You’re mine too.”

Your heart beats like a drumroll. Your stomach feels like fireworks.

He looks at you then — really looks.

And it’s not a surprise when he leans in.

It’s a promise.

Your first kiss is shy and warm and a little clumsy. His lips taste like the peach ice cream he stole from your cone ten minutes ago. Your fingers curl in the hem of his t-shirt like you’re anchoring yourself to this exact second, because you are.

You pull back and grin. “You taste like sugar.”

He laughs. “You taste like you’re going to break my heart someday.”

“Never.”

You meant it. So did he.

***

You wake to the smell of something warm and savory. The soft sound of music drifting in from the kitchen — a scratchy vinyl piano cover of some piece you don’t recognize. There are birds outside, faint seagulls, and for a second you have no idea where you are.

And then-

Leo jumps onto the guest bed with all the enthusiasm of a creature five times his size. He licks your cheek once, then sneezes into the pillow beside your face.

“Gross,” you mumble, pushing him off with one hand. “Rude.”

The door creaks open.

“You’re awake.”

Charles is holding a tray.

“Hi,” you say, rubbing your eyes.

His hair is a mess. He’s wearing a hoodie and the most ridiculous socks — Ferrari red with little dogs on them.

“I brought you sustenance,” he says, setting the tray down on the bedside table.

You blink at it. Fresh-cut flowers in a mug. A slice of quiche on a ceramic plate. A to-go cup of coffee with your name spelled right for once.

“Jules’ favorite,” Charles adds, tapping the crust with a fork. “You remember? The one from the market on Rue Grimaldi. They still make it with the caramelized onions.”

You sit up slowly, heart already twisting. “You went to the market?”

“I go every Monday.”

You look down at the plate. It smells like childhood.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” You ask quietly.

Charles shrugs. “Because you deserve it.”

You look at him. Hard.

He holds your gaze.

“Because I missed you,” he adds.

You bite your lip.

“I looked for you,” he says. “In every city I raced in. I’d check cafés and train stations. Not because I thought you were there, exactly … I just hoped.”

Your chest tightens.

“Even when I was in Paris,” he continues. “I’d take extra long walks. Through Saint-Germain, the Marais. Hoping you’d just … be there. Like magic.”

You stare at the tray again.

Your voice is barely a whisper. “Why?”

“Because I wasn’t finished knowing you.”

You press your palm over your heart like it might quiet the noise.

Charles kneels beside the bed, not touching you, just … there.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he says.

You shake your head. “It’s too much.”

“I can take it.”

You exhale, staring at your hands.

“I’ve been walking through life like a ghost,” you say. “Just … watching things happen around me. Letting Vincent tell me what I need, what I can’t handle, what would be good for me. And I believed him.”

Charles tilts his head. “He doesn’t see you.”

“No,” you whisper. “He sees a broken version of me. One he can fix. Or at least manage.”

“Fuck that.”

You blink.

He says it again. Softer, but just as sure. “Fuck that.”

A shaky laugh escapes your lips. “He made me feel crazy for still missing Jules. For not wanting to go to the races. For not getting over it fast enough.”

“I still cry,” Charles says simply. “All the time.”

You look at him.

“I hear certain songs, or see someone with his shoulders, or walk into a hotel and remember we stayed there during karting once. I cry,” he says. “I miss him in a way that doesn’t shrink with time. It just … stretches.”

You nod, fast, eyes blurry.

“I thought maybe I was stuck,” you whisper. “But maybe I’m just grieving. Still. Just like you.”

He smiles softly. “Exactly like me.”

You pick up the quiche and take a small bite. It’s still warm. Still perfect.

“I loved him so much,” you say, voice breaking. “I still do.”

“I know.”

Charles doesn’t fill the silence that follows. He just lets you sit with it.

Leo curls up at your feet. The music hums along in the background.

And for the first time in years, the grief doesn’t feel like a wall.

It feels like a bridge.

***

Later, you're curled up on Charles’ couch in a pair of his old sweatpants and a borrowed hoodie. Your hair’s in a messy bun, face scrubbed clean. He brings you another coffee and settles beside you with a bowl of cereal, Leo now draped across both your shins like a blanket.

“Remember that summer when we tried to build a treehouse?” You ask.

“In the olive grove,” he says immediately. “We got through two planks and a ladder.”

“And then you fell.”

“I leapt.”

“You cried.”

“I landed emotionally.”

You burst out laughing. It feels like the first real laugh you’ve had in months.

Charles grins, slouched and easy.

“Do you ever wish we could go back?” You ask.

He leans his head back. “To when we were kids?”

“Yeah. Before everything.”

“Sometimes,” he says. “But then I think … maybe we had to get lost before we could find each other again.”

You fall quiet.

You’re starting to feel it, this pull in your chest. Not just toward him, but away from everything that’s kept you small and afraid. Vincent. The routines that numb. The excuses that sound like truths. You’re starting to question it all.

You sip your coffee and ask, “What if I’m not ready?”

“For what?” Charles asks.

“To feel this again.”

He shrugs. “Then don’t. Just feel whatever you feel. No rules.”

You stare at him. “You’re infuriatingly healthy now.”

He chuckles. “Leo’s my therapist.”

The dachshund barks on cue.

You smile.

“You should stay the night again,” Charles says suddenly.

Your brows rise.

He rushes, “Not like that. I mean — just stay. Rest. We’ll order something. Watch a film.”

You hesitate.

Then nod. “Okay.”

A beat.

Charles grins. “You want to wear the dog socks?”

You shake your head. “I want my own pair.”

He pretends to think. “We’ll see if you’ve earned them.”

***

The walk to Pascale’s apartment is warm and golden, the kind of afternoon Monaco only gifts to those it’s missed. The harbor glints. The sea air tastes like old summers. And Charles, walking beside you with a cloth bag of strawberries and flowers slung over one shoulder, is humming something under his breath.

You don’t ask what it is. You already know. It’s the same melody he used to hum in the kitchen of his family’s apartment when you were fourteen, waiting for crêpes and poking Jules in the ribs with a spatula until he yelled.

“Are you nervous?” Charles asks quietly.

You nod. “A little. I haven’t seen her since …”

You don’t finish the sentence. You don’t have to.

He reaches for your hand. Not in a way that demands anything, just enough for your fingertips to brush. “She missed you. She asks about you every time I go home.”

You glance sideways. “You told her you found me?”

“She figured it out,” he says with a wry smile. “I didn’t come home after the race. Then I texted her to ask if she still made that orange cake you liked. She said, ‘How long is she staying?’”

You bite your lip.

“She loved you, you know,” he adds, softer now. “Still does.”

You nod, chest tight.

The wind tugs your hair across your face. You brush it back. You feel grounded. Fragile, but grounded. Like this walk is one step further away from the version of yourself who couldn’t imagine standing on this street ever again.

And then-

“Y/N?”

You stop cold.

You know that voice.

Charles turns with you, brow furrowed.

Vincent is standing just outside a cafe patio, phone still in his hand. Sunglasses pushed up in his hair. His expression freezes the moment he registers the scene.

You. Charles. Together. Laughing. Comfortable.

He blinks once. Then twice.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Vincent says slowly. “Him?”

The air shifts.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

Charles steps subtly in front of you — not enough to block, but enough to signal. “This isn’t the time.”

Vincent ignores him completely. “This is where you’ve been? I’ve been calling you for two days.”

“I turned off my phone,” you say, voice hoarse.

His eyes narrow. “And didn’t think to let me know you were with Monaco’s golden boy?”

“Vincent-”

“Jesus Christ, Y/N.”

Charles says your name gently. You glance at him, and that’s when Vincent loses it.

“Oh, don’t look at him like that,” he snaps. “You think he’s your savior now? The famous, hot, emotionally available Charles Leclerc swooped in the second you cried on a racetrack? That’s cute.”

“Stop,” you say, voice cracking.

“No,” he says. “No, because I’ve been dealing with your silence, your triggers, your shutdowns for years, and the second someone shiny from your past shows up, you run to him?”

You flinch.

Charles says, more firmly, “That’s enough.”

Vincent laughs bitterly. “You think you can just slot back into his life? You think he actually wants this long-term? You’re-” he hesitates, then lowers his voice to something sharper, quieter. “You’re too broken, Y/N.”

Silence.

The world tilts.

Vincent takes a step forward. “You know it’s true. You can’t even watch a race without hyperventilating. You barely eat, you don’t sleep. You-”

“I left because of you,” you whisper.

He blinks.

“I wasn’t planning to stay,” you go on, voice trembling. “But then you made it so clear I wasn’t safe with you.”

Vincent’s mouth opens. Closes.

“You made me feel like grief was a burden,” you say. “Like Jules should be ancient history. Like my pain was something to manage.”

He glares at Charles. “So what, he’s different?”

You don’t even hesitate. “Yes.”

Charles puts a hand on your back, grounding, steady.

Vincent exhales through his nose and mutters something you don’t quite catch. Then, in a tired voice, he says, “Let’s just talk. Alone.”

You glance at Charles.

“Go if you want to,” he says, calm and clear. “But not because you think you owe him something.”

That does something to you.

But you nod. Because you need to say this. You need to end this in a way that’s yours.

You follow Vincent a few steps away, to the mouth of a side street.

“I loved you,” he says. “I tried.”

“I know,” you whisper. “But you loved a version of me I don’t even recognize.”

He swallows.

“I’m not broken,” you add. “I’m grieving. There’s a difference.”

“Then why do you always fall apart?” He asks, voice almost desperate. “Why do I always have to pick up the pieces?”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

He doesn’t reply. And you don’t wait. You walk away. You don’t look back.

***

That night, you don’t go back to Charles’ place.

You don’t go back to the hotel either.

You go where you always go when everything feels too loud: the cemetery.

Jules’ memorial stone is worn at the edges now. There are new flowers — someone’s always bringing them, sometimes fans, sometimes friends. But you kneel anyway and set down the tiny bouquet of wildflowers you picked from a wall on the walk.

You sit cross-legged. You stare at his name. You breathe.

You whisper, “I’m so tired.”

And then — finally — after days of tears caught behind your ribs, you cry.

Not quiet. Not graceful.

You cry like your body is being wrung out from the inside.

You cry until your chest hurts and your palms dig into the gravel and your vision goes blurry with salt and moonlight.

And when a voice whispers, “Chérie …” you don’t even flinch.

He finds you there, curled in on yourself.

You don’t look up.

Charles kneels beside you, gently pressing a hand to your back.

You exhale, broken and sharp.

“Respire avec moi,” he murmurs. “Un … deux … trois …”

He matches his breath to yours.

You inhale.

Exhale.

Again.

Your body starts to slow.

You lean into him.

“Je suis là,” he whispers. I’m here.

You nod into his chest.

He rubs small, slow circles into your shoulder. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t speak again for a long time.

When you finally sit up, eyes puffy, hands trembling, you say, “I don’t know who I am if I’m not sad.”

He looks at you gently. “You’re not just sad.”

You shake your head. “But I don’t know how to be without it. Grief has been my entire personality since I was seventeen.”

“I get it,” he says. “I do.”

You look at him. “How did you do it? How did you keep going?”

He exhales. “I didn’t have a choice. I had a contract. Expectations. A whole family who needed me to be okay. But I wasn’t.”

He pauses.

“I drove through the pain,” he adds. “Not because it healed me. But because it was the only way I could be close to him. On track, he’s still with me.”

You close your eyes.

“But I’ve had moments,” he says. “Nights where I broke down in hotel rooms. Days I couldn’t speak to anyone. And in all of that, I realized … Jules wouldn’t have wanted us to live half-lives just because he didn’t get to finish his.”

You whisper, “But he was so good.”

“I know.”

“I wanted to be like him.”

“You were.”

You finally meet his eyes.

Charles reaches for your hand. “He loved you. He’d want you to love yourself. Even the parts that still hurt.”

Tears prick your eyes again. But they’re softer now.

“I don’t know what comes next,” you say.

“You don’t need to,” he replies. “You just have to keep walking. One step at a time.”

***

You don’t mean to cry the first time you sit across from the therapist in Paris.

But something about the quiet room, the glass of water on the table, the soft hum of a sound machine in the corner — it cracks you open before a single word is spoken. You cry quietly. Silently. The tears just fall, like they’ve been waiting for you to stop running long enough to let them catch up.

The therapist — Marion — is in her forties, maybe. Calm eyes, soft voice. She doesn’t flinch.

“That’s okay,” she says. “Take your time.”

You nod. You wipe at your face with the edge of your sleeve.

It’s your first session in years. The last time you tried, you’d walked out after twenty minutes. The therapist had said the word closure and you’d nearly laughed in her face.

But Charles had sat with you the night before this appointment, legs folded beneath him on your couch in Paris, Leo asleep in a little croissant shape beside him. He’d held your hand, kissed the inside of your wrist, and whispered, “You don’t have to fix everything overnight. Just try.”

So you’re here. And you’re trying.

You don’t talk about Jules in the first session. Or Monaco. Or Charles.

You talk about the little things: the engine sounds that make your stomach turn. The blackouts. The way your chest tightens in traffic. The dreams you can’t always remember but wake up from with your hands clenched into fists.

Marion doesn’t push.

Instead, she introduces something called EMDR.

“It works differently than traditional talk therapy,” she explains. “The idea is to reprocess traumatic memories while stimulating the brain bilaterally. Often through eye movements, tapping, or sound.”

You nod, even though it sounds a bit like science fiction.

“It’s not about erasing the memories,” she says. “It’s about giving your brain a way to move through them instead of staying stuck in the moment of impact.”

You sit with that. Let it settle in your bones.

“I want to try,” you say.

And for the first time in years, you mean it.

***

Charles starts flying to Paris on his free weekends.

It’s never anything dramatic. No declarations. No grand gestures.

Just soft knock-knocks on your door at noon. Croissants from the place downstairs. Leo waddling in like he owns the apartment. Charles curling up beside you on the couch, watching documentaries or whatever terrible movie you picked out of nostalgia.

He doesn’t ask too many questions.

He doesn’t hover.

He’s just there.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks one Saturday evening as you lean against him, the leftover sushi untouched on the table.

You hesitate. Then you say, “I remembered the way the radio sounded. The moment it cut out during Jules’ crash. That silence. That pause.”

He nods.

“And then the static. I can’t unhear it.”

“I know.”

“I hated that I couldn’t do anything,” you whisper. “I just sat in my room, watching the feed freeze, and I knew. I knew.”

Charles exhales slowly.

You feel his breath against your hair.

“I dreamt about it last night,” you add. “In the dream, I’m running across the track. But I never get there in time.”

He closes his eyes. You feel him wrap his arms around you. Tight. Steady.

“You can say it,” you murmur. “You dream too, don’t you?”

“Sometimes,” he admits. “Sometimes I hear his laugh and wake up with my pillow soaked.”

You squeeze his hand.

That night, he stays in the guest room again. And even though he’s just down the hall, you sleep like you haven’t in years.

***

The EMDR sessions become a rhythm.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Back and forth. Left and right.

You track the movement of Marion’s fingers with your eyes. You speak. You breathe. You reprocess.

It’s brutal. Some days, you leave feeling like you’ve been scraped hollow.

But other days, there’s a weightlessness to it. Like a memory that used to feel like drowning now floats a little.

You tell Charles about it over the phone when he’s in Baku.

“I didn’t dissociate today,” you say, voice shaking with pride.

“Chérie, that’s amazing,” he says. “I’m proud of you.”

You smile at the ceiling.

And when he says, “Next time I’m back, I’ll take you out to dinner. Somewhere loud,” you don’t panic. You nod.

Because maybe you’re getting there. Maybe, slowly, you’re learning how to live in the world again.

***

Vincent texts twice.

The first is vague.

We should talk.

The second is manipulative.

I’m worried about you. You isolate when you’re spiraling. I just want to help.

You don’t answer.

You don’t owe him that anymore.

Instead, you text Charles.

Still hate the sound of engines. But I don’t want to run anymore.

He sends back.

Come to Fiorano.

You blink at the screen.

Fiorano?

Private Pirelli tire test. Just a few laps. I can keep everyone away. You won’t have to talk to anyone.

You stare at the message.

I’ll think about it.

But you already know you’re going.

***

It takes three trains to get to Maranello.

You wear headphones the entire ride. Not because of noise, just because you need a barrier. Something that says I’m not ready yet. Please come back later.

When you arrive at Fiorano, the sun is setting behind a curtain of red and gold. The track is quiet, save for the low rumble of distant engines. You flinch once. Then breathe.

A Ferrari staff member meets you at the gate. She smiles warmly, checks your name, and says, “He’s just finishing his run. You can watch from the platform up ahead.”

You nod.

You walk slowly. One foot in front of the other. Grass crunching beneath your shoes.

When you reach the edge of the platform, the view takes your breath away.

Charles is out there.

Not Charles your childhood best friend.

Not Charles your heartbreak.

Not Charles your anchor.

Charles the driver. The one Jules believed in. The one who used pain like fuel.

The SF-25 glints like molten fire as it tears around the corner. The sound — once unbearable — is dulled by your earbuds. You leave them in. But you don’t turn away.

You watch.

He’s graceful. Aggressive. Focused.

You’ve never seen anyone so alive.

Your heart beats fast, but not from panic. From something closer to awe.

You stay there until the car slows, until the engine cuts.

And when he climbs out, helmet off, curls sweat-dampened and grin bright under the golden sky, he sees you.

He doesn’t wave.

He just nods. Like he knew you’d come.

You stay on the platform until the sky deepens into twilight.

And for the first time, the sound of an engine doesn’t feel like a threat.

It feels like memory.

It feels like home.

***

The house in Nice is smaller than you remember.

You don’t know if it’s the time away or the grief that made it feel so much bigger in your mind, but when the cab pulls up to the curb and you step out onto the sun-warmed pavement, all you can think is God, I was just a kid.

The shutters are the same pale green. The mailbox still has the dent Jules put in it when he tried to do a wheelie on a borrowed scooter. The garden’s overgrown, the way it always was. Your dad never did win that war with the weeds.

You hover at the gate longer than you should.

And then the front door opens and Christine is running down the steps, arms open wide, her voice breaking-

“Ma chérie-”

You go.

You don’t think, you just move. And suddenly you’re wrapped in her arms, your mother’s perfume the same as it’s been since you were nine. She holds you like she might never let go. You let her.

Philippe is on the porch, quiet. When you pull back, he’s already coming down the steps too, slower, more careful. He kisses your forehead and doesn’t say anything, but his eyes say it all.

There’s grief there.

And love.

And something like relief.

“You look thin,” Christine says when you’re finally inside, brushing your hair from your face like she used to when you were sick.

“I eat now,” you say. “Mostly pizza.”

“Charles?”

You nod.

She smiles.

The house smells like rosemary and garlic. Like home. Like a past you thought you left behind but somehow still carries your shape.

You don’t go upstairs.

Not yet.

Instead, you sit at the long, chipped dining table that still has Jules’ initials scratched into the corner. You help your mother slice lemons, and you listen as your father and Charles talk about Monaco like it doesn’t ache anymore.

***

Pascale arrives first, arms full of wine and flowers, her laugh trailing through the doorway.

“Mon dieu, look at you,” she says, hugging you so tight your back cracks.

Then Arthur and Lorenzo crash in behind her, both taller than they used to be, both grinning wide. Arthur pulls you into a hug so forceful it nearly knocks you over.

“Tu m’as manqué,” he mumbles into your shoulder.

You laugh, a little breathless. “You’re stronger than you used to be.”

“I train now,” he says, smug.

Lorenzo kisses both your cheeks and gives you a long look.

“You okay?”

“Better,” you say. “Getting there.”

He nods. That’s enough.

The dinner is loud. Warm. Your cheeks hurt from smiling.

You learn that Pascale still makes her own tomato sauce because store-bought is “for lazy people.” Arthur’s trying to learn Korean. Your dad finally fixed the kitchen faucet after ten years.

You laugh too much. You drink too fast.

Charles sits beside you. His knee brushes yours beneath the table every few minutes — accidentally at first. Then not.

At one point, you catch him watching you.

He doesn’t look away.

***

After dessert, your parents bring out old photo albums.

You see pictures of yourself in a pink karting helmet, grinning with a gap-toothed smile beside Charles. Jules with his arm slung around Charles’ shoulders like a brother. All of you in matching red on the streets of Monaco, back when the race was magic and not ruin.

Arthur makes fun of your childhood haircut. You threaten to cut his while he sleeps. Lorenzo finds a photo of you and Charles at fifteen, forehead to forehead, and whistles low.

“Were you-”

“No,” Charles says, too fast.

“Yes,” you say, at the same time.

Everyone laughs. Charles flushes. You almost do, too.

But it doesn’t ache the way it used to.

***

Later, the house grows quiet.

Pascale leaves with Arthur and Lorenzo, but not before hugging you again and whispering, “Come home more, okay?”

Your parents retreat to their room, sleepy from wine and joy.

And then it’s just you and Charles, standing awkwardly at the bottom of the stairs.

“I should — I haven’t been up there,” you say.

“To your room?”

You nod.

He hesitates, then, “Want me to come with you?”

You nod again.

***

Your bedroom is a time capsule.

The posters, the mismatched furniture, the bookshelf filled with old notebooks and ballet shoes and books with folded corners.

Charles walks in slowly, reverently, like the room might collapse under the weight of what it held.

He turns in a slow circle. “It’s exactly the same.”

“I couldn’t come back,” you say. “Not after.”

“I know.”

You sit on the edge of the bed. It creaks familiarly. “I kept thinking I’d break if I saw all of this again.”

“Are you?”

You look around. “No. But I thought I would.”

Charles kneels in front of you, resting his arms on your knees.

“I hated that you disappeared,” he says. “After Jules. I hated it for a long time.”

Your chest tightens.

“I know.”

“But I also knew why.”

You stare at the floor between you.

“I didn’t know how to stay,” you whisper. “Not without him. You — God, Charles, you looked so much like him some days. The way you laughed, the way you grieved, the way you drove. I couldn’t breathe near you without remembering him.”

He doesn’t move.

“I was so angry,” you admit. “Not at you. At everything. At racing. At the world. At the fact that everyone kept going like he hadn’t just-” Your voice breaks. You swallow. “I thought maybe if I left, I could outrun it.”

“Did you?”

“No. But I tried. I thought if I saw you, I’d fall apart,” you say. “Turns out I was already broken. Just didn’t want to admit it.”

He lifts your hand. Kisses your knuckles.

You watch him. Watch the way his lashes brush his cheeks. The way his hands shake just slightly when they touch yours.

“I still love you,” he says quietly. “I think I always did.”

It hits like a second heartbeat.

You close your eyes.

“I don’t know who I am without grief,” you whisper. “But I want to try. I want — God, Charles, I want something that doesn’t hurt.”

He leans closer. “This doesn’t have to hurt.”

You look at him. Really look.

“I’m scared,” you say.

“So am I,” he murmurs.

And then-

Then he kisses you.

Soft. Hesitant. His hand cupping your cheek like you might vanish if he touches too fast.

You kiss him back.

There’s no music, no fireworks, no perfect movie lighting.

Just the creak of the old bed. The sound of your breath catching. The quiet thud of his heart against yours.

You pull back first, eyes wide.

“I-”

But he shushes you gently, forehead resting against yours.

“Don’t say it yet,” he murmurs. “Just stay.”

You do.

You stay.

***

It’s been a year.

Three hundred sixty-five days since your heart broke open on the edge of a paddock, between a thousand voices and the ghosts you couldn’t keep away. A year since the screaming engines sent you spiraling and Charles found you curled between hospitality tents, unable to breathe.

Now, you stand in the Monaco paddock again — upright. Whole. Not unscarred, but standing.

Charles’ pass hangs around your neck, warm against your skin.

A Marussia cap is in your hands. The red one. The one with the white trim and the subtle stitching of Jules’ name on the inside of the brim. It’s a little faded. The black marker signature has started to bleed through the fabric, but the weight of it — it’s as heavy as it was ten years ago.

“Is this real?” You ask.

Andrea nods. His smile is tired but kind. He looks at you the same way he did when you were fourteen and clumsy, following Jules into the gym with your ballet flats and a book.

“He left it in my car that weekend,” Andrea says. “Said he wanted to bring it back home, for good luck.”

You look up. Your throat tightens.

“I kept it in the glovebox for a while. Couldn’t let it go,” Andrea adds softly. “But I think maybe it was meant for you all along.”

You press the cap to your chest. Your fingers are trembling.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Andrea nods and reaches out to squeeze your shoulder. “He’d be proud, you know.”

You blink fast. “Of Charles?”

“Of both of you.”

***

You’re in the Ferrari garage by the time engines fire.

The roar still knocks something loose inside you. But it doesn’t take you under anymore. Not like it used to.

You breathe through it. Slow. Grounded.

The cap is on your head now. It smells like the past — faint motor oil and leather and something sweet you can’t place. You roll the brim between your fingers. Familiar. Safe.

From your seat behind the engineers’ monitors, you watch the red car on track. Fast. Fluid. Like it was born to be here.

You think of Charles at fifteen, grinning with a mouthful of braces and a heart too big for his body.

You think of Jules lifting you onto his shoulders so you could see the cars from the balcony when you were seven.

You think of standing in this same paddock a year ago, barely breathing, Charles’ voice anchoring you in a storm you thought you wouldn’t survive.

Now-

You watch him fly.

***

Lap after lap.

Pit stops. Unsuccessful attempts at overtakes. Strategy calls in quick, sharp Italian over the radio.

You don’t flinch at the crashes. Not even when a car goes sideways at the chicane, barely missing the barrier.

You look at the screen and you don’t see Jules. You don’t see blood. You don’t see the worst day of your life on repeat.

You see Charles.

You see yourself.

You see surviving.

***

He crosses the finish line first.

The garage explodes in noise.

People are yelling. Jumping. Champagne is already being cracked open somewhere. Hugs and high fives and radio static flood the air.

You don’t move.

Not at first.

You just sit there, the cap tight on your head, and close your eyes.

Then a hand grabs yours.

It’s Andrea again, laughing. “Come on. He’ll want to see you first.”

***

The pit lane is chaos.

Charles’ car rolls into the parc fermé, and he’s out of it in seconds, tearing off the helmet, curls wild, face flushed with victory and disbelief.

The team swarms him. You stay back. You let them have their moment.

He’s doused in champagne before he even makes it to the cool-down room.

You think maybe he’s forgotten. That you’ll see him later, after the podium, after the press, after the fanfare.

But then-

He turns.

And his eyes find you like they always do.

He doesn’t walk.

He runs.

He pushes past mechanics and engineers and the cameras flashing around him, dripping champagne and laughter and something else — something you can’t name because you’re already crying.

“You made it,” he says.

You laugh, broken and breathless and soaked now, too, because he’s got his arms around you and he doesn’t care who’s watching.

“So did you.”

He kisses you.

Right there in front of the world, with the brim of Jules’ cap brushing against his cheek and the crowd around you going still.

It’s not hesitant this time.

It’s sure. It’s full. It’s home.

***

Afterward, you stand against the garage wall, fingers laced through his.

He’s still shaking. From adrenaline, from victory, from you.

“How did it feel?” You ask, voice low.

“Winning Monaco?”

You nod.

He glances at you. Smiles.

“Better with you here.”

Your breath catches.

“I’m proud of you,” you say.

His thumb strokes over your knuckles. “I’m proud of you. You fought for this. For yourself. I just showed up.”

You bump your shoulder into his. “You never just show up.”

He shrugs, feigning innocence. “I am pretty charming.”

You grin. “So modest.”

He looks at you. Really looks. Then pulls you in again.

Quietly, just for you, he says, “I think we both made it.”

And you believe him.

For the first time, you really do.

1K notes · View notes

organic-bloodbath · 2 days ago

Text

Please, forgive me (i love you)

Thanos x Pregnant!Reader

Summary: Thanos finds his ex-girlfriend, now very much pregnant, in the games with him. You didn’t break up in good terms but Thanos does everything he can to protect you in the games. You and your baby.

A/N: Forks don't exist in Squid Game ok. Idk whatever the hell this is but i missed this little purple shit in s3 😔

☆☆☆

Thanos was prepared to leave the games with a stack of money – not with a stack of money and a newborn baby.

When he saw you for the first time, right before the first game started, his heart dropped and for a moment he forgot how to function. What the hell were you doing here?

"Y/N?" he asked, making you turn around to face him. He was about to pull some sort of a joke on you, but his amused and cocky smile faded as he looked down to your stomach – clearly a very, very pregnant stomach. Getting any words out of his mouth wasn't so easy anymore.

“Su-bong,” you replied coldly and crossed your arms against your chest. You had already seen him inside, being surrounded by a crowd of his fans, eager to be in the picture with him and disappointed when they couldn't get the photo together with the oh so amazing rap artist. You were probably the only one who didn’t want to talk to him or hear a single word from him in return, having nothing good to say to him.

“What… what are you doing here?” Thanos asked, shocked to see you after all these months.

8 months exactly. The last time Thanos had seen you was in your apartment. You were shouting and throwing things at him, screaming at him for ruining your life and how you never wanted to see him again. You had kicked him out in the middle of the night, ending the three year long relationship. You had taken a lot of shit from Thanos, always forgiving him, but using your money for more drugs without your knowledge and permission, a lot of it too, when he had ran out of his was the final point of a breakdown for you and ending things between the two of you. Later, when you were already gone, he had realized how he had taken you for granted and put his career as a rap artist before you. Both his career and drugs, while you were supposed to be his priority.

“Do you actually have to ask that?” you scoffed. “I think you know pretty well what kind of debts you left me after you emptied my bank account. And my life has only gone to worse ever since.”

The game will now begin.

“Y/N, I —“ Thanos started but you brushed him off.

“Fuck off, Thanos,” you spat and quickly walked away from him to the other side of the field before the game would start.

You had never called him ‘Thanos’, it was always Su-bong. Thanos knew that he deserved all the hate from you, he was aware of that. He had fucked up, big time, and he didn’t know if you’d ever forgive him for that.

☆☆☆

As the first few days passed, you didn’t talk to him, didn’t even look at his way. You simply wanted nothing to do with him, and Thanos understood that. He deserved it. But he couldn't help but look in your way whenever the players were thrown back into the dorm after the games.

You had found your own group there, hanging out the most with the player 388, 120 and 456. He watched you, whether you were aware of it or not. Wanting to approach you, talk to you, but you would just push him away, and he didn't want to cause a scene in front of other people. Thanos didn't know if you wanted to be associated with him there at all, letting others know that you already knew each other and even that Thanos had been the one to knock you up. Or had you told about it to the others already? No, of course you hadn't. It was a secret you didn't want to spill. Thanos had to respect that.

Thanos opened the cross hanging from his neck, planting one of the pills on his tongue to get his mind off everything.

Off the games. And you.

☆☆☆

During the game of Mingle, Thanos made sure that you had a team to search for a room with before he'd start heading towards one of the rooms with other players. He had to see that you made it in and weren't left all alone by the carousel.

But the player 388 and 120 took good care of you.

However, when it was time for two players to find a room together, Thanos noticed you nearby still without a partner. Before the player 388 (Dae-ho, was it?) would manage to reach you, Thanos grabbed your hand and started leading you towards one of the rooms.

“Thanos, for fuck’s sake can—“ you started, angry at meddling into your business when you were just fine with a partner already.

"Will you stop avoiding me?" Thanos asked, annoyed of your stubborn behavior. “Please, can we just talk?”

“About what exactly?” you asked, crossing your arms.

Thanos wasn’t sure what to say. There was so much he wanted to say but he didn’t know where to start or how to form his thoughts into real sentences so that they’d make any sense. It didn’t help either that he was a little high. And you seemed to pick on it. You could always tell.

“Are you high again?” you asked, narrowing your eyes. You scoffed and shook your head, turning away from him. “Typical.”

“Y/N, seriously,” Thanos repeated. God, why did he have to take the pill again. “I just want to make up things between us.”

“Why?” you chuckled. “Because I’m pregnant and suddenly you have a need to be a responsible dad?”

“No, I don’t mean that,” Thanos shook his head and rolled his eyes.

“Then what?”

“I just,” he started but the words got stuck in his throat.

The door unlocked, and you didn’t spare him a moment longer, leaving him alone in the room.

☆☆☆

That night, you had ended up to lying on the nasty bathroom floor, knees up and legs spread. This was absolutely the worst fucking moment to start giving birth.

It was the middle of the night, you had woken up to bad stomach cramps and felt the mattress turned wet underneath you. So, after the initial shock and panicking, you woke Geum-ja up, knowing she was the best person to help you.

Although, as Geum-ja was walking you towards the bathroom, you hadn’t been the only one up and awake. Thanos had been sitting on his own bed, not being able to sleep, when he noticed you going towards the bathroom with the old woman supporting you so you wouldn’t fall on the floor.

Something was clearly wrong. Thanos knew you didn’t want to see him, wanted nothing to do with him, but he grew worried and had to get up and go to see what was going on.

You were crying, tears streaming down your cheeks.

“I can’t do it, I can’t,” you sobbed, shaking your head. “I don’t want to. Please don’t make me do this.”

“It’s time, dear. The baby’s coming, whether you wanted it or not,” Geum-ja said calmly. “Now, take a deep breath and lay down, alright?”

When both of you noticed Thanos arriving to the doorway, you fell silent, just a hiccup slipping out of your throat. Thanos’ eyes widened when he realized what was going on.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck shit.

“Su-bong, get the fuck out of here,” you growled, fuming inside.

But Thanos was frozen still on his spot, eyes wide unable to move.

“Su-bong. Get. Out.”

But he stayed, Geum-ja approving his help since there was nobody else around right now.

“I fucking hate you,” you gritted between your teeth, squeezing Thanos’ hand so hard it hurt but Thanos tried not to show it. “God, how much I hate you.”

“I know, I know,” Thanos mumbled, trying not to take anything coming out of your mouth personally right now.

Thanos brushed your hair and forehead with his free hand, a few strands of hair sticking on the sweaty skin. You had lost the sense of time how many minutes had passed. Ten minutes? An hour? It felt like the baby was taking forever to come out, the pain being unbearable, the worst pain you had ever had to go through. This would certainly be the last time you would willingly give birth to a child.

“One last push,” Geum-ja instructed.

When the baby finally came out and you heard crying, you let yourself relax. Thanos held you behind you, your body shivering and limp from exhaustion.

When the baby was in your arms, the initial crying and screaming stopped, you could have burst in tears as well. And you did, without realizing it.

You let yourself lean against Thanos’ chest, his arms around your waist as he pulled you slightly up, but still sitting on the floor while Geum-ja cleaned you up a little. You were way too tired and out of energy to even move your limbs at the moment, actually glad that Thanos were there to support you.

“She’s pretty,” Thanos whispered and pressed a kiss on top of your head.

“She is,” you said and smiled, only concentrating on your newborn baby and how much love you already had for her.

☆☆☆

Your arm was broken after the hide and seek game, it definitely was, and you could barely hold the baby in your arms. How the hell could you make it through the game without accidentally dropping her on the way?

"I can carry her," Thanos offered.

"What?" you asked. "Oh hell no."

"Y/N, you clearly can't carry her on your own," Thanos argued.

"Are you on drugs right now?" you asked, trying to get closer to look into his eyes.

"No, i'm not on drugs," Thanos sighed. He knew you wouldn't believe him that easily, knowing how he had acted during all the previous games.

"I have a really hard time believing that," you scoffed. "You've been on drugs constantly since we got here."

"Fair, but i haven't taken a single pill after you gave birth," he explained.

"That was literally one day ago."

"What else are you going to do with her, huh?"

You knew you wouldn't be able to pass the game with your baby in your arms.

"Come on, give her to me," Thanos pleaded. He wanted you and the baby go to the other side safely. He wanted to help you to get out of here. Take care of you. Keep you safe. Protect you.

Because god damn it how much he loved you.

You looked around you. Gi-hun was going to carry Jun-hee’s baby across the bridge, so he wouldn’t be able to help.

Yes, two babies had been born during these games. Bet the VIPs were having a blast.

Dae-ho was dead, Hyun-ju was dead, even Geum-ja was dead — you had nobody left anymore. Nobody who you truly, from the bottom of your heart, trusted. Even though you had known each of them for barely a week, you trusted them more with your baby than this reckless drug addict in front of you.

But you had no choice.

“If you drop her, I’ll actually kill you with my bare hands,” you threatened him.

“And I’d expect nothing less,” he replied with a smile on his lips, but the look on your face told him that this wasn’t the time to joke about anything. He cleared his throat and turned more serious. “I’ll keep her safe, I promise.”

You were hesitant but gave the baby to Thanos. He handled her like she was made of glass and would break in pieces if he held her too tightly.

“Hi, baby,” Thanos whispered and smiled, looking directly into his daughter’s eyes. It was the first time he held her in his arms, and the sight of them together made your heart skip a beat and eyes tear up a little, smile threatening to crawl on your lips but you tried to keep your face neutral.

You looked towards the bridge, half of the people had already stepped their foot on the bridge. You swallowed, your body getting filled with so much anxiety your hands were shaking and you felt like you could throw up. You can do this, you thought. It’s not so bad. Just jump at the correct moment and you’ll be fine. Easy. Easy game. Nothing to worry about.

But each time the rope swept another player off the bridge to their death, you became less and less confident on passing the game yourself.

“Hey,” Thanos said quietly, startling you from your thoughts. “It’ll be alright, you can do it. We can do it.”

You took a deep breath in, trying to calm yourself down.

“You wanna go first or should we?”

“I… I’ll go first,” you muttered and took one last look at your child in Thanos’ arms, pressing a kiss on her forehead before heading towards the bridge. You didn’t spare Thanos another look, you couldn’t. You’d see him on the other side, right?

Thanos didn’t think he had ever been as scared as he was right at this moment. He didn’t care that much if he fell and died. To be honest, he was surprised he had managed to progress this far in the games, not taking them seriously and recklessly fooling around. Now, he had to concentrate a lot more, because he was responsible for another life as well. A life that hadn’t even properly started yet. And if he fucked up this, you’d be gone forever. You would probably push him over the edge in the end of the bridge if he arrived there empty-handed.

Thanos glanced towards the platform at the end of the bridge. You were safely standing there among other few players who had passed the game. You were safe, thank god for that; Thanos wasn’t ready to become a single father, raise his kid on his own.

One jump, two steps, then he looked back into your eyes again. You didn’t dare to move your eyes from them for even one second, as if staring at their progress would help Thanos keep his balance and not trip on his feet.

He was doing well, he could do it. Almost there. Almost back there with you.

Finally, Thanos stepped on the platform and walked towards you.

“See, told you it was gonna be simple,” Thanos said with a smile.

You instantly took the baby back into your arms from Thanos. She was alright, you were alright - he was alright too.

“Y/N,” Thanos said before you could turn around and leave. “I want to be in your life. Both of yours.”

“Yeah?” you said, raising your eyebrows. “Not until you quit taking drugs and are able to prove that you’ve changed.”

Thanos hesitated for a moment. Then, he pulled his cross necklace over his head, opening it and showing the remaining four pills inside of it.

“This is all I have here,” he said. “I won’t take any tonight or for tomorrow’s game, alright?” You didn’t answer at first. He then closed the cross and turned around, throwing it over the edge until the metal cross hit the floor next to the fallen corpses. Thanos turned back to you.

“That’s a start but not nearly enough,” you said.

“I know.” Thanos pushed a strand of hair behind your ear. “I promise I’ll try.”

☆☆☆

#squid game imagine #squid game x reader #thanos x reader #thanos imagine #thanos x you #choi su bong imagine #choi su bong x reader #choi su bong x you

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carnalcrows · 2 days ago

Text

SUB! MINSU HEADCANNONS

pairing: minsu x top male reader (LOOK AT HIS FACEE!! i wanna squish him <33)

Minsu’s quiet—painfully shy, even outside the bedroom. He always seems like he’s trying to make himself smaller, like if he breathes too loudly, you’ll look at him and realize you could do better. You hate that he thinks that. You’ve told him a hundred times how much you adore him, and still—his cheeks burn every time you compliment him. Every praise gets stored away in some sacred corner of his mind, like he's starving for it.

In bed, he’s even quieter. Sometimes you don’t even realize how much he’s trembling until you touch him. His voice is soft, almost inaudible, like he’s scared he’ll say something wrong. But when he does speak? “Can I—um. Can I kiss you?” “Did I… d-do good?” You always stop and cup his cheek and say, “You did perfect, sweetheart.” And the way his eyes flutter shut from just those words? Devastating.

He’s got a big dick, yeah. And you make it so much worse for him by teasing him about it in that low, smug voice that always gets him flushed. “Shame,” you say, eyes dragging down his chest. “All this, and no idea what to do with it. Guess I’ll just have to keep teaching you.” He goes red instantly, buries his face in your shoulder, tries to hide—but he can’t hide the way his hips twitch. He likes it when you talk down to him, even if it flusters him.

He’s not the type to ask for things outright. He just gets soft and clingy. You’ll find him hovering at the edge of the couch while you’re reading, fingers twitching at his sides like he wants to reach out but doesn’t know how. When you finally ask, “You need something, baby?” he just nods, sheepishly. It could be a kiss. It could be your cock down his throat. He’ll take whatever you give.

Sir kink is quiet but deep-rooted. He whispers it sometimes without meaning to, usually when you’re being especially firm with him—tugging his hips into place, pushing him down against the mattress, telling him to be still. “Yes, sir,” he breathes, lips parted, and when he realizes he said it out loud, he gets all flustered and apologizes like it’s a crime. You just smile and say, “That’s right. Say it again.”

He lives for physical closeness during sex. Doesn’t matter how he’s positioned—he needs to be able to see you, hold you, bury his face against your skin. You once tried fucking him from behind without holding his hand, and afterward he quietly admitted, “I… I missed you.” Now you make sure to always wrap an arm around his waist or lace your fingers with his. He calms instantly with that grounding touch.

Praise is everything. He didn’t grow up hearing it, so now he drinks it in like water. He can be sobbing, shaking, overwhelmed—and the moment you murmur good boy, he chokes on a moan and nods, like that one phrase makes it all okay. “You’re doing so good, baby.” “You’re taking me so well.” “I’m so proud of you.” He melts under it. It rewires his entire nervous system. He needs it to come.

He doesn’t ask to be tied up. But the one time you gently pulled his arms behind his back and bound his wrists with your belt, he went still for a long, trembling breath—and then moaned so softly you almost missed it. Something about the helplessness, the surrender of it, makes his brain go quiet. He gets so still. So obedient. Like he’s giving you his whole self without needing to speak.

Hair pulling? He’s done for. You learn this by accident—fist tangled in his hair during a rough kiss, and he whimpers into your mouth, hips bucking. When you do it while fucking him, making him look at you even when he’s falling apart? He cries. Literally. Pretty, glassy-eyed tears that you kiss away as you keep telling him how perfect he is.

Despite how shy he is, he’s obsessed with sucking you off. It’s quiet, reverent—he doesn’t even need you hard. Just likes the weight of you in his mouth. The act of worship. You’ll be half-asleep and suddenly feel his breath against your thigh, gentle fingers easing your waistband down. No words. Just a soft sigh as he curls up around your cock like it calms him.

He loves being used. Not in a rough, raunchy way—more like an offering. He wants to make you feel better. Wants to be your comfort. You come home tense, and he’s already stripped and kneeling on the bed, arms folded behind him like he’s not even allowed to touch unless you say so. “You can take it out on me, sir,” he whispers, voice barely audible. “I’ll be good.”

The first time you whispered I wanna get you pregnant while deep inside him, he gasped so loud you thought you hurt him. But then he nodded—frantic, teary-eyed—babbling, “Please, wanna try, wanna feel full.” He knows it’s impossible. Still likes to pretend. Still wants to be bred like he’s yours forever.

And when it’s over—aftercare is sacred. You clean him gently, kiss his forehead, cradle him like he’s breakable. “Don’t go yet,” he whispers, scared you’ll leave too soon. If you try to get up, even just to get water, he’ll look so lost that your chest aches. He needs you to stay. Needs you.

Taglist: @belovedengie @jrxkar @yippee-yippee8 @faggotboulevard @bleedingbl0ssom @green-turtle3 @mazettns @laynnetteii1 (comment to be added)

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dollyswishingwell · 2 days ago

Text

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Cravings and mood swings

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ fluffff, part 4?? of the pregnancy series, trying to include a bit of comfort, mood swings and cravings lol.

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ Your mood swings and cravings during pregnancy

Masterlist

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

It starts with a sniffle.

Not the usual kind. No, this one is drawn-out, dramatic, heartbreaking. The kind that comes after silent suffering, like a wounded little bunny whose world has ended over something tragic—

Like Rafayel forgetting to bring back the pink coconut mochi she wanted.

“I said the pink one, baby,” you whisper from your pillow fort of doom, eyes glassy, lips wobbling, wearing one of his oversized white shirts with no pants, just the soft fluff of your thighs peeking out, covered in a lilac blanket. “The pink one. With the cute little raspberry sprinkles. Not the white one. I hate the white one. It tastes like nothing.”

You sniff again. One more dramatic than the last.

Rafayel freezes in the doorway, mochi box in hand, still wearing his wet beach hoodie and flip-flops, hair sticking to his face from rain.

“Oh no,” he says softly, voice almost reverent. “Pearlie. Baby. My love.”

You turn away.

“I don’t wanna talk to you.”

“But—but it’s coconut mochi—”

“It’s not pink.”

You sob into his scarf.

He ends up kneeling at your feet within seconds, box discarded, hands petting over your bump like it’s the only thing grounding him to reality.

“You want me to die?” he says, kissing your belly, then your knee, then the corner of your pout. “You want me to throw myself off the balcony for bringing you the wrong mochi, sweetheart? Because I will. Gladly. Just tell me where you want the body.”

You sniff again. Then grab his hair like a little gremlin and tug.

“You’re so dumb.”

“I know,” he coos. “So dumb and so, so sorry. The pink one was sold out, baby. I fought a child for the last box and lost. He bit me. Look, battle wounds.”

He shows you his hand. There’s a suspicious nibble mark near the thumb.

You blink through your tears. “A kid bit you for mochi?”

“Vicious little thing. If we ever see him again, we should fight him.”

You giggle. Just a little. He beams.

Then, abruptly, your face crumples again. “But now I want honey mango slices too…”

Rafayel is already up before you can even finish the sentence. Grabbing keys, a jacket, kissing your pouty cheek as he promises, “Ten minutes. Tops.“

Later that night, you’re curled up in bed with your head in his lap, spooning mango slices into your mouth while Rafayel gently brushes your hair and lets you whine about how unfair everything is.

“How could they discontinue the ginger lemonade? That was the only thing that didn’t make me wanna die.”

“It’s a crime,” he murmurs, kissing your temple. “I’ll have their CEO executed tomorrow.”

“And the bakery down the street changed their sugar cookie recipe! Who asked them to do that? Who??”

“No one. They should be set on fire.”

“I hate everything.”

“You’re glowing,” he says, nuzzling your cheek. “Even your hate is pretty.”

You hum, content again. “You’re still dumb. But I love you.”

He smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your round belly. “I love you more, baby. Even if you throw mochi at me.”

(Which you did. Earlier. Aimed for his head. Missed.)

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

Zayne is in the middle of an important remote consultation when you storm into his office like a divine little hurricane in silk pajamas and fury.

“I want lemon sorbet,” you announce, hand on your bump like a furious, pampered queen. “Right now.”

Zayne doesn’t even flinch.

He lifts a finger to the screen, telling his colleagues calmly, “One moment, please,” before muting the call and turning his full attention to you with that heart-achingly soft, serious gaze that only you ever get.

“Darling,” he murmurs, already rising to his feet. “Is it the Amalfi lemon sorbet, or the creamy one?”

You glare at him. “Do I look like I want creamy right now?”

He blinks. Then nods, like you’ve just given him a diagnostic result. “Sharp citrus. Noted.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, your bump, then cups your jaw gently.

“I’ll be back in twenty minutes. Sit down. Put your feet up. I’ve already logged your hydration and vitamin intake for the afternoon, you’re behind by 180mL, sweetheart. Sip some water for me?”

You pout. He kisses your pout. Then he’s out the door.

⸻

You try not to cry.

You really try.

But then you tripped over your fuzzy slipper on the way back to the chaise lounge, and your hormones betray you.

And suddenly you’re sobbing on the couch with one slipper off, wailing into a cashmere throw blanket like the world has ended. You’re kicking your arm in the air in dramatic protest when Zayne returns, holding three brands of lemon sorbet, a small fresh bouquet of peonies, and a handwritten note from the chef apologizing for last week’s delivery delay.

He blinks when he sees you.

“Oh no,” he breathes, rushing to your side. “Sweetheart—snowflake—are you hurt? Did something happen? Was it the slipper again?”

You throw yourself into his arms with a hiccup. “I couldn’t get it back on.”

He hugs you tight, rubs your back, presses kiss after kiss to your hair and bump and cheeks like he’s soothing a delicate, shattered goddess. “That slipper’s cruel. I’ll burn it.”

“It’s so mean,” you sob. “I was just trying to go to the couch and it betrayed me.”

“It did,” he agrees solemnly. “We’ll destroy it in a private ceremony. With music. And sorbet.”

Later that night, you’re cuddled in his lap with your feet propped on a warmed cushion, happily eating your icy sorbet while Zayne strokes your thigh and reads your hormone tracker on his tablet.

He looks at you, affectionate and amused. “You’ve cried five times today, darling.”

You blink at him, mid-bite. “I have not.”

He raises an elegant brow. “You cried over the slipper, the fridge light being too bright, the seagull outside the window, the piano song on that ad, the tiny baby shoes arriving early—”

“Okay, fine!” you pout. “I cried! I’m allowed! I’m growing a human!”

He smiles, brushing a kiss against your pouting lips.

“I know,” he whispers. “And you’re doing it so beautifully.”

You sniff. Then smile. Then melt.

He’s already reaching for the heating pad before you even ask.

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

Xavier is trying his best, he really is. But, right now he really doesn’t understand why you’re crying.

“Starlight,” he says softly, kneeling by your side as you curl up on the penthouse daybed with your face buried in a galaxy print pillow. “Did the cosmos… disappoint you?”

You lift your head slowly, eyes teary and lips trembling. “They just look sad. And dim. I wanted sparkly ones. Like the ones at the Farspace fleet observatory… but they don’t let pregnant people visit anymore and—and—!”

Your voice cracks. You sniff.

Xavier visibly panics.

“I can buy a star projector.” he blurts out.

“Noooo,” you whimper, clinging to his arm. “It’s not the same. I just wanted to see them. It’s not fair.”

He pauses. Then gently takes your hand and presses it to his cheek, looking at you like you hung the moons he studies every night.

“I can’t bring the stars back,” he says in that quiet, deep voice. “But I can try to give atleast a bit of that experience.”

An hour later, you’re still crying, but this time from sheer overwhelm.

Because Xavier has blacked out the lights in the penthouse and filled the bedroom with soft holographic starfields. He’s projected constellations onto every wall. Tiny glowing satellites drift along the ceiling. He’s wrapped you in a navy robe and placed little moon-shaped fruit slices on a plate beside you. Even your juice has shimmer glitter in it.

“Starlight Sky Protocol: 04 Initiated,” he murmurs seriously, kissing your temple. “Do you feel calmer now, baby?”

You sniff again and nod. “You’re so dumb.”

“I know.”

“And sweet.”

“Also true.”

You cling to his sleeve. “I want peaches and pickles at the same time now.”

He blinks. Then, without question, disappears into the kitchen.

Fifteen minutes later, he returns with a tray.

One bowl of perfectly chilled peach slices, arranged in a heart. One small dish of your favorite dill pickles, cut into stars. And a spoon with your name engraved on it in fancy script.

He places it all beside you with reverence.

Then sits behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, one hand cupped under your belly like he’s holding a little moon. You take a bite. Then wrinkle your nose.

“Ugh. I don’t want pickles anymore.”

“Noted,” he says without offense. “The pickles will be dealt with.”

He gently pushes the dish aside like it personally offended his queen.

⸻

Later, you’re curled in bed on top of him while he rubs your back and murmurs nonsense about moons and plasma tides and the hypothetical smell of Saturn’s rings, his version of a bedtime story.

And when you whisper, “Sorry for being dramatic,” he frowns.

“You are the most radiant thing in this universe,” he says, dead serious. “Your moods are holy.”

“…even when I threw a pillow at the starlight lamp?”

“It provoked you.”

You smile against his chest, dozing off.

He brushes your hair behind your ear and kisses your crown.

“My starlight. My mood-swinging, craving-filled, beautiful galaxy.”

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

Sylus is used to control. Precision. Chaos he manages.

But this?

You, curled up in the center of the silk-covered bed, shoulders trembling as you try not to cry over the fact that your waffle was… “too square”—

This is a war he’s learning to wage with tenderness instead of tactics.

“Sweetie,” he murmurs as he enters the room, voice lower than usual, soft like velvet gloves over glass. “I’m here.”

You don’t answer. You’re turned away from him, buried under layers of plush blankets, his white dress shirt wrapped around your bump, your lip wobbling even as you try to stay silent.

He kneels beside the bed. Doesn’t touch. Just waits.

“Was it the waffle?” he asks gently. “Or did something else happen?”

You hiccup. “It—It was too square, Sylus. I don’t like when they’re square. It made me feel… boxed in. Like I was being judged by a geometry-themed breakfast.”

He doesn’t laugh.

Not even a twitch of amusement.

He nods. “That makes perfect sense, sweetie.”

“You’re not just saying that?”

“No,” he says seriously. “The shape of food is important. I should’ve noticed. That’s my fault.”

He strokes your back, slow and soothing, like calming a frightened bird. “Do you want a new one? I can have my chef remake them into hearts. Or I’ll fire him. Either works.”

You sniff. “You don’t have to fire him…”

“Alright. Then I’ll threaten him just enough so it never happens again.”

⸻

Fifteen minutes later, you’re sitting at the table in his lap, nibbling on a perfect heart-shaped waffle while Sylus rubs your calves under a silk blanket and feeds you mango slices with a fork.

Your eyes suddenly well up again. No warning.

Sylus freezes. “Too sweet?”

You shake your head. “No. It’s good. It’s too good. I don’t deserve mango slices that perfect. What if I never get mango this sweet again—?”

His hand cups your cheek immediately. “Kitten. Don’t say that.”

Your lips wobble. He presses his forehead to yours.

“There will always be more sweet mangoes. I’ll have orchards planted. One in every region. We’ll taste-test them together. You’ll pick the ripest ones. And I’ll name them after you.”

You blink. “That’s insane.”

“It’s necessary.”

You bury your face in his neck, clinging to him. “I’m sorry I’m being a mess.”

He strokes your hair, gentle, reverent. “You’re not a mess. You’re perfect. Your body is doing so much. All I need you to do is feel every single thing. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Later that night, when your mood suddenly flips again and you sit up in bed declaring, “I need something spicy. Immediately.”

Sylus doesn’t even blink.

He kisses your shoulder, picks up the tablet beside the bed, and in his calmest, most diplomatic voice says:

“Hello. I need someone to fly in chili dumplings and curry fish balls within the hour. No substitutions. No delays. If it’s late, don’t bother landing.”

You giggle softly through your sleepy cravings. “That was scary.”

He tucks the blanket around your feet and kisses your ankle.

“No one makes my sweetie wait,” he murmurs. “Not even the gods.”

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

You don’t even mean to cry.

You were just standing in the kitchen, barefoot, adorable, wearing one of Caleb’s oversized Fleet shirts and nothing else, digging through the fridge when you found it.

The last slice of your favorite pear tart. The one you’d been saving all week. And next to the empty plate was a single note, scribbled in Caleb’s handwriting:

“Sorry, pips. Emergency snack. Will replace. —C”

You don’t scream. You don’t throw anything.

You just stare.

Then sit down on the floor, slowly, like your knees gave out. And cry.

Meanwhile, Caleb is halfway across the penthouse, reviewing satellite schematics with his tablet in one hand and a protein bar in the other when he hears it.

The softest sound. A sniffle.

He freezes.

His eyes shoot toward the kitchen.

The bar falls from his hand.

“Pips?”

He rushes in like you’ve been shot.

Drops to his knees, tablet crashing to the floor, hands immediately reaching for your face.

“Baby. Baby, what’s wrong? What happened? What hurts? Do you feel dizzy? Is it the baby—?”

You hiccup and show him the plate. “You ate it…”

Caleb stares at it. Then goes pale. “The tart.”

You nod with trembling lips. “My tart.”

Caleb looks like he’s about to pass out.

“Oh my god.” He scoops you into his lap like you’re made of spun sugar. “Pips—I—I forgot you were saving that. You told me on Tuesday. I wrote it down. I swear I did.”

You sob harder into his neck.

“I’m such a bad husband,” he chokes. “I would’ve cut my own hand off before eating that if I’d remembered. You want me to do that? Right now? I’ll do it.”

“Nooo,” you hiccup. “I just wanted something sweet and now I feel crazy and mean and like a weird waffle monster who hoards desserts—”

“You’re not a monster,” he says immediately. “You’re my baby. My precious little dessert hoarder. I’ll get the tart again. Ten of them. A hundred. I’ll call the chef. I’ll have a bakery built in the guest wing—pips don’t cry again—”

Too late. You’re crying again. Caleb rocks you like a fragile kitten, kissing your damp cheeks.

⸻

Thirty minutes later, you’re tucked into bed with a heated pillow behind your back, wearing fresh socks Caleb insisted on putting on for you. He’s crouched at your bedside with a tablet, live-tracking a courier drone carrying three different types of pear tarts.

You’re sipping juice with a bendy straw.

He watches you like a man on the brink. Like any second you’ll burst again and he has to be ready.

“…You forgive me?” he asks softly.

You reach out and tug his hoodie sleeve. “Come cuddle.”

He practically dives into the bed.

Wraps you up tight. Rests his hand over your bump like a barrier. Nuzzles your neck.

“I’ll never eat your snacks again,” he whispers.

You hum. “Unless I say you can.”

“Exactly. Commander’s orders.”

Later, when you frown suddenly and mutter, “I want popcorn. Sweet and salty. With cinnamon,” Caleb is already on it.

“Copy that, baby,” he says, halfway off the bed. “Operation CinnaCorn underway. ETA: five minutes. No man left behind.”

“Extra butter,” you call after him.

“Extra everything, pips.”

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bueckersworld · 2 days ago

Text

girl you loud

───୨ৎ.. synopsis after a night of drinks and tension with your best friend paige, you end up in her bed, giving in to months of unspoken desire. the next morning, you realize you cheated on your boyfriend—but the truth is, he never made you feel anything close to what paige did.

───୨ৎ.. content warnings smut - mdni, jealousbsf!paige, strap-on sex (r!receiving), fingering (r!receiving), oral sex (r!receiving), pet names (ma, baby), cheating, alcohol usage, strap referred to as paige’s dick, lowercase intended.

───୨ৎ.. a/n i need her so bad. clawing at my sheets

word count: 3.8k info. masterlist. taglist.

───୨ৎ───

you weren’t supposed to be out tonight.

you had already said no twice when paige texted you earlier. come on, baby. just one drink. you told her you were tired, told her your boyfriend would be mad if he found out—he gets weird when you go out without him. controlling in ways you didn’t always catch until later. possessive, but never passionate.

but paige always knows how to push the right buttons. or maybe just yours.

so here you are, in a short little black dress you haven’t worn in a year, one she once said made her forget how to act. her words, not yours. her eyes say the same thing now when she sees you walk into the dimly lit bar, sliding into the seat beside her like it’s always belonged to you.

“bout time,” she murmurs, eyes raking over your legs, the curve of your hips, the gloss on your lips. “been waitin’ on you all night.”

you try to play it cool, brushing her off with a little scoff. “you said one drink.”

“then i guess we better make it count.”

one drink becomes two. then three. then she’s ordering you a shot with that cocky smirk you know too well. it’s the same one she gets when she scores a bucket, the same one she wears when she knows she’s already won.

you hate how good she looks tonight. in a black button-up rolled at the sleeves, gold chain peeking beneath the collar, blonde hair pulled back just enough to show off the sharp line of her jaw. she looks like trouble. like she knows it.

somewhere between drinks, the music gets louder, the lights dimmer. her thigh brushes yours under the table, deliberate and slow. you shift, pretending not to notice. pretending not to melt.

but she does it again.

“you’re doin’ that thing,” you murmur, lips pressed against the rim of your glass.

“what thing?”

“touching me like it doesn’t mean anything.”

paige tilts her head, face unreadable. “maybe it doesn’t.”

you give her a look.

she leans in, warm breath ghosting your cheek. “or maybe it means everything.”

your laugh comes out sharp. “you’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?”

she doesn’t deny it. “you have a boyfriend,” she says instead, almost like she’s trying to remind herself. then she shrugs. “but he doesn’t make you loud.”

you pause, frowning. “what?”

“you heard me.” her voice is low now, smooth and dangerous. “i hear how quiet you are when you talk about him. when you talk to him. like you’re always holding back.”

you hate that she’s right. you hate that she knows.

and then she says it—soft, slow, and devastating:

“let me show you what it’s supposed to feel like.”

you look at her for a long time. “paige…”

she shrugs, like it’s nothing. like she didn’t just crack your whole world open with one sentence. “just saying. if he can’t make you loud, someone else should.”

you don’t remember saying yes.

or maybe you didn’t. maybe your silence was enough. maybe the way your body leaned into hers as you slid out of the booth, let her take your hand and guide you through the haze of lights and liquor, was answer enough.

the uber ride back to her apartment is quiet, tension thick enough to choke on. you watch the way her hand grips her thigh, how her jaw clenches every time your knee bumps hers. she doesn’t look at you, doesn’t speak. but you know she’s thinking about it.

you are, too.

you both know what’s coming.

paige was on you the second you stepped into her apartment.

her hands gripped your hips tight, her mouth crashing into yours as she kicked the door shut behind you.

your arms wrapped around her neck, clinging to her as she hoisted you up with ease. your legs locked around her waist as she stumbled a little, but still carried you down the hallway to her room like she’d been waiting her whole life to.

she tossed you onto the bed, and a soft giggle slipped from your lips before it turned into a gasp.

paige climbed over you, pressing hot kisses along your neck, sucking gentle and then harder, just enough to leave marks. she didn’t care if your boyfriend saw. in her mind, you were hers now—and she was going to make sure everyone knew it.

her hands pushed your dress up around your hips, fingers confidently hooking into your underwear and tugging them down in one motion. they hit the floor without a care.

you shivered as cool air kissed your skin, your walls clenching around nothing as her fingers grazed the inside of your thighs.

she leaned in, unzipping the back of your dress and helping you sit up just enough so she could slip it over your head, leaving you bare in front of her.

you pulled her shirt off in return, tossing it aside without looking.

“gonna make you feel so fuckin’ good, baby,” she murmured, thumb finding your clit like it was muscle memory.

she started slow—just teasing soft circles that made your breath hitch and your legs twitch.

your whimpers were quiet at first, but paige heard them all. she smirked, dropping to her knees between your thighs, replacing her thumb with a long, deliberate lick up your folds.

you gasped at the contact, your hips jerking as her tongue moved in lazy, drawn-out strokes. she moaned into you, fingers spreading you open while circling your entrance.

“please…” you whimpered, barely able to form the word.

and who was she to deny you?

she slid two fingers inside you, slow and deep, curling them just right. she found the spot your boyfriend never even reached, let alone knew existed.

your whine turned into a breathless moan as her mouth wrapped around your clit, her tongue flicking in time with her fingers.

“look at you,” she murmured, voice rough against your skin. “so loud for me already.”

you glanced down, your hand tangled in her hair. her lips and chin were coated in you.

she pumped her fingers faster, curling them each time she pulled back. her tongue flicked over you relentlessly, your hips twitching with every movement.

you were so close.

“m’gonna come—paige!” you cried out, your hips lifting off the bed as she held you down.

“come for me, baby,” she breathed. “scream my name.”

and you did.

the orgasm ripped through you, thighs trembling, voice breaking as you moaned her name like a prayer.

she kept going, slow and gentle as you came down, only pulling away once your body stopped shaking.

she withdrew her fingers and sucked them clean with a smirk.

“better than him?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

your cheeks flushed. you didn’t even need to respond.

she leaned in and kissed you, tongue slipping past your lips so you could taste yourself.

her breath was warm against your cheek as she whispered, “i’m not done with you yet… need to feel you come around my dick.”

your eyes widened as she stood and walked to her closet. you heard a few clicks and snaps, and then she returned—an eight-inch strap harnessed low on her hips, her eyes dark with want.

your legs spread without thinking.

“don’t look so surprised, mama,” she teased. “told you i’d make it worth your while.”

she climbed back on the bed, grabbing your hips, your legs wrapping around her waist instinctively.

you watched as she spit into her hand and dragged it over the length of the strap, slicking it up.

she guided the tip through your folds, letting it glide through your wetness before slowly easing in.

you gasped, hands flying to her arms, nails digging into her skin as she bottomed out. the stretch burned, but god, it felt so good.

she gave you a moment to adjust, then began to move—slow and deep, dragging every inch on the way out, pressing it all back in.

“fuck,” you whispered, clenching around her.

“yeah, baby,” she murmured, “just like that. takin’ me so good.”

her thumb found your clit again, rubbing gentle circles as she rocked into you.

“more,” you whimpered. “please… i can take it.”

she smirked. “knew you could.”

her pace picked up, thighs slapping against yours, the wet sound of skin meeting skin echoing through the room.

“oh my god, yes—right there, don’t stop,” you gasped, head falling back.

paige groaned softly as the base of the strap rubbed against her clit. she leaned down, her chest brushing yours, her lips pressing to your jawline.

“gonna come again?” she asked, voice deep in your ear. “go on. come all over my dick. let me feel it.”

you cried out, her name falling from your lips again and again.

your body tensed, back arching as you unraveled, your orgasm crashing through you. your fingers gripped the sheets, your head thrown back.

paige held you through it, her strokes slowing until your body stilled beneath her.

she carefully pulled out, unsnapping the harness and letting it drop to the floor.

“shhh… i’ve got you,” she whispered, pulling you into her chest.

she grabbed her shirt from the bed, slipped it over your head, and laid beside you, her arms firm around your waist.

you melted into her.

“you okay?” she murmured, brushing her nose against your hair.

you nodded, still catching your breath.

“was it good?” she asked, smirking.

“better than him,” you mumbled, smiling into her neck.

she kissed the top of your head and held you tighter, your body finally going still in her arms.

and just like that, you fell asleep—warm, full, and finally, finally loud.

you wake up tangled in her sheets.

your dress is on the floor. her shirt is still halfway off your body. the room smells like sweat, skin, and whatever perfume you wore last night.

paige is next to you—bare-chested, flushed, breathing soft. her arm draped across your waist like she’s been holding onto you in her sleep. like she didn’t want to let go even in her dreams.

and for a moment, you forget everything.

but then it hits you.

you cheated.

on your boyfriend.

you cheated.

you sit up slowly, heart pounding—not in guilt, but in adrenaline. like your body still remembers what it felt like to fall apart for someone who actually noticed when you did.

you pull the sheet around you, biting your lip, trying to make sense of how you should feel.

but the worst part is—

you don’t even feel bad.

you don’t feel anything.

except satisfied. and maybe a little free.

paige stirs beside you. “you okay?”

you glance down at her. her voice is rough with sleep, but her eyes are already studying you. always watching.

“i cheated on him,” you whisper.

she nods, slow. “i know.”

you wait for the guilt to crash down. but all you feel is the memory of her hands on your hips, the sound of your own voice breaking open in her mouth, and the unbearable truth that’s been building inside you for months now:

“he never made me feel like that.”

paige reaches up, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face. “i know,” she repeats, gentler this time. “you deserve better.”

you nod, voice barely above a breath. “was i that loud?”

she smirks, then. “girl, you screamed.”

you roll your eyes, laughing despite yourself—and then sigh, slumping against her chest as she pulls you back into her arms.

you should feel terrible.

but instead, you just feel home.

𝑤𝑖𝑡𝘩 𝘩𝑢𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑘𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑠, 𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑟

taglist: @elswhore @private-but-not-a-secret @paigebaby5 @raimund00 @bravemode @d1paigebueckersglazer @evanpeterstoe @zi0nnnn @jadasogay @fuddaround @jaylie-bee @everyonewatchesuconnwbb @mrsarnold @lol-12n @sayurireidotcom @slt4kavanagh @kl0verk @agnesblight @scarlett177 @syraxsbigfanfr @asapeveryday @avvwritesstufff @rand0mmmgg @buybloom

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idk-karla · 2 days ago

Text

The Neighbor, pt. 2

Pairing: bucky barnes x single!mom!reader (Post Thunderbolts)

Summary: Bucky helps you with the groceries and stays for dinner.

Author's Note: I'm gonna be so real with you my guy, I have not edited this so I apologize for any mistakes. Also there are barely any long hair bucky memes. I love short hair bucky but long hair buckt is so fucking daddy idk. Especially that little cunty blow out out in the Thunderbolts post credit. 😭

Part 1

It started with a cookie.

Then I started seeing him more often. He would pass me in the mornings on his way out with a smile, putter around the porch in the afternoon. And then he started sitting balcony every afternoon at 4pm. Which coincidentally was the same time Ellie and I played outside.

And just like that a tradition was born. Ellie would bring him a new “delivery” every day on her way in from school. A flower she picked from the sidewalk, a crayon drawing of a purple dinosaur, a single cheese puff in a napkin. He took every offering with that quiet nod and tiny smile that I was starting to recognize as rare currency. Sometimes he gave her something back- a shiny coin, a folded paper crane, a soft high-five that she beamed about for hours.

He still didn’t say much. He would watch. He would smile, softly like if he did it too hard it would hurt, he would wave. Sometimes, when I turned my head just slightly, I’d catch him watching me like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to. Butterflies swarmed my stomach everytime he looked at me like that.Like he didn’t quite know what to do with the way he was looking.

Truthfully, I barely knew either. I hadn’t been with anyone since I left Ellie’s dad when she was barely two and I hadn't had much interest in dating after that. Not trying to balance a full time career and a very active kid. Not to mention, Ellie’s dad hadn’t quite made me want to be with another man again. I knew he was never going to be my forever guy, but I had stayed for a while hoping he would change. Then I got pregnant and I really thought he would change. Instead, he got worse. I had been anticipating my exit since Ellie was still in my womb but I didn’t have the resources until it was almost too late. We were never going back.

We’d started over. Fresh. Clean slate. Now with a broody neighbor that had my curiosity peaked,

We hadn’t seen him for two weeks after a full month of quiet interactions. Ellie had been sad the first few days, worried he had moved out. But I’d reminded her he was an avenger and he was probably out working or something. I think I was trying to convince myself just as much.

I hated to admit my heart skipped a beat when I pulled into my usual parking spot and spotted the familiar heavy bike stationed. Ellie didn’t notice and I didn’t alert her that he was back. Instead, I parked, got her unbuckled and continued our animated conversation while she put on her big girl strength and helped me with the grocery bags.

We were standing in front of the trunk, gathering as many bags as we could carry while Ellie talked animatedly about something that happened in class today when a familiar voice sounded behind me.

“Need some help?” The voice startled me to dropping the bags, sending Ellie into a fit of giggles.

“Mr. Soldier!” Ellie squealed. “You’re back!”

He titled his head at her and gave her a small salute. “Ma’am,” he said seriously, which sent her into giggles.

“Hi,” He greeted me quietly. The butterflies in my stomach were having a frenzy.

“Hi,” I replied. Somehow the exchange felt intimate. I hated to admit, seeing him now after so much time made me relieved. I hate coming home the last few weeks with no Bucky on the porch, hated not seeing his bike parked next to my car.

I wanted to tell him I’d missed seeing him. That I hated how… empty the afternoons had felt without him. That I checked for his bike every day, hoping it would be back. But the words stuck somewhere between my chest and my throat. So I just smiled.

“I missed you!” Ellie wrapped her arms around his knees without permission.

Something passed across Bucky’s face. A flicker of surprise, emotion, something I couldn’t quite name. He crouched carefully to her level.

“Sorry I missed our daily delivery, I had to go work for a little bit.” Bucky finally replied.

I leaned against the car, watching as Ellie cupped his face like he was some long-lost best friend. I saw it when his face caught he reflection of the light, a split lip, faint bruises blooming along his jaw.

“Thats okay! I put all the deliveries in your mailbox!” She giggled diabolically.

My eyes widened. “You did what?”

“I didn’t have space in my toy box, Mommy! And Bucky wasn’t here to pick them up. The mailman leaves stuff in our box when we’re gone, remember?”

I didn’t have the heart to be mortified, I was mostly kind of intrigued to find out exactly what she had put in his mailbox. Bucky looked… stricken. Like someone had slapped him in the face.

Ellie grabbed his cheeks again. “Did you beat up all the bad guys?”

He nodded solemnly.

“Thank you, Mr. Soldier!”

His voice softened just a touch. “My friends call me Bucky.”

Her eyes lit up like a thousand suns. “And we’re friends!!”

Bucky looked back to me for permission. “If your mom says it’s okay.”

I sighed, but I couldn’t help smiling. “I suppose it’s too late to stop it now.” Ellie gave another excited yelp and turned to grab the grocery bags.

“Let me help,” he offered, glancing between us. “Put me to work, boss.”

And just like that, we were playing “how many bags can fit on Bucky’s metal arm.” Today’s count: fifteen.

I tried not to look flustered as I opened the door and let him carry the groceries into the kitchen. His eyes swept the space like he couldn’t help himself; quick, cataloging. Like he was assessing danger, even here.

Ellie ran off into her room. Now alone, Bucky finally turned those piercing blue eyes back on me.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I said as he set the bags down.

“I know,” he answered, setting the bags down gently on the counter. “You looked like you needed a third arm.”

“Or two,” I muttered. I hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but he heard. Of course he heard. He was quiet for a beat longer than necessary, and when I looked up, he was staring at me like he wanted to say something but didn’t.

“You do this alone?” he asked, those eyes trained on me

I leaned on the counter, tilting my head at him. “The groceries?”

He gave me a look that said he didn’t mean just the groceries.

“Yeah,” I started unpacking said groceries to avoid his watchful gaze. “It’s just me and Ellie.”

He nodded slowly, like he was filing that away. “You’re doing good.”

The words were simple, but they landed heavier than they should have. Maybe because no one really said things like that to me. Or maybe because it was him.

“Thanks,” I whispered, warmth blooming in my chest.

I scratched the back of my neck. “Also… sorry about your mailbox. It’s probably full of dirt and rotten snacks.” I said sheepishly.

A flicker of something crossed his face. Not annoyance. Something closer to... wonder.

“That's okay, I don’t mind…” he said, voice almost too soft to hear, looking around the room anywhere but at me. “I- uh- I think it’s sweet. She was thinking about me.”

My heart ached. This sweet, lonely man who didn’t expect to be remembered.

“I… thought about you too.” I admitted quietly. “I wondered if you moved. Maybe the noise and glitter scared you off.”

Now his eyes locked on me firmly when he shook his head. “I had to work.” He repeated solemnly. “I like having you and Ellie as neighbors.”

Neighbors.

“Neighbor friends,” I teased, nudging his shoulder lightly.

“Friends who are neighbors,” he echoed, smiling that rare, crinkly smile.

And suddenly, we were both grinning at each other like idiots. The moment broke when Ellie came barreling out of the bedroom at full speed, toy gun in her hands.

“Mr. Soldier!” She yelled in a playfully authoritative voice, weapon trained on him. Bucky turned around with wide eyes, hands above his head.

“Don’t shoot!” He pleaded dramatically.

“Did you take Captain Glittersword with you to work?” Ellie raised a serious eyebrow, jiggling her weapon.

“I did, ma’am!” Bucky saluted her again.

“Show me prooooof!””

“I keep my promises, General.” He pulled the sparkly plastic toy from one of his many utility pockets, presenting it with exaggerated care. “Captain glittersword got me home safe and sound.”

Ellie cheered and accidentally let off her gun, hitting Bucky in the chest with a foam ball.

“Sorry!” She squeaked sheepishly. Bucky roared playfully and took off after her, the sound of their laughter spilling out onto the porch.

I watched them through the window as Bucky chased her in a circle, clearly letting her evade his hold on purpose. My heart was heavy in my chest.

After a few minutes they made it back inside, crashing onto the living room floor in a heap of sweet and labored breathing.

“Hey,” I said, voice soft. “We’re doing tacos tonight. You want to stay?”

“Tacos!!!” Ellie cheered. “They’re chicken! You have to stay Bucky!”

His face shifted, surprised, like he hadn’t expected to be asked.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

***

Ellie was in charge of the cheese, which meant about half of it made it into her mouth before it made it onto the tacos. Bucky helped chop tomatoes with a carefulness that made me think he’d never done it before, or like he was terrified of doing it wrong. He held the knife awkwardly in his right hand, the left one curled loosely around the vegetable, as if it didn’t quite know what to do when it wasn’t a weapon.

I tried not to stare. But I couldn't help myself.

“You weren’t lying about not being able to cook, huh?”

His lips tugged into a sheepish, almost boyish smile. “Not unless it comes in a can I can heat with a lighter.”

I stepped closer. “Can I show you?”

He nodded once, quiet and still.

I reached out, slowly curling my fingers over his, repositioning the knife in his hand with gentle pressure. A jolt of warmth sparked down my spine when my finger grazed over his. My breath hitched.

“Knife goes here,” I murmured, guiding his grip. “Firm, but not stiff. Let it do the work.” His gaze was trained where our hands touched. “And you curl your fingers in, so you don’t accidentally cut yourself.”

I gently nudged his vibranium hand into the proper position, ignoring the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I literally can’t cut it off,” he murmured.

“I know. Humor me.”

I kept my hand on his, guiding the first few slices, our arms pressed close. He leaned in, just slightly, but enough that I felt the warmth of his chest at my back. My hips shifted, the softest, subtlest movement and I felt him freeze, a breath catching somewhere deep in his throat.

The air around us changed like something unspoken had just brushed the edges of what could be. And then Ellie dropped a spoon and we pulled apart like teenagers caught by their parents.

By the time we finished assembling the tacos, they were a gloriously soggy mess of loose food, sauces, and questionable amounts of cheese.

Bucky eyed his with skepticism, then took a bite. A low groan of approval rumbled from his throat.

I smirked. “Better than canned beans?”

He looked almost offended. “We eat military rations. Vacuum-sealed mystery meat. This is gourmet.”

A flush crept up my neck. “Thanks.”

“Mommy looooves to cook,” Ellie announced proudly, tomato sauce on her nose. “I help her.”

“You must know a lot, then,” Bucky said seriously, leaning forward. “You’re gonna have to teach me.”

“I can be your cooking teacher!” she declared, chest puffed out.

Bucky gave a solemn nod. “Deal, Chef Ellie.”

She beamed.

Ellie kept up a steady stream of chatter through dinner- stories from school, a play-by-play of her imaginary army base in the backyard, questions about Bucky’s arm (which he answered patiently and honestly), and whether or not he knew how to ride dragons.

“No, but I did ride on top of a tank once,” he told her. “Pretty close.”

Her jaw dropped, awestruck. “Mommy, he’s so cool.”

I smiled behind my glass. “Yeah. He kinda is.”

Bucky looked at me just then. Not just looking seeing. That soft, searching look again. Like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. It made my heart do that slow, warm curl in my chest.

After dinner, he followed me into the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, plate in hand.

“I’ve got the dishes,” he said.

“Oh, you really don’t have to-”

“I want to. Let me.”

Ellie tugged on my shirt. “Mom, can I have TV time?”

It was Friday. “Yeah, bug. Go grab your arsenal- I’ll set you up with dessert and a movie.”

She raced off like I’d just handed her a mission from NASA. I packed a little snack board; cut-up fruit, mini cookies, a juice box. Bucky rinsed the dishes beside me. The kitchen felt warmer with him in it, our bodies moving in sync in the small space, shoulders brushing here and there. Not rushed. Just comfortable. Intimate.

At one point, I reached past him for the dish towel, and his arm grazed my waist.

We both paused. Neither of us moved. We’d just stared at each other for a few seconds. I’d watched his eyes flicker down to my lips and back up almost like he was asking a question I was going to definitely say yes too.

“Thank you for dinner,” he said. His voice was quiet, almost unsure. “You have a… a nice home. You’re nice. This is nice.”

His face crumpled like he hated every word the moment it left his mouth. He ran a hand over his face and groaned. “God, that sounded better in my head.”

A grin tugged across my lips. I couldn’t stop it if I tried.

He moved toward the door, clearly flustered, hands in his pockets like he didn’t know what else to do with them. “Anyway. Thanks again.”

I followed him to the door. “Thank you for spending the evening with us. Ellie loved it.” I paused, nerves catching in my throat “I did too.”

He turned slowly, meeting my eyes. The porch light cast golden shadows across his face.

That look again. The one that said: If I could explain what this means to me, I would.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Buck.”

The door closed behind him, but I stood there for a while, hand on the knob, breath caught in the quiet.

Part 3

Masterlist

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wynnevee · 1 day ago

Text

a classic

bob floyd x reader

synopsis: an unsuspecting jake hits on you at the hard deck while the gang waits for bobs new girlfriend to arrive (spoiler alert: that’s you)

warnings: alcohol, insecure reader, social anxiety and concerns about fitting in, fluffy bobby ☺️, horny bobby 🤭, hickeys, mentions of sex, unedited as always

notes: the second ‘jealous bob’ blurb. i am really feeding y’all good with this content this week. enjoy!!

you’d been at the bar for maybe five minutes, watching bob and his friends from the bar.

it sounded creepier than it was; really, you were just nervous. stomach twisting, heart racing, palms sweating, absolutely so fucking nervous.

you and bob had only been dating for a year now, but it felt like you’d known him forever. as cheesy as it sounded, he’d quickly became a part of every little bit of your life, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

however, bob also wanted you in every little part of his life… which meant meeting his navy friends.

and just like that: your bubble popped.

it’s not that you weren’t sociable, you were just a bit more awkward than the typical hot-shot pilot. you were interesting, but not… that interesting. some of these guys have flown into certain death and survived—could you really make an impression on them? what if you embarrassed yourself? what if you didn’t meet their expectations?

unable to find an answer to these questions in the floorboards of the house you’d spent all day scrubbing, you’d come to the hard deck early, hoping a drink or two would loosen you up a bit.

it didn’t. and now you watched your boyfriend and his friends laugh and drink, and you wished the earth would open up and swallow you whole.

you just hoped nobody had noticed you—a hope that was squashed when you saw a familiar man in a familiar tan uniform saunter up to the bar.

john? jason? jake? jake, that was it. you’d seen him in group pictures of the squad, and honestly, you’d been the most nervous to meet him.

‘loud, cocky, and weirdly lovable’ was bob’s description of him, and as he walked up to the bar like a male peacock doing a mating dance, you began to see the truth in this statement.

“hey gorgeous, you look awful lonely. can i buy you a drink?”

you didn’t know what you were expecting him to say but it definitely wasn’t that. you sputtered, almost choking on your own saliva. “i’m sorry, what— what was that?”

you must have misheard him.

he laughed, seeming to think your confusion was amusing or cute. you didn’t like that. “can i buy you a drink, sweetheart? maybe buy you dinner sometime too?”

oh god, this was escalating quickly. “oh, i’m, uh… i’m actually—”

fucking your friend and colleague?

the one you’re here to meet?

absolutely desperate for you and your friends’ approval and so am trying to let you down easy so you won’t hate me?

“you’re cute,” he cuts in, before you could pick a suitable end to your sentence. “sorry, i have a habit of getting ahead of myself around such gorgeous women. let’s start with names: jake.”

“i know.” fuck, fuck, why did you say that?! those first two drinks weren’t a good idea. “i meant—"

but before you could finish, there was a call of your name from across the room and another familiar face coming into view: bob, your knight in shining armor, here to save you from this rapidly sinking ship.

he reaches you in a few strides, face a bit flushed, hair messed and absolutely perfect. wrapping a strong arm around your waist, he pulls you in, leaning down to peck your lips softly.

“hey beautiful, when did you get here?”

“what the actual fuck.”

bob and jake speak at the same time, leading bob to turn to his teammate, pretending to have just noticed him. “hangman, i see you’ve met my lovely girlfriend! sorry, i didn’t mean to interrupt; what were you talking about?”

his sneaky smug smile led you to believe otherwise.

it was jake’s turn to sputter, the tips of his ears turning cherry red. he tried to play it off, waving a dismissive hand in the air. “just chatting.”

bob smiled, arms wrapped around you from behind, chin resting on your shoulder. “you look surprised. did you think she was single?”

jake shrugged, shoulders finally relaxing. “i mean, she’s gorgeous—” he looks to you “—you are gorgeous. if he ever fucks up, you know where to find me.”

and he’s off with a wink, no doubt on his way to find a rebound conquest. you feel bob pull you tighter and you’re able to picture his furrowed brow and exasperated expression perfectly.

“dumbass,” he murmurs, kissing and nipping at your jaw gently. “flirtin’ with you, thinking i’d ever screw somethin’ this good up.”

you smile, bringing a hand up to hold his cheek as you lean back to look at him. “you’re getting a little southern there, cowboy, how much have you had to drink?”

he sighs, eyes trailing down your body shamelessly. “not enough that you should feel uncomfortable letting me tear that dress off with my teeth—”

you pat his cheek, turning in his arms so you can further silence him with a soft kiss. “keep it in your pants, lieutenant, we’ve still gotta meet the rest of your friends. can’t have anyone thinking i’m single.”

you weren’t gonna lie: hangman hitting on you did give you a little confidence boost for the introductions to come.

bob pouted, clearly not wanting to share you with the rest of his squadron. he buries his face in your neck and you’re expecting him to mumble something about going home early—you gasp when you feel him bite and suck at your skin like an eager leech.

“bobby! someone will see!”

he hums. “i know. until i put a ring on that pretty finger there, this should give everyone the message that you are not single.”

#bob floyd x reader #bob floyd x y/n #bob floyd x female reader #bob floyd fluff #bob floyd #top gun maverick #bob floyd x you

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elleaitch22 · 2 days ago

Text

Terms of Endearment

Chapter 17: Twenty Nine Candles

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

A/N: We’re back from the concussion! I lowkey hate the plot, but we have to move it along for what happens in Chapter 19. I hope y’all love it!! xx Elle

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, dom/sub dynamics

Word Count: 9.9k words

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Azzi was bored.

Morgan had taken her to drop Soleil off at school. Then she went to the grocery store to restock fruit and vegetables.

She stared at the blades of her fan going around and around before sitting up.

Walking to the kitchen, she looked at the list Paige had given her for the day.

Affirmations in the mirror

Groceries

10 minute walk

4 cups of water

Journal prompt: do you feel safe and accepted here? what do you need to feel safe?

Share journal w P if you want

She’d done her affirmations as soon as she got up. She’d already gotten groceries. She was going to go on a walk with Soleil after lunch. She didn’t really feel like journaling yet, and today’s question required some thought. She pulled out her phone and saw a text from Nika.

Nika 🇭🇷😎: Have you and Paige talked about the simple stuff, like birthdays?

Azzi 👩🏽‍🏫🩷: …actually, I don’t think we have lol

When was Paige’s birthday? Azzi knew that the woman already knew hers due to her control issues desire to know everything about people who would be around Soleil.

Her phone buzzed again.

Nika 🇭🇷😎: Well lucky for you, it’s Monday 🙃

Azzi 👩🏽‍🏫🩷: MONDAY!!!

Azzi 👩🏽‍🏫🩷: What the fuck omg

Azzi 👩🏽‍🏫🩷: I’m gonna plan something. Will lyk about what I come up with!

Today was already Thursday. She had the rest of today and maybe tomorrow to plan something good for her girlfriend’s birthday.

Pause.

What can she even afford?

She grabbed her MacBook and pulled up her bank account.

Wait, that couldn’t be right.

Thirty-two thousand one hundred sixty-seven dollars.

She blinked. Refreshed the screen. Stared. Still. Thirty-two thousand one hundred sixty-seven dollars. What the actual fuck?

Well, she had been working for Paige since September, but she’d assumed that it stopped once they got together.

Azzi 🧸💌💗: You’re still paying me

Paige 💗😍🥰: You’re still working for me.

Azzi read the message twice, not quite believing what Paige had said.

Azzi 🧸💌💗: Just thought contract stuff was over when you asked me to be your girlfriend…

Paige 💗😍🥰: Yeah, but you’re Lei’s private tutor?

Azzi 🧸💌💗: Oh…😬

Paige 💗😍🥰: You don’t want to anymore?

Azzi 🧸💌💗: I love working with Soleil! Always!!!

Azzi 🧸💌💗: I just didn’t know you were still paying me

Paige 💗😍🥰: You’re working. I’m paying. That’s how it works, love.

Azzi stared at the screen. Paige was typing. Then paused. Then typing again.

Paige 💗😍🥰: And you’re my girlfriend. I like to give money and gifts to people I love. You should be happy I don’t give you something new every time I see you.

The brunette decided to ignore the swarm of butterflies that rumbled in her stomach. She wasn’t expecting that word.

Azzi 🧸💌💗: Lol please don’t

Paige 💗😍🥰: Where is all this coming from?

Azzi 🧸💌💗: I looked at my bank account. Was just shocked

Paige 💗😍🥰: We agreed on 5k a week. We can talk about adjusting the amount if you want.

Azzi 🧸💌💗: No. You’ll just pay me more

Paige 💗😍🥰: I’m happy you know me so well.

Azzi 🧸💌💗: 🙄 bye Paige.

Paige 💗😍🥰: Fix your attitude, love.

Azzi 🧸💌💗: Sorry.

Azzi 🧸💌💗: Bye Paige! 😁

She texted all the girls and asked them if they would be free on Sunday night.

Jana 🪡🇪🇬: Yes, why?

Ice 🧊🤍: me, j, and kk were supposed to have a movie night

Ice 🧊🤍: got something better 👀

KK 🤣🤪: girl boo 🙄 nothing is better than a night w me!!!

Nika 🇭🇷😎: You planned something that quick? Damn

Azzi 🩷😇: Not really

Azzi 🩷😇: I just wanted to see if everyone would be available

Jana 🪡🇪🇬: Is anyone gonna fill is in orrr…?

Azzi 🩷😇: OH! Sorry!! Going to do a birthday dinner for Paige on Sunday night!

KK 🤣🤪 renamed the chat to ‘PSkii’s Faves 💘’

Ice 🧊🤍: oh. much better than movie night! i'll be there

KK 🤣🤪: rude?? but me too

Nika 🇭🇷😎: I’m free. Can I bring N?

Ice 🧊🤍: not rude if it’s true 💅🏽

Jana 🪡🇪🇬: I’ll be there! Just tell me the time.

Azzi 🩷😇: Of course! Does anyone else have a plus 1

Nika 🇭🇷😎: Sounds good. I’ll be here if you need any help!

Ice 🧊🤍: just kk unfortunately

Jana 🪡🇪🇬: No. But I need to know if there’s a dress code?

KK 🤣🤪: shut up before i tell everyone what happened on tuesday

Jana 🪡🇪🇬: You can never go wrong with all black. But her favorite color…

Azzi 🩷😇: I think black with a little purple would be pretty

Ice 🧊🤍: 🤐🤐🤐🤐

KK 🤣🤪: p would love if everybody had on purple tho

KK 🤣🤪: thats what i thought

Jana 🪡🇪🇬: Perfect idea! So all black with a lilac or lavender accent!

Nika 🇭🇷😎: Cool. I’ll text Bob and Katie.

Jana 🪡🇪🇬: Me and Ice can help you decorate or plan if you want!

Azzi 🩷😇: I would really appreciate that! I’ll send some pictures later once I finalize a restaurant. Was thinking a steakhouse so everyone could have options?

Ice 🧊🤍: that sounds great Azzi. she's really gonna love it

Azzi let out a sigh of relief. Everyone was going to come, and now she just needed to find a space. She perused the internet until she found a steakhouse with good reviews who would handle everything, and they had a private space! She called to book the space for twelve people.

An uneasy feeling settled over her, and while she tried to remind herself that she was good enough, she didn’t feel like a basic dinner would be enough for the woman who had done so much for her.

Azzi 🩷😇: Are you busy rn

Jana 🪡🇪🇬: No. Need me to come over?

Azzi 🩷😇: Yes please!

The tall Egyptian queen was at Azzi’s in no time at all.

“What do you need help with?” She questioned as Azzi opened the door.

Azzi stepped to the side and went to get a pair of shoes. “I wanted to get Paige an outfit for dinner. Something she would stand out in.” She muttered.

The tall woman’s face lit up with glee. “Yes!” She exclaimed, grabbing Azzi’s wrist. “P never lets me style her anymore, but I have the perfect fit in mind.”

Fifteen minutes later, the two were sitting in Louis Vuitton.

Louis Vuitton.

“Azzi, this is my friend, Elyse. She’s going to help us.” Jana smiled.

The pale woman gave a kind smile before gesturing them to an area to the side.

“Jana told me this is supposed to be a surprise, which I normally wouldn’t agree on, but I’ll do anything for J.” She rolled her eyes affectionately.

Jana nudged Azzi gently, “She’s scared it’s not going to fit her well.” She whispered loudly. “But she doesn’t know I already have all of Paige’s numbers.” She finished loudly.

“What are you wanting to see, Azzi?” Elyse asked.

Azzi couldn’t say anything. Usually went she went to fancier places; people always looked to the person she was with. They never even acknowledged her.

“She’s having everyone wear black with hits of lavender, since that’s Paige’s favorite color.” Jana replied, looking at Azzi weirdly. She hadn’t known the woman to be very quiet, not since she’d been fully integrated into the family.

“Oh, so are we thinking a full lavender set? I have a few pieces I can pull.” Elyse started to turn.

Which was the exact moment Azzi found her voice. “No!” She cleared her throat awkwardly. “I mean, the room will already be a lot of black, lilac, lavender, and purple. I want her to stand out.”

Jana nodded slowly, brows furrowed. “That makes sense. What about an off-white or cream?” She asked thoughtfully.

“I think she’d look like an angel in all white,” Azzi felt her cheeks warm as she envisioned her girlfriend in an all-white outfit.

Elyse giggled at her facial expression. “Sounds like a plan. I’ll be back with some pieces.”

“An angel, huh?” Jana smirked.

It was Azzi’s turn to roll her eyes at Jana. “Shut up.” She said, a smile spreading across her lips. “She’s just so perfect, Jana. I swear she’s my own personal angel.”

Jana smiled softly, “I’m happy you feel that way about her.” She put her hand on Azzi’s shoulder. “She’s deserved someone like you for so long. You make her so happy, Azzi. Thank you.”

“She said I was one of the people she loved today.” She whispered, smile softening. “I wasn’t expecting her to say anything like that. We’ve only known each other for like two months.”

Jana’s brows nearly touched her hair before her face turned pensive. “Well, that’s not surprising. P feels very deeply, and once she decides to let someone in, she’s all in.”

Azzi nodded minutely, “I know, I just am a little…scared I’m gonna fuck it up and she’ll leave.”

“The best and worst thing about Paige is that she stays through everything. I promise that’s not something you'll ever have to worry about.”

As Elyse returned with a rack of white pieces, Azzi straightened up, cheeks still warm but eyes focused.

If she couldn’t give Paige everything, she could still give her this, one perfect night planned with love.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Ice 🧊🤍: Attachment: 3 images

Ice 🧊🤍: all done!!! see you in a few hours

Azzi let out a breath she’d been holding all day. Ice and Jana had made the room look amazing. There was a tasteful balloon arch covering the entire back wall, and it would be perfect for pictures. The table was decorated beautifully, the centerpieces and place settings a lush mix of purple flowers and greenery.

Her phone buzzed again.

Jana 🪡🇪🇬: I’ll be there in 45 with all the luggage and your presents!

Azzi eyes were almost closed with how hard she was grinning. She hoped Paige would love her surprise. Well surprises.

She grabbed the garment bags that held Paige’s outfit and Soleil’s dress before heading upstairs.

“Paige Madison!” She yelled the moment the elevator doors slid open.

She giggled at the quick footsteps slapping the wooden floors.

“What did I do?” Paige gasped as she rounded the corner. She clocked the bags Azzi was holding and her brows furrowed. “What’s that for?”

Azzi huffed, jutting her hip to the side, full of faux attitude. “What you did was not tell me your birthday was tomorrow.”

A pale hand to scratch at the back of her neck, “Well, I just don’t like celebrating my birthday much.” She hesitated. “And it never came up.” She finished, cheeks red.

“Well, to make it up to me, we’re gonna go to dinner. And you’re going to be happy and go put on this outfit,” She thrust the garment bag into Paige’s hands. “And you’re going to go do your hair and makeup and be happy about it.” Azzi finished.

When Paige saw her turning back towards the elevator. “Wait! Can you just…get ready up here with me and Lei?” She asked, brows raised hopefully.

Azzi couldn’t keep up with the mad act. She smiled brightly, “Of course I can! Just let me go get my outfit, then I’ll be right back up! And don’t get Soleil ready, I got her.”

Paige watched her go, lips tugging into a soft smile.

“Soleil! Azzi’s gonna be here soon!” She called, walking back to the living room.

Her daughter turned away from Lilo and Stitch with wide eyes. “You didn’t tell me Azzi was coming ovew!” She shrieked, excitement clear in her voice.

“She didn’t tell me either, Lei!” Paige exclaimed playfully. “You can wait for her here or in your room, but I have to get ready so I don’t get in trouble."

Soleil’s eyes widened. “Yeah, Mommy. You don’t wanna be in twouble on youw biwthday!” She shooed Paige away.

She walked to her closet, hanging the bag on one of the racks. She knew whatever Azzi had picked for her would be great, and it was a gift from the girl she loved, so it would be perfect.

Paige didn’t know what to expect when she opened the bag, but it certainly wasn’t this. She just stared at the cream fabrics, jaw on the floor. She was stuck there until a knock sounded at her door. Instead of a person, all Paige saw when she turned around was a sleek Louis Vuitton shoe box.

No fucking way Azzi spent this much money on an outfit.

Paige was in a bit of a daze as she pulled on the thick pants, monogrammed shirt, and wool vest. She floated across her bedroom to do some light make up and pull the front of her hair back.

When she looked in the mirror, she almost decided to fire Jana and hire Azzi to pick out all her outfits because she looked good.

Not like ‘I want to find a wife’ good.

But like ‘I’m rich and hot and the world’s perfect woman is in love with me’ good.

Like ‘My girlfriend, who I haven’t pressured for sex, might fuck me tonight’ good.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

In another room, Azzi was helping Soleil get ready.

“Whewe we going? We getting fancy, Azzi.” Soleil asked as she sat in between Azzi’s legs.

Azzi finished the last twist in the front of Lei’s head before pulling the rest back into a ponytail. “Well, your mommy’s birthday is tomorrow, so we’re going to celebrate.”

Soleil smiled brightly, “A pawty all fow Mommy?”

“Yes, baby. All for your mommy. I just hopes she likes it.” Azzi smiled. “Do you want a ponytail or a ballerina bun?”

“Ballet bun, please.” Soleil started. “Mommy always tell me when I do something fow hew, she love it the most. She gonna love hew pawty.”

Azzi planted a kiss on Soleil’s forehead as she finished the bun. “You’re all set pretty girl! Just gotta put on your dress and you’ll be ready to go.”

When she unzipped the garment bag, Soleil gasped at the fluffy lilac dress. “I’m gonna look like a pwincess!” she squealed.

As soon as it was zipped up, Soleil darted out of the room to find her mom.

Azzi took the quiet moment to get dressed.

After their day at Louis Vuitton, she and Jana had thirty more minutes before school pickup. And when the Egyptian saw a lingerie shop across the street, she pulled her over with a wink.

The set was simple, but gorgeous. On theme for tonight, it was lavender. The bra was made of lace so delicate that Azzi could see the outline of her nipples through the fabric. Instead of a thong, they decided on cheeky underwear. They made her ass look perfectly round and juicy enough to take a bite out of. The garter belt was the perfect touch, emphasizing her waist perfectly.

Paige was going to lose her mind when she saw Azzi, and she couldn’t wait.

The rest of her outfit was understated but sensual. The square neck displayed a tasteful amount of cleavage. The back dipped past her shoulder blades; Paige loved running her hands all over the bare skin. The silky fabric wasn’t skintight, but it clung just enough to outline Azzi’s curves.

The best part of the outfit? The shoes. The lavender heels were the perfect match to the set beneath the dress. They had satin ribbons that tied into bows on the backs of Azzi’s ankles (her favorite part, of course).

She pulled her hair into a curly updo, her face framing pieces doing their job perfectly. She added a smoked out purple shadow that made her brown eyes pop. A few swipes of lip gloss and blush meant she was ready to go.

Paige and Soleil’s voices got louder as Azzi walked out to the living room.

“Just tell me what Azzi’s planning, Lei. And we can stay home one day next week and watch movies.” Paige tried to bribe.

Soleil gasped dramatically, “But then Sewenity won’t have nobody to play with hew!”

“She can’t tell you anyway,” Azzi started, rounding the corner. “It’s just dinner, like I said.”

Azzi smirked as she watched blue eyes dilate. The heated gaze darted around her outfit, lingering on the cleavage.

“You look perfect, Azzi.” Paige said lowly.

Tanned thighs squeezed together at the low rasp in Paige’s voice that Azzi had never heard before.

“Thank you. You look good too,” Azzi shifted from one foot to the other.

A loud whine broke their trance. “Can we go? I’m hungwy.”

“One second, Lei. I gotta give your mom her present!” Azzi said, already turning toward the elevator. “It’s at my house.”

They rode down to Azzi’s floor, Soleil humming softly as she held Paige’s hand. Everything was quiet and warm, a hush of anticipation in the air.

Inside the apartment, a single white box with a lavender ribbon sat waiting on the entry table.

Azzi stepped forward, her voice low, almost reverent. “Happy birthday, Ms. Bueckers.”

Paige walked over slowly, untying the ribbon with careful fingers, as if rushing might ruin it.

“Azzi…” she breathed.

The purse was stunning. Cream leather was monogrammed with Louis Vuitton’s signature print, only this time, in her favorite color. And it matched her outfit perfectly.

“Look inside! Look inside!” Azzi said, practically bouncing.

Paige opened it and paused. Her eyes widened.

Three plane tickets were tucked neatly into the silk lining.

She looked up, already grinning. “Aspen? I guess it is time to teach Soleil how to ski.”

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Azzi had Soleil perched on her hip, holding her tightly with one hand and Paige’s hand in the other.

The hostess reached to pull open the door, and the moment they stepped through –

“SURPRISE!!!”

The room was quickly filled with noise – music, clapping, laughing, whistles, and a shout from KK.

Paige’s jaw dropped. Her eyes scanned everything. The ballon arch on the back wall, the towers of lavender and eucalyptus, everyone in all black. Her dad, her stepmom, her little brother. Her sisters and Naheim. All smiling and clapping – the picture of joy.

“PopPop!” Soleil’s exclaimed, reaching for her grandpa.

Bob came over with a grin, “Come here, Munchkin.” He scooped her into a hug, kissing all over her face.

Paige was still frozen, eyes misty. “You did all this?” She whispered to Azzi.

“Well, Jana and Ice decorated. KK’s on the aux. And Nika made sure Bob, Katie, and Drew could come.” Azzi shrugged casually.

KK cut in from across the room. “Don’t believe her, P! She planned everything and paid for everything.”

Azzi turned to glare sharply at her friend. “Kamorea!”

“Baby,” Paige reached out, hand resting low on her back. “Thank you. No one’s ever cared enough to do something like this for me.”

Azzi let herself be pulled into a hug. “I was more than happy to do this for you, Paige. You take such good care of me…I just wanted to do something special for you.”

Large hands slid down the back of her dress, cupping her ass gently through the silky fabric.

Paige leaned in to press a firm kiss to her temple. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this. Deserve you. But I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to show you.”

“Gross, gays!” Ice called out playfully.

“Auntie Ice!” Soleil gasped, “You don’t bully fow love! That’s not kind! You can’t pick who you love!”

The room broke out in more giggles as Ice tried to defend herself.

Everyone moved to the table. Paige sat at the head, Soleil nestled comfortably in her lap.

Food arrived in waves, just as Azzi had planned. Pasta—al dente. Roasted vegetables, caramelized to perfection. Steaks, medium-rare. No seafood, everyone knew Paige hated seafood.

Naheim taught Soleil how to do a proper dap and fist bump. Katie and Bob told stories about Paige getting caught or telling on herself for sneaking out in high school. The girls all took turns talking about their UConn adventures.

Paige’s cheeks were flushed the entire evening, happiness shining in her eyes.

Several times, she leaned over to Azzi and whispered, “Thank you so much, Azzi.”

And each time, her girlfriend responded with a smile and a soft kiss. “You deserve it.”

As dessert was cleared, the waiter brought out champagne flutes and one with sparkling cider for Soleil.

Bob stood as soon as his flute was placed in front of him. “Paige, I didn’t know how you would turn out when it was just me and you. I was scared that I raised you too rough, but you are one of the best women I know.” He said, voice quivering. “You are a good listener, you show up, you’re an amazing mom. You’re raising Soleil to be strong and brave, and I am so proud to be your dad.” He walked over to press a kiss into her forehead. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

From there, everyone went in a circle around the table.

Katie talked about being grateful Paige had been so loving and welcoming, from the moment they met. She praised her for being such a good big sister to Drew. “Everything you’ve been though, and you’re still choosing to let people in. Let them love you. I am so proud of you, Paige. Happy birthday, baby.”

“I was gonna get you a present, but you bagged someone as bad as Azzi, so I feel like she’s your gift.” Drew started, drawing laughter from everyone. “But nah, for real. I think you were the first person I ever looked up to. You always make sure to take care of people; there’s so much you do that no one will ever find out. I couldn’t have a sister better than you. I love you, Paigey.”

KK was crying before she even stood. “You’ve been a role model to me since the day I met you. You’re a leader, but you lead in serving people, not ordering them around.” She breathed out harshly, trying to stop the tears. “Thank you for loving me, P Boogers, and happy birthday.”

Ice called Paige the eye of a hurricane – in all the calamity and chaos, Paige was always someone she could depend on. A safe space. “I’m lucky to know you, Paige Bueckers. I love you so much.”

“My twinnnnn,” Nika started. “I admire you more than you know. You make the best out of every situation, and you make it look easy. You are one of the best, most loyal, kindest people I know. And I am grateful to be one of the people you have chosen to love. Happy birthday, Twin.”

Naheim kept his short and sweet. “I’ve never had a sister, but I don’t think I couldn’t have gotten a better sister-in-law if I tried. I hope this year is everything you’ve hoped for.”

Like KK, Jana was a wreck by the time it got to her. “When I moved from Egypt, Paige made sure I felt like I had family here. She would make breakfast for me, wake me up for classes, make sure I was good at parties. You remember everything, no matter how small it is. You’ve just been the best, and I love you so much. Happy birthday, Paige!”

And finally, it was Azzi’s turn.

“I didn’t know a hot blonde was going to change my life, but you have. From the beginning, you have looked at me and seen me. You haven’t tried to fix me, to rush me. You have been so patient. So kind. So loving to me. You made it safe for me to fall again. You made me brave enough to fall again. So, I hope you know how loved you are, Paige Bueckers. Everyone in this room loves you so much, not for the things you can do for us, but because you’re you.” She cupped Paige’s face gently, “Happy birthday, my love.”

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Paige’s penthouse was silent.

KK offered to take Soleil for the night, promising to bring her back upstairs for their flight.

Paige sat on her bed; her vest draped over the back of an armchair. Her fingers were still working on the buttons of her shirt when the bathroom door opened again.

Holy fuck.

Azzi was –

Fuck.

She stepped into the doorway in a lacy lavender set, glowing under the dim light.

Paige wanted to bite her. Lick her. Mark her. Claim her.

“Well,” Azzi said coyly, padding forward until she stood between Paige’s legs, “Aren’t you going to unwrap your present?” Her voice shook slightly, nerves audible.

Paige reached for her immediately, pulling her in by the hips. “You look so good, baby.”

Her hands slid up the back of Azzi’s thighs, drawing a quiet gasp from her lips. Paige pressed soft kisses along her skin, trailing up until she could lick her belly piercing. She smirked against her skin as Azzi’s abs tensed under her lips.

“Paige,” Azzi breathed out.

“Whatchu want, Az?” The blonde rasped.

Azzi didn’t answer right away. Paige tugged gently, pulling Azzi to straddle her legs. The brunette wrapped her arms around her neck, lips hovering over Paige’s “You can do whatever you want with me, Paige.”

Their lips crashed together. Heated, messy, breathless. Paige licked into Azzi’s mouth like she wanted to claim it. Azzi whimpered as Paige gripped her ass roughly. Her hips ground against her pelvis. Paige groaned at the soft moan that escaped her lips.

In one smooth movement, Paige rolled them quickly, settling between Azzi’s thighs, sitting back on her heels to take her in.

Azzi moaned softly, eyes following veiny hands as they finished unbuttoning the shirt.

“Fuck, Az.” Paige said, voice thick with heat. “You’re so perfect for me.”

Her eyes raked over Azzi’s body. The outline of the nipples under the lace. The gleam of her belly ring. The darkening patch of wetness on her panties.

Paige’s hand reached out on instinct, thumbing at one nipple. Mouth watering at the thought of wrapping her lips around it. At the thought of licking all of her.

“You gonna be good for me, baby?” She asked.

Azzi whimpered, a small thrust showing her desire.

Paige leaned over her, “C’mon baby. I need your words.” She muttered, her voice low against her neck.

“Fuck,” Azzi moaned.

She’d never heard Paige like this. This Paige – voice low, eyes blown, completely locked in on her – this Paige was new. She was wrecking Azzi.

“Azzi,” She said firmly.

Her head and hips moved at the same time, “Gonna be so good for you, Paige.” She nodded.

Any other day, she’d be mortified by how much it sounded like a whine, but not tonight.

“Good,” Paige smirked. “I just want you to relax and feel.”

Azzi tried to sit up a little, “But it’s your birthday!”

Paige placed a warm palm in the center of her chest and gently pushed her back down.

“Yeah, it is my birthday.” She said. “And for my birthday, I want to make my girl cum. I want to fuck you until you cry. That’s all I want tonight.”

Her words were a stark contrast to the gentleness she used to brush curls out of Azzi’s face.

“You said I could do whatever I want. So you’re gonna be good and let me fuck you, alright baby?”

Azzi nodded, lips parted. She lay sprawled across Paige’s bed, silent. She let herself be looked at like she was art..

“You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, Azzi.” Paige whispered reverently.

She kissed her again. Slower this time, even filthier than before. Her tongue licked deep, teeth grazed her bottom lip. Azzi’s hips lifted off the bed, her body begging for more.

Paige didn’t answer her whimpers and pleas with words. She kissed down her body, licking from her jaw to her sternum to her belly, leaving a shiny trail in her wake.

Her hand came up to cup Azzi’s breast gently, “You gonna let me take this off, baby?” She murmured.

“Please, Paige.” Azzi gasped, breath picking up.

But Paige didn’t listen. She wrapped her lips around a lace-covered nipple and sucked hard.

Azzi cried out, hips jolting up again. Paige grinned around the fabric.

“Okay, baby.” She said. Azzi wanted to cheer at her finally unhooking the bra, slipping it down her arms, and tossing it aside.

Azzi didn’t have time to catch her breath before Paige’s mouth was on her again, hot and wet. Her tongue swirled around one nipple, while her hand pinched and pulled at the other.

She moaned louder, thighs rubbing together, desperate for attention.

“Be patient,” Paige warned. “I promise it’ll be worth it.”

She kissed down her torso, tongue flicking at the dangling jewelry. She sucked a bruise into her hipbone, just above the lace edge of her panties.

Paige looked up, blue eyes dark with lust. “You want these off?”

Azzi moaned at the lips brushing against her skin and nodded, “Yes, please.”

Paige slid them down slowly, keeping her eyes locked on Azzi’s.

The brunette gasped as the cool air brushed over her warm center.

“Be still, Az. Be good for me.” Paige rasped.

Her mouth watered as she stared at the wet apex of Azzi’s thighs.

“Fuck, Azzi. You’re dripping for me.” She groaned at the sight of her — spread open, soaked, trembling already.

Paige had planned on teasing her a bit more, but Azzi looked like everything she’d been praying for since high school. She couldn’t wait any longer.

She planted a soft kiss at her clit, pulling back a little when Azzi’s hips lifted involuntarily.

“Fuck, please,” Azzi gasped.

Paige licked her lips, groaning at the taste. “Be still,” She repeated firmly.

She licked up her slit slowly, eyes rolling back at the taste. Then she couldn’t stop. Her mouth wrapped around Azzi’s clit like it belonged there.

Paige licked again, slower this time, tongue flat and firm.

A cry fell out from Azzi’s perfect lips.

“You taste so fucking good, baby.” She groaned, tongue dipping into the wet hole. She licked back up to her clit, tongue swirling around the bundle of nerves. Sucking, kissing, and licking harder as Azzi cried out.

She sucked until thighs shook under her hands. Azzi came fast, sob tearing from her throat, hips thrusting uncontrollably.

She pulled off, kissing her thighs and hips, pressing praise into her skin.

“You did so good for me, baby.”

“I knew you’d be perfect.”

“You taste so good, Az. Everything I could ever want.”

When tanned thighs stopped shaking, Paige pulled one over her shoulder and pressed the other wide. She dove back in, tongue relentless.

Azzi arched off the bed, trying to move away from the warm mouth. “Paige, I – I – please, I – fuck. Paige! I can’t,” She begged.

Paige pulled back, “You said whatever I want.” She licked into her. “You can.”

Azzi writhed and babbled, pleas incoherent.

“You’re gonna cum again for me, Azzi. You’re gonna be good for me,” She said, dragging her fingers up and down her slit.

“Please.” Azzi cried out, tears welling in her eyes.

Two fingers slid in easily, the slide easy after the first orgasm. She moaned loudly, hips lifting at the overstimulation.

“Cum for me again, baby. Be good for me,” Paige rasped against her clit, vibrations making wet walls clench around her fingers.

It took three curls and two more sucks for Azzi to shatter again. This time, Paige could hear her tears as she went over the edge.

“Paige — fuck, too much, I can’t — I can’t —” Azzi babbled, her hips bucking wildly.

She let the woman ride her orgasm out as she thrusted her fingers slowly,

Paige withdrew her fingers gently, wanting to lick back into her messy center. Instead, she kissed up Azzi’s trembling body.

“You taste so fucking good, baby.” She groaned, bringing her wet fingers to Azzi’s lips. “Wanna taste?”

Azzi nodded, curls falling against flushed cheeks, mouth dropping open.

Paige groaned loudly as Azzi wrapped her lips around the digits. She ground down on the caramel thigh involuntarily.

“Can you give me one more?” Paige begged, forehead pressed into Azzi’s cheek. “Wanna feel you fall apart on me while I cum with you.”

Azzi whimpered, core clenching. “Uh huh,” She whined.

“Thank you, Azzi. You’re so fucking perfect for me.” Paige scrambled to pull off the rest of her clothes.

She pulled Azzi’s leg high on top of her shoulder, slotting a leg between hers. Paige aligned their cores and ground down.

Loud moans escaped them both.

“Shit, baby, I’m not gonna last.” Paige groaned, leaning down. She hadn’t felt like she was going to cum this fast ever. But she needed Azzi to fall apart before she did.

She kissed at the tears falling into Azzi’s hair and pulled back. She brushed the curls out of her face. She interlaced their fingers, touching leaning closer until their foreheads touched.

Paige’s gaze locked onto wet eyes as she moved her hips again. Their bodies slid together perfectly. Each thrust was hot and slick. Paige rolled her hips hard and deep, grinding into Azzi with precision that bordered on cruel.

Azzi’s grip tightened, moaning so loudly Paige thought she might scream. Brown eyes rolled back as she shattered.

Paige gasped, staring at the woman beneath her.

“Fuck, I lo – Paige!” Azzi sobbed.

Paige’s hips stuttered as her own orgasm crashed over through her, hips bucking against Azzi.

After she felt like she could breathe again, Paige rolled over and pulled the sobbing girl to her chest.

“Shh,” She whispered into her hair. “You were so good for me, baby. So good.” Paige spoke praises into her hair until she stopped shaking.

Azzi was quiet, dazed, eyes still unfocused.

She whimpered when Paige started to pull away.

“Need to clean you up, baby.” The blonde said lowly.

Azzi just wrapped her arms around the blonde tighter.

Paige lifted her on shaky legs and walked them to the bathroom. She spread a towel on the counter so the marble wouldn’t be too cold on Azzi’s skin.

She gently dragged a warm washcloth through both of their centers. A quiet apology when Azzi hissed with sensitivity.

“You okay, Azzi?” Paige said, cupping her cheeks so the brunette could see her.

Azzi’s cheeks were flushed when she smiled at Paige tiredly. “I’m perfect, just a little floaty.” She opened her arms.

“You were perfect, Azzi. Thank you.” Paige said, walking into her embrace.

Azzi tucked her face into Paige’s neck. “I’ve never felt that safe with someone.”

“That’s all I ever want you to feel. Safe, happy, and loved.” Paige pressed a long kiss to her shoulder.

This time, Azzi’s hands cupped Paige’s cheeks. “I love you.” She smiled softly. “That’s not post nut clarity either,” She giggled. “I’m so in love with you, Paige.”

Blue eyes shined with joy and a soft smile graced Paige’s face. “And I love you, Azzi Fudd.”

They fell asleep tangled together, soft and satisfied and full of everything they never thought they’d get the chance to have.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Azzi wanted to cry when her alarm went off the following morning, but the dread was short lived when she remembered they’d be going on vacation today.

She tried to sit up, but she was pulled back down by the arm around her waist.

“Go back to sleep,” Paige grumbled.

Azzi turned in her arms with a pout. “But we have to get ready before Soleil gets back. And we can’t miss our flight; I spent a lot of money on that.”

The blonde head popped up, eyes squinted. “Exactly how much money did you spend on my birthday, Azzi?”

“Um,” She started. Azzi knew she wasn’t supposed to mention anything about money. She figured that Paige wouldn’t even think about money after they’d had sex. And she didn’t. Not until Azzi opened her big fat mouth. “I don’t know. Let’s go get ready, Paige.” She rushed, trying to get out of bed.

Paige’s grip tightened as she rolled to hover over her girlfriend. “Nah, I don’t believe that. But that’s okay, I’ll find out.” She dipped to kiss at her neck. “And I’ll double it since you don’t want to tell me.” She finished, biting her ear.

“About twenty-eight thousand.” Azzi gasped. Paige froze above her, and Azzi rushed to explain herself. “The Louis fit was expensive, and I covered everyone last night. And then the last-minute flights, the VRBO, and the activities in Aspen.”

Paige pulled away, rolling out of the bed. Azzi gasped as the cool air settled over her nude form.

“We can talk about this in the shower. We’re not missing that flight.” Paige tossed over her shoulder.

Azzi trailed her into the bathroom on shaky legs. “Are you mad at me?” She questioned. She leaned against the doorway, watching the muscles in Paige’s back move as got the shower ready.

“No,” the blonde sighed. “I just wasn’t expecting that. It’s almost all of the money I’ve paid you.”

They stepped under the warm water together, Azzi wrapping her arms around Paige’s back. “Yeah, but you do so much for everybody. You’ve done so much for me. I just wanted to make you feel as special as you make me feel.”

“That’s okay,” Paige said, smirking. “I’m gonna make sure you feel exactly how much I appreciate you.”

Large hands trailed down tanned skin before she was stopped. “My legs are still a little shaky, P.”

“I’ll carry you through the airport if I have to, baby.” Paige chuckled, moving to grab the shampoo.

Azzi let her girlfriend wash her hair as they stood under the warm stream. “I like when you call me that.” She muttered.

“What, baby?” Paige questioned. She smiled at Azzi’s shy nod. “What else? You like babygirl too?” Shrug. “What about angel?” A nod. “Pretty girl? Sweetheart?”

“Yes to both.” She replied, cheeks warm. “I don’t hate any of them.”

Paige pulled her into a soft kiss. “Noted, babygirl.”

“Well, what do you wanna be called? Mommy? Daddy?” Azzi teased.

The smiled dropped off Paige’s face quickly. “Soleil calls me Mommy, Az. And fuck no to daddy.”

“What about love?” Azzi smiled softly. “Or ma’am?” She paused. “Oooooh, or my love?”

Paige nodded, “Those are all fine.” She breathed.

They rinsed and dried off quickly. Azzi pulled on a pair of Paige’s boxers and a t-shirt before going down to her place to get the matching sweatsuits she bought to wear to the airport.

The lilac sweatshirts had a white PSA stitched on the cuff for a sentimental touch. She made sure each of them had socks to wear with their purple Crocs before heading back upstairs.

Azzi was greeted with a squeal. “Azzi! Mommy said we gonna go on a aiwplane today!”

“Yeah, baby!” Azzi exclaimed, matching the girl’s energy. “I even brought us matching outfits for the plane!”

Soleil gasped, just as elated as Azzi knew she’d be. “Lemme see, lemme see!” She bounced.

After she pulled her clothes on, Soleil ran to her mother. “Mommy, look! P, S, and A!”

“Yeah, for Paige, Soleil, and Azzi,” She responded, gesturing to each of them. She grinned at Azzi. “Our little family.”

The brunette grinned back at her girlfriend – they really were the perfect little family.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

The trio was complemented the entire day.

First by Morgan when she came to drop them off at the airport.

Then by two TSA agents at Chicago-O’Hare.

The cashier from the terminal shop flirted with Paige until Soleil and Azzi came up behind her, dropping chips, candy, and slim jims on the counter. Then, the young woman melted. “You have the most beautiful family. Like your wife and your kid? Geez.”

There were a few people sneering at them – two of them had on those disgusting red hats. Paige planted a firm kiss on Azzi’s lips just to spite them.

They read a few books while they waited for boarding to start.

“First class?” Paige’s eyes widened.

Azzi’s brows furrowed, “You mean to tell me that you, Paige Bueckers, fly economy?”

The blonde scoffed. “Absolutely not. I have a plane, Azzi.”

“What? Was I supposed to reserve your plane or something?”

Paige just raised a brow in response.

“How am I supposed to know how to charter a plane?” She questioned.

“I figured the girls would’ve told you!” Paige exclaimed.

Azzi rolled her eyes playfully. “They didn’t know. It was all a surprise. Well Jana knew we were going somewhere, but she didn’t know everything.”

“Well, I’ll send you the information, so you don’t have to do this next time.” Paige leaned in, pecking her lips.

Despite ensuring that Soleil had her own pod, she didn’t actually use it outside of takeoff and landing. She bounced between Azzi and Paige, pulling a different activity from her carryon each time.

Her nose was pressed to the window as the descent started. “Look, Mommy! Mountains! With snow!”

A driver was waiting outside of baggage claim with “Bueckers Family” written in thick print. And even though Azzi arranged their transportation, she gasped, realizing she really was in the family.

Though the thought filled her with warmth, there was still a part of her heart that mourned the distance she had with her family. She missed them.

Paige looked at her, concern clear on her face.

Azzi just shook her head and smiled warmly.

The ride to their reservation passed quickly.

Pierre, the driver, pointed out a few restaurants that were kid-friendly and some others that were more for romance. He drove past the ski resort where most of their activities would be before driving a few minutes to drop them off at the cabin.

The house was nice. Too much wood for Azzi to live in forever, but just enough to feel warm for a week-long cabin trip. Soleil was ecstatic to see a hot tub out back, and Paige looked at Azzi with a smirk about the same feature.

Wiped from the day of travel and last night’s activities, the trio ate dinner and piled into the bed together.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

The skiing trip was going well.

On Tuesday, they went into town to find a ski suits for their lessons the following day. Azzi took a million pictures of Soleil in different patterned suits. She had her favorite – the light pink one with sparkles – but Soleil had the final say. The definitely wouldn’t be able to lose sight of the girl in a rainbow tie-dye snowsuit.

They spent the rest of the day in the city, staying cozy and bonding. Azzi watched as Paige read book after book in the library until Soleil fell asleep in her lap. They walked around the center, grabbing a coffee while they waited for Soleil to wake up.

They enjoyed perfectly. crisped grilled cheese sandwiches and a soup bar at a tavern in town. Soleil ate very carefully, not wanting tomato soup dripping onto her sand-colored sweater.

A local took a picture of them in front of the restaurant. Soleil’s cheeks were rosy from the wind, but she showed all of her teeth as she grinned for the photo. Azzi’s smile was soft, warm as she adjusted the earmuffs on little girl’s head. And Paige just looked at the two of them with so much love that it could be felt through the screen. Maybe one day they’d be mad that they didn’t get a picture where each person was looking, but for now, it was perfect.

On Wednesday, the trio had ski lessons.

Well, Soleil and Azzi had ski lessons. Apparently Paige was already a pro, despite only going skiing once before.

The city had gotten fresh snow the night before. It was fine and glittering, softly crushing with each step. It was the kind of weather people fantasized about when they thought of a ski trip.

The ski class would have been great if Paige didn’t spend the entirety of it distracting Azzi, which then caused Soleil to keep looking back at them and giggling.

“You’re going to teach her on your own then, since you couldn’t let us just learn.” Azzi pouted during lunch.

An hour later, Paige knelt in front of Soleil. They were at the Fawn Slope, one of the easiest for small children. She took great care adjusting her daughter’s sparkly pink helmet and mittens.

Azzi stood a few feet away, wanting to take pictures, but content to stay bundled with her hot chocolate.

“Mommy, it’s all squishy.” Soleil giggled, poking her gloves against her stomach.

Paige grinned, “Yeah, Sunshine. It’ll keep you safe if you fall, like falling on a pillow.”

Azzi moved closer to the bunch as Paige strapped the little boots to the skis.

“You ready, Lei?” She questioned.

Soleil nodded fiercely. “I’m gonna fly!”

Paige giggled, pulling the cover over her nose and the goggles over her eyes. Azzi gasped at how real it became.

“What’s wrong?” Paige called over her shoulder.

Azzi forced herself to relax, sound casual. “Are we sure she won’t launch herself into a tree?”

Paige rose, dusting the snow off her pants.

“Nah, she’ll be fine. Slope’s not too bad, and I’ll be right beside her.”

Azzi nodded, heart in her throat.

Soleil shuffled toward the edge of the gentle slope, skis awkward and much too wide.

Azzi pulled her phone out, recording Paige crouching nearby, grinning and shouting encouragement.

She continued to record short clips, breath catching every time she went down, and sighing in relief when she popped up.

“Ready to try by yourself, Sunshine?” Paige urged.

Azzi stood straighter, looking to see Soleil’s answer. She wanted the girl to be brave and fearless, excited to conquer the slope. But at the same time, she wanted her wrapped in bubble wrap, where she’d be safe.

“Yeah, Mommy!” She nodded firmly.

Soleil trudged back to the top of the slope. Leaving her mom to wait for her at the bottom.

Then she pushed off.

She glided slowly at first, knees bent, skis closer together.

Azzi held her breath.

She reached out in vain when Soleil wobbled a bit.

She made it all the way down the track. A short ten-second run that felt like ten minutes to Azzi.

Paige let out a loud whoop, picking Soleil up and spinning her around.

Azzi was running towards them without even knowing it, smile stretched wide across her face.

Soleil’s giggles filled the air around them. She turned to Azzi with the biggest grin. “MAMA DID YOU SEE ME?! I DID IT!”

Soleil’s voice rang out like a bell, pure and proud.

Mama.

Azzi blinked. Just once. The word echoed in her skull, again and again, until it wasn’t just a sound, it was a truth.

Paige reached out with her free arm, bringing her into their embrace.

Azzi’s brown eyes were glassy as she pulled the face covering off and planted a kiss right on Soleil’s cheek. “Yeah, of course I saw you, Sunny Girl. You were amazing!”

When they got back to the cabin a little later, Soleil was starfished on top of Azzi, napping in front of the fireplace.

Paige dropped down next to her two favorite people with hot chocolate.

“I didn’t tell her to do it, but I’ve been waiting for her to call you that. Wanting her to call you that.” She said, eyes locked on her daughter.

Azzi blinked, eyes misty again. “Me too, I just…I didn’t want to overstep. Feel like we haven’t really talked about it.” She paused. “I know I’m not – I know she’s not mine.”

Paige grabbed her hand, running her thumb across her knuckles. “Maybe not legally, but in every way that matters.” She kissed Azzi’s forehead firmly. “We can work on that though, if you want.”

“I know I’m not supposed to think like this, but you haven’t made me a list this week, so technically, I’m not breaking any rules.” She swallowed. “I just don’t wanna fuck anything up. I’m so scared that something’s gonna happen, and she’ll be the one that gets hurt the most.”

The crease in the middle of Paige’s forehead deepened, and she didn’t say anything.

“Well,” She started after a few minutes. “Even if something happened between us. God forbid, if we didn’t work out, you’d still want to be in her life – still want to be her Mama, right?” She questioned.

“Of course,” Azzi replied. She didn’t need to think to know that. “Not unless you didn’t want me to.”

Paige smiled softly. “Okay, so no matter what happens, you’re her Mama. You’ll always be her Mama.”

This time, when Azzi exhaled, all the tightness in her chest evaporated.

And for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t afraid.

She just lay there — Soleil snuggled on top of her, Paige curled at her side – holding her daughter, next to the love of her life.

Her family.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

On Friday, the night before they were set to return to Chicago, they had a Halloween movie marathon. Halfway through Halloweentown, Paige whispered in Azzi’s ear. “Hot tub after she goes to sleep?”

They had spent time in the hot tub every day since they got to Aspen, but Soleil was always there with them. Which the loved! Any time spent as a family was cherished by both women, but warmth and anticipation flooded Azzi’s system as she nodded at the idea.

Hours later, after Soleil was tucked in and drooling, Paige waited in the hot tub.

Steam curled around her bare shoulders as she sank into the hot tub, the mountain air crisp against her flushed skin. She watched the snowflakes as they floated down, melting before they could get close to the water.

Her head popped up at the sound of the patio door sliding opened.

Azzi was in her favorite color again. The lavender bikini had a cutout on the bottom of the top, her under boob on display.

Paige’s mouth was already watering. Her eyes dragged across Azzi’s body as she climbed in to sit next to her.

They spent the next couple of minutes in silence, eyes watching the steam vanish into the sky.

“You warm enough?” Paige asked, voice low.

Azzi nodded slowly, lips parted. She was content to admire the woman next to her. She traced the slope of her nose, the slight pout of her lips, the texture on her cheeks. Every inch of Paige Bueckers was perfect.

“You’re quiet,” Paige turned to her.

She blinked a bit, snapping out of her Paige-induced trance. “Just looking at you.” She felt her cheeks flush, not from the heat.

The corners of Paige’s lips twitched. “Yeah? What do you see, baby?”

Azzi inhaled sharply and shifted. Her hands settled on Paige’s waits, fingers tracing slow circles against the warm skin.

“I see…” She whispered nervously. “I see everything I want.”

The next second, Paige closed the distance, licking Azzi’s mouth open. The kiss was slow and all-consuming, warm from the heat and the tension. Azzi moaned softly, leaning in, hands running up Paige’s back.

Water sloshed over the edge of the hot tub as Paige pulled Azzi onto her lap, thighs instantly sliding apart. Azzi straddled her, lips trailing down to her jaw. She sucked a mark into the base of her neck as Paige palmed her ass roughly.

The blonde let one hand move up her back, landing in her curls and pulling softly. Azzi moaned into the kiss, pushing her body in even closer.

Paige pushed her hips up while guiding Azzi’s down, the friction eliciting a quiet gasp from the older woman. The motion was subtle but deliberate.

“Want you,” Azzi moaned against her lips.

Paige’s voice was just as wrecked. “Then take me, babygirl.”

Azzi reached behind the woman to unclasp the bikini top before getting frustrated and roughly pushing it over her head with a grunt. Her hands cupped the small mounds reverently, thumbs brushing over pink nipples.

Paige groaned again, pulling Azzi’s hips down again. “Fuck, Azzi.”

She dipped her head, tongue flattening against the stiff peak. Swirling in a slow, deliberate motion while the other was rolled between her fingers.

Paige’s hand tangled in tight curls. “You’re driving me crazy, angel.” She murmured, breath hitching.

“I wanna make you cum,” She pulled away with a pop.

“Yeah?” Paige said, pupils blown. “You will, but I haven’t even started with you yet.”

Before Azzi could say anything, a large hand slipped beneath those tiny bikini bottoms. Paige grinned at the slickness she found. Azzi cried out softly, hips bucking against the two fingers against her folds.

“Mmm, you’re so wet for me already.” She whispered, breath hot against Azzi’s skin. “You’re dripping, and I hadn’t even touched you yet.”

Azzi moaned at her words. Sweet sounds turned into a gasp as Paige bit her neck.

“All this from a little heat and bubbles,” She teased, soothing the bite with her tongue.

Azzi bit her lip, head titling to the side to give Paige more space. “No.” She whined. “All this from you.”

Paige kissed her again, rougher now, tongue demanding, mouth desperate. She thrust her fingers slowly, just two at first. Moving slowly to give her time to adjust, curling only after feeling Azzi tighten.

She moaned, rocking into her roughly, tucking her face into Paige’s neck and holding tightly to her shoulders.

“You’re such a good girl, sweetheart.” Paige rasped. “Just like that, baby. Take what you need.”

Azzi nodded, “Yes, ma’am.” She swallowed. “Oh, fuck. I’m gonna cum.”

Paige brought her thumb up to her clit. It took two, maybe three swipes. Azzi’s vision blurred as she came with a choked gasp, trembling in Paige’s lap.

Her balance was unsteady as she stood, pulling Paige up with her. “Want you in the bed.” She muttered.

Paige grabbed her bathing suit top, rushing in behind her girlfriend.

Azzi was standing in front of the fireplace, situating blankets in front of the flames.

“What are you doing, Az?” Paige chuckled, coming behind her.

Azzi looked over her shoulder. “Don’t wanna get the bed wet, and I don’t wanna be cold.”

She yanked Paige down and rolled on top of her.

“It’s my turn now.” Hands already moving to Paige’s blue bottoms.

A pale hand reached out to grab her wrist firmly. “I think you’re forgetting who is in charge here.” She said with a smirk.

Azzi’s shoulders dropped in disappointment. “But you said I could be next.”

“You are.” She said, cupping her chin, forcing eye contact. “But you’re all keyed up. Relax a little.”

“I’ve never done this before,” Azzi whispered, pulling at one of the threads. “Not with a woman.”

Paige leaned back until she was flat against the covers. “You do what feels right, okay?” She started. “I’ll help you if you need it. But I love you, Azzi. Anything that you do will be enough, I promise.”

The brunette still looked a little nervous, so Paige spoke again. “Can you take your bathing suit off?” She asked lowly, already reaching for her own bottoms.

“God, you’re so beautiful, angel.” She whispered, getting wetter with every inch of skin Azzi showed her.

The brunette sat on her heels, eyes wide with uncertainty.

“Now, you’re in charge sweetheart.” She started. “You can kiss, you can suck, you can lick. Whatever you want baby.”

Azzi knelt between pale legs. “And you’ll tell me if you don’t like it?”

“I promise.”

Azzi brought her face closer, nose brushing against sticky skin. She breathed in, pressing a kiss into one thigh, licking the other.

The taste wasn’t bad. Much different from the bitterness she’d experienced before, not a bad different…just different.

She kissed her way up each thigh, pausing at Paige’s gasp.

“You’re doing good baby,” She smiled. “Just teasing a little.”

The smile sent warmth all throughout Azzi’s body. With a little more confidence, she trailed kissed up each of lips before reaching the apex.

She licked her lips and kissed the soft, swollen heat between her thighs. “Fuck, Azzi.” Paige groaned, hips bucking into her face.

One hand reached up the spread her lips. “You’re so pretty, Paige.” She said, breath warm against the wetness.

She leaned in, tongue dragged through the sticky heat. “Shit, baby.” Paige moaned.

Azzi watched her hole tighten and she dipped down the catch the drop before it could slide down. She moaned against the wet heat at the taste of her girlfriend. Her tongue flicked against the opening, eager to taste more of the girl she loved.

“You feel so good, angel. You’re doing so good for me.” The blonde rambled.

Azzi’s hips twitched at the praise, her own hand circling her clit. She whimpered into Paige.

The vibrations moved through her core, “Fuck, just like that, baby.” She groaned, tossing her head back.

Azzi’s tongue slithered up to Paige’s clit. She licked the sensitive nub softly, mouth following as her hips bucked.

“Oh my – Azzi.” Paige moaned. “Keep going, just like that.” She rode her face, pushing her hips further into her mouth.

Azzi wrapped her lips around Paige’s clit and sucked.

Paige came. Hard.

She didn’t have words, just gasps.

Azzi’s tongue darted back to drink down Paige’s release greedily. Her tongue ran up and down the slit until Paige pulled her face away.

She pulled Azzi up and licked into her mouth. “You were fucking perfect, baby.”

Azzi had a dazed smile on her lips, but that didn’t last long. Her jaw dropped as Paige sucked on the fingers she’d been using on herself.

“Did eating me make you all sloppy and wet?” Paige’s tone was teasing, and Azzi couldn’t help but pout at the thought of her ruined orgasm.

Paige leaned back again, legs spread wide. “Oh, my poor baby, just needs to cum.” She pulled Azzi into her lap. “When we get back, gotta fuck you with my strap, gonna make you ride it. But today, you’re just gonna ride me, okay?”

Azzi nodded, still in a daze, but eager to please Paige and finish.

The strong hands on her hips guided her into place. Azzi pushed down a little, throwing her head back at the sensation.

Their slick centers met, warm and pulsing, friction building with every slow roll of their hips. Paige’s hips rolling slowly, creating the best friction. Azzi whimpered as Paige gripped her ass, encouraging her to move above her.

They moved together, fast and a little sloppy.

Azzi threw her head back in ecstasy as Paige’s hand came up to pluck at her nipple.

“No,” Paige said firmly. “Eyes on me. Looks who’s making you feel like this.”

She nodded, eyes still dazed. Her hips sped up as she chased her orgasm. “Fuck, I love you.”

“Yeah?” Paige sat up, pressing their foreheads together.

The movement changed the angle, and they were both bucking against thighs. Azzi’s moans were high, but quiet as Paige breathed heavily in her ear.

“Come on, love. Cum with me.”

Azzi nodded, breath stuttering in her chest.

Their orgasms hit like waves, overlapping and pulling them under. Azzi tried to keep her eyes on Paige, wanting to see how beautiful she was when. She came, but her eyes rolled into her head.

The only sound was their breathing, synced and heavy, surrounded by the low crackle of the fire. Paige’s hand found Azzi’s, fingers curling tight. “You’re mine,” she whispered against her temple.

Azzi didn’t reply. She didn’t need to. She just smiled into Paige’s shoulder, body limp, heart wide open.

They stayed like that, tangled in skin and love, warm in every possible way.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

A/N: I might turn my anons on. I miss seeing y'all react to chapters, and I feel like less people are sending things in. But if those kinds of messages are sent in, I'm gonna have to delete my account 😭 So please remember to be kind :) Love you guys!!!

#paige bueckers #azzi fudd #pazzi fics #pazzi #paige x azzi #elle's fics #terms of endearment

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