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pitlanepeach · 18 days ago

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Radio Silence | Chapter Thirty-Five

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, pregnancy, emetophobia warning, domestic fluff.

Notes — We're closing out the 2023 season!! Double update for the day!

2023 (Abu Dhabi)

The filming studio was chaos. Bright lights, Nerf guns, a beanbag chair someone had exploded accidentally, and Max F was in the corner trying to tape a foam sword back together.

Lando stood off to the side, hoodie hood up, sipping a smoothie and pretending to review a script while actually just taking a breather from the all-day mess.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

He fished it out lazily, thumbed it open.

iMessage — 12:03pm

Amelia (Wifey 4 lifey)

My period is 3 weeks late.

—

He stared.

Then blinked. Read the words again.

And stood there frozen in the middle of the mess, smoothie halfway to his mouth.

“…What the f—”

“Bro, you good?” Aarav called from across the room, eyebrow raised.

Lando didn’t answer. He was busy rereading the message for a third time. Then a fourth. Slowly lowering the smoothie.

Missed period.

3 weeks.

Missed period for 3 weeks.

Period 3 weeks missed.

He let out a stunned, breathy laugh. “Oh fucking hell. Of course she’d just message me about it like it’s no big deal. Of course she did.”

The rest of the guys were still messing around in the background, arguing about whether they could build a kart ramp out of beanbags, and Lando just… walked backwards into a couch and sat down before his legs gave up on him.

Well, clearly she wasn’t freaking out. So that meant he wasn’t supposed to freak out. Cool. No problem. Cool, cool, super cool.

Except, he ran a hand through his hair. It was Amelia. If she was freaking out, she still probably wouldn’t say it. She’d just power through it all and not mention anything had even happened and then be like, “Oh yeah, by the way, our kid is three now.”

He shook his head.

iMessage — 12:05pm

Lando (Husband)

Ok. I’m not freaking out. Kind of want to throw up a bit tho. Love u x

He stared at the screen. Chewed the side of his thumb. Sent another.

Lando (Husband)

Did u like… pee on a stick yet????

Also should i come home. Or stay and keep filming the stupid cart bit. Idk what to do bby xxxx

Amelia (Wifey 4 lifey)

No, I have not peed on a stick. No, you do not need to come home. Finish filming. I will just see you when you come home x

—

He barely had time to process it before Max shouted, “Lando! You’re up!”

Lando slowly stood, still blinking, feeling kind of like he was buffering in real time.

“Mate, you look like you just saw a ghost,” Max added. “You alright, bro?”

Lando just looked at him, dazed. “No. I think I’m gonna be someone’s dad.”

Max’s eyes went fucking massive. “Woah, woah. Hold on. What—”

“Later. Can’t explain. Gotta pretend to joust on a kids scooter first.”

And off he went, hoodie flapping, brain somewhere over the Alps, while back in Monaco, his wife was casually engineering a race car and possibly incubating a human life like it was no big deal.

—

Amelia chewed on her bottom lip as she pulled up Pietra’s contact.

The screen blinked to life and there she was, chin propped on her hand, eating a bowl of cereal. Her blonde hair was pulled up in a lopsided bun, and she had one AirPod in, the other probably misplaced somewhere nearby. Her face lit up when she saw Amelia.

“Hello, gorgeous—wait, are you okay?" She asked, narrowing her eyes. “What’s wrong? You look off.”

Amelia didn’t say hello. She just held up her phone so the camera framed her blank expression and said, deadpan, “I am having déjà vu.”

Pietra blinked. Then squinted harder. “Wait… about what?”

“This call.” She said. “I think I’m pregnant.”

Pietra blinked again, cereal halfway to her mouth. “Você tá brincando.”

“I would never joke about this kind of thing.” Amelia said.

“Meu Deus.” Pietra gasped, dropping her spoon into the bowl with a dramatic clatter. “How? I mean—well, how is obvious, but—how do you know?”

Amelia turned her phone around, flashed her calendar at the screen. One day highlighted in red. Three weeks past due. “Calendar told on me.”

Pietra’s eyebrows shot up. “Three weeks? Amelia!”

Amelia sighed. “I know. But I’ve been so preoccupied with Vegas prep, travel, lobby meltdowns.”

“Oh my god.” Pietra was practically whispering now. “But… how likely is it?”

“Very. We haven’t been, like, trying,” Amelia said, voice clipped, efficient. “But we also haven’t been not trying. No protection for the last… few months. Ish.”

Pietra dragged her hand down her face. “Ameliaaaa. You can’t just drop a possible baby on me while I’m eating cornflakes!”

“I can and did.” Amelia adjusted the camera so it faced the ceiling, then sat cross-legged on the couch, phone balanced on her chest. This was their usual routine. She could write strategy notes with Pietra on FaceTime, no problem. Sometimes Pietra filled the air with stories, or whatever drama was happening in one of her many group chats. Sometimes she was just quiet, scrolling TikTok beside her. It was easy. Safe.

“Have you taken a test yet?” Pietra asked, after a beat.

“No.” Amelia’s voice was flat. “I don’t want to look at a little window. The little window makes things real.”

Pietra groaned. “It’s the only way to know!”

“I don’t want to know yet,” Amelia pointed out.

“I don’t trust you not to emotionally suppress this entire event and pretend it never happened.”

“Unfortunately not possible with this,” Amelia returned.

Pietra reached for the cereal again, shaking her head. “Have you told Lando?”

“I texted him. He’s in London filming Quadrant stuff, obviously. He freaked out a bit but, like, he was fine I think.”

Pietra cackled. “What did you even say?”

Amelia lifted her phone and scrolled briefly. “‘My period is three weeks late.’”

“Oh my god,” Pietra said. “You’ve probably given him a heart attack.”

“I’m nothing if not efficient.”

“He’s probably already told my Max, then. Are you telling anyone else?”

“No,” Amelia said, immediately and firmly. “I haven’t even processed it yet. And it might not even be something to process. It’d be like… trying to run a live feed before the camera boots.”

“Got it.” Pietra nodded. “Just us, then.”

“Just us,” Amelia echoed. She returned her focus to the spreadsheet open on her laptop. Sector delta charts glowed on the screen, comfortingly quantifiable.

Pietra softened. “But like—how are you?”

“I’m fine.” Amelia blinked slowly, as if running an internal diagnostic. “Not panicked. Not excited. Just... fine. Although thinking about it, I have been feeling nauseous a lot more frequently lately. I just kept putting it down to nerves you know?”

“Yes, I know. It’s been a long few weeks.” Pietra agreed. Eventually, she asked, “So. Plan?”

Amelia shrugged. “Go to the bakery and the pharmacy. Buy a bunch of pastries and three pregnancy tests.”

“And then?”

“And then I’m waiting for Lando. I’m not testing until he’s back.”

Pietra smiled, biting back something fond. “Of course not.”

They hung up not long after.

Amelia finished annotating a slide for Oscar’s sector exits in medium-speed corners, then shut her laptop with a soft click. She stood, pulled on one of Lando’s oversized hoodies, and grabbed her bag.

As she stepped out into the sunshine, she ran through her mental checklist:

Bakery

Pharmacy

Groceries

Don’t forget oat milk

Do not freak out

Business as usual.

—

The pharmacy was quiet, the sort of quiet that made every footstep sound louder than it should. Fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead, and faint French pop music played from an old radio behind the counter.

Amelia moved with purpose, hoodie sleeves pulled halfway over her hands, the corners of her to-do list folded neatly in her pocket. She headed straight for the aisle where the pregnancy tests were shelved, eyes flicking over the boxes clinically. Brands didn’t matter. She just picked three, different ones, out of mild uncertainty more than logic, and turned on her heel toward the checkout.

Behind the counter sat Madame Duval, a tiny, silver-haired woman with thick glasses, a warm smile, and a knit cardigan that didn’t match her blouse but somehow made her look even more maternal.

“Bonjour, Amelia,” she said, her voice like soft wool. “C’est bon de vous voir.”

Amelia blinked. “Hi.”

She placed the boxes down without flinching. Madame Duval looked down, eyebrows twitching faintly. Then she smiled again, smaller this time. “Ah. I see.”

Amelia didn’t say anything. Just offered a shrug and a half-nod. She wasn’t embarrassed, exactly. It just felt… complicated.

“Would you like a bag?” Madame Duval asked gently. “One that is not see-through?”

“Yes please.”

She packed the boxes neatly, moving with the patience of someone who had known Amelia since she had first moved to Monaco. The first time she had come in for antihistamines, she’d asked in English and apologised for not speaking very clear French. Madame Duval had tutted at her gently and waved it off — “You’re young. You learn.”

She hadn’t expected Amelia to remember all of their conversations. But Amelia did. Down to which shelf the chamomile tea had been on that one rainy day when she came in, red-eyed and overstimulated, asking for something that “made bodies quiet.”

Now, only a couple of years later, the girl she’d watched grow into a woman, all sharp focus and clinical precision, stood with three pregnancy tests in her hand and a face like a still pond. Flat on the surface. Rippling just underneath.

Madame Duval placed a single wrapped chocolate on top of the box in the bag. The fancy kind they kept near the till. “For after. Whatever the result.”

Amelia blinked. “I didn’t—”

“Don’t argue,” Madame Duval said simply. “I know you very well, Amelia. You will enjoy your sweet treat.”

She accepted the bag and nodded, a single sharp dip of her head. “Merci.”

Madame Duval smiled again, knowing, warm. “Bonne chance, ma fille.”

Amelia didn’t translate the words in her head. She didn’t need to. They sank into her like the warmth of a blanket after a cold morning walk.

She left the pharmacy with the bag looped tightly around her wrist and walked the short distance back up the hill toward the apartment. The sea was visible between buildings, a thin slice of blue horizon. Everything smelled faintly of croissants and sunshine and exhaust fumes.

She checked her mental list:

Got the tests.

Got the pastries.

Got the groceries.

Back home, she set the bag down on the kitchen counter and grabbed her laptop.

The tests could wait until Lando was back.

For now, it was just another variable. Logged.

Pending analysis.

—

The door clicked softly behind Lando as he stepped into their Monaco apartment, duffle bag forgotten somewhere between the entrance and the bedroom.

The light was low, just the soft stretch of sunrise brushing over the walls, and Amelia was curled up on their bed in one of his hoodies, half-asleep, laptop still warm next to her leg.

She opened one eye when he crouched beside her. “Hi,” she murmured, voice heavy with sleep.

He didn’t answer right away. Just tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and held up a small paper bag like he’d just won a prize. “Get up, baby,” he said, gently.

Amelia blinked. “Seriously?”

He kissed her temple. “Come on. I need to know if my wife is growing a person.”

She groaned, dragging her hand over her face — but didn’t argue. Not really. She let him pull her upright with a sleepy grumble, let him tug her by the hand toward the bathroom, let him press the test into her hand.

They paused there for a second. Fingers brushing. Her gaze flicked up to meet his.

“You okay?” He asked, voice low now, a little more cautious.

“I’m fine,” she said. Then, with a characteristic deadpan mutter, “I’m tired.”

Lando gave her that crooked little grin, the one that always cracked something open in her. “Right. Go pee on it.”

She rolled her eyes and shut the door.

He sat cross-legged outside, back against the wall. Same way he had the first time she’d let him into her quieter corners; back when they were barely even dating and she couldn’t handle knocks on doors, loud voices, or sudden touches. Back when he learned to ask first and sit with her in the silence.

He waited now, quiet, patient, fingers tapping his knee.

The door creaked open.

She didn’t speak at first. Just stood there holding the test, staring at it.

Lando scrambled to his feet. “Amelia?”

She looked up at him. “It’s positive,” she said, voice soft. Like she wasn’t sure the words could be able to come out of her mouth properly.

Silence fell between them — not tense, not panicked. Just heavy.

She looked back down at the test. Then back at him. Her expression was unreadable for a second, and then… it cracked. Not big. Not loud. Just a subtle unraveling. A tremble in her mouth. Her eyes too bright, but dry.

“I thought I’d feel more in control,” she said quietly. “Like it would just slot into the system. Checklist. Contingency. Risk management.” She held up the test, eyes never leaving it. “But it’s not like that. It’s not a flowchart. It’s not a decision tree. It’s just… me. And you. And this. And I can’t logic my way through it.”

Lando took a slow step forward, voice hushed. “Is it a bad feeling?”

She shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “It’s just… big.”

And then it happened — not a meltdown, not a scene, just her body folding into his with no warning. A silent collapse.

Hands clinging to the front of his hoodie, face buried against his chest, a single shuddering breath breaking out of her like she’d been holding it in for hours. No sobbing. No hysteria. Just quiet overwhelm — the kind that sneaks up and knocks the wind out of you.

Lando wrapped his arms around her instantly, no hesitation.

“Whoa, hey,” he murmured, steady as ever, his hand in her hair. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, love. You’re okay. We’re okay. We’re going to be okay.”

She didn’t answer, just breathed — deep and shaky. Her fingers still clutched the test like a lifeline. Her knuckles were white.

“I’m scared,” she said after a long pause. The words were barely there. “What if I mess it up? What if I do something wrong? What if I’m not good enough to do this?”

Lando pulled back, just enough to look at her. His hands stayed on her waist, grounding her. “Hey,” he said gently, brushing his thumb over her cheekbone. “Don’t do that. Don’t start doubting yourself now.”

Her eyes flicked away. “I’m not soft. I’m not warm. I don’t… glow. I forget social niceties, I spiral over things like flight plans and tyre temps and socks that don’t feel right. That’s not the kind of person who’s supposed to—” She swallowed. “I don’t know if I’m made for this.”

“Baby. You’re made for anything,” he said, firm now. “You’re made for me. And if our baby ends up anything like you, blunt, brilliant, weird in the best possible way, they’re going to be so lucky. And so am I.”

She let out a sound that was halfway between a breath and a laugh. Her shoulders sagged just a little. “We don’t even know if I’m actually pregnant yet,” she muttered.

He glanced down at the test still in her hand. “Kinda looks like we do.”

Another breath.

She let him take the test and set it gently on the counter, his touch reverent, like it was something fragile and sacred. Then, without a word, he slid his hand into hers and led her back into the bedroom.

She didn’t resist. Didn’t speak. Just let herself be tugged along like driftwood in a current.

Lando climbed into bed first and pulled her down with him, settling them in the tangle of covers she’d only half-kicked off earlier. His arms came around her automatically, looping over her waist and up across her back. He tucked her in close, chin resting against the top of her head, one leg hooked loosely over hers.

Wrapped around her like a blanket. Safe. Heavy in the best way.

They lay like that for a long time. Breathing in sync. No words needed.

Eventually, Amelia spoke. Her voice was quiet — raw around the edges, like she'd surprised even herself with the crack earlier. “I didn’t think I’d cry,” she murmured.

Lando smiled, lips brushing her temple. “I’m glad you did.”

She blinked against his hoodie. “Why?”

He huffed a soft laugh, barely more than a breath. “Because it made it less pathetic that I was crying for a second too.”

Her head tipped back just enough to look up at him. “You were crying?”

“Only a little bit,” he said, mock-defensive. “Like, blinked-a-lot-and-hoped-you-wouldn’t-notice crying. I’m British. I’m subtle.”

“You’re not subtle,” she said flatly.

“No,” he agreed, grin tugging at his mouth. “But I am dramatic, and I’ve been alone for two days imagining every possible outcome and Googling ‘is surprise pregnancy good news if you’re in love and mostly financially stable.’”

Amelia blinked slowly. “You Googled that exact phrase?”

“Yes.”

She snorted. A small, involuntary noise that made his heart squeeze. “What did it say?”

“That the internet is deeply unhelpful,” he said. “And Reddit is a lawless place.”

There was another long pause.

Then she whispered, “I was scared it wouldn’t feel real. That I’d just… log it as data and move on. Like it was just another variable.”

Lando tightened his arms around her. “But it does feel real?”

“Yeah,” she whispered. “The second I said it out loud.”

He kissed her forehead. “Good. I don’t think I could’ve handled being more emotional than you about this.”

“You’re always more emotional than me.”

“True. I tried at Bake Off the other day.”

“I know,” she said, and even through the haze of anxiety and confusion and quiet overwhelm, she smiled. “That’s why I married you.”

Lando rested his cheek against her hair, and for a few long seconds, the world outside the blanket of their bed ceased to exist.

“Should we sleep a bit more?” She asked eventually, already halfway there.

He nodded against her. “Yeah. Big day of parenting ahead. Gotta start practicing how to Google more useful things.”

She hummed. “Start with ‘how to tell if your wife is actually going to let herself feel things this time.’”

Lando squeezed her a little tighter. “Already figured it out. Just gotta love her loud enough that she forgets to be afraid.”

She didn’t respond.

But she didn’t pull away either.

—

The clinic’s sliding door whispered closed behind them as Amelia and Lando stepped into the small, clinical room. The nurse smiled warmly, gesturing toward the chair.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” she said, setting out the necessary equipment.

Amelia sat down slowly, her fingers lacing in her lap. Lando stood quietly by her side, watching her with closeness.

“You doing alright, baby?” He asked quietly, voice low enough only for her.

She shrugged, eyes steady. “As alright as I can be.”

Lando reached out and took her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. She held on tight.

The nurse prepped the needle, talking her through it as she did. Amelia kept her gaze fixed on the ceiling, her jaw clenched just enough to show her focus.

When the needle slid in, Lando’s hand moved up to brush a strand of hair behind her ear.

“There,” he whispered. “Done.”

Amelia exhaled, releasing some of the tension she hadn’t even realised she was holding.

—

Amelia and Lando sat quietly in the small waiting area just outside the testing rooms, the sterile white walls feeling colder than usual. Amelia scrolled absently through her phone while Lando rested his arm around her shoulders, both wrapped in a low hum of nervous energy.

The nurse appeared after what felt like an eternity but was realistically just under an hour. She held a folder in her hand, her expression calm and professional. “Amelia Norris?” She called.

Amelia stood immediately, Lando rising just a half-step behind her, his hand brushing lightly against the small of her back in quiet support.

The nurse, a kind-looking woman in her fifties with kind eyes and soft lines around her mouth, smiled gently as she approached, holding a slim folder in her hands. “Amelia, Lando,” She said warmly. “Your blood test results are back.”

Amelia held herself very still, as if bracing for impact.

The nurse opened the folder and glanced down. “Everything looks healthy, and we did manage to confirm your pregnancy, Amelia.”

For a second, neither of them spoke. Amelia’s breath caught in her throat, her eyes fixed on the nurse but unfocused, as though the words had landed somewhere just behind her.

She blinked once. Twice. “Okay,” she said softly. Just one word, but it sounded like it had taken effort to get it out.

Lando, ever the contrast, let out a breathy laugh; short, quiet, almost disbelieving, and slid his arm around her waist. He gave her a gentle squeeze, grounding them both. “Well,” he murmured, leaning in close, “that’s the official verdict then.”

She didn’t answer right away, just nodded, lips pressing into a line. Her fingers twitched at her side, stimming without even thinking.

The nurse, unfazed by the silence, handed Amelia a printout of the blood-work results. “Everything looks perfectly normal for where you’re at. If you have questions or want to talk about next steps, you’re always welcome to call. We’ll book your first ultrasound soon.”

Amelia’s eyes scanned the paper, already filtering the information into categories in her head — normal levels, nothing flagged, timeline confirmed. Just data. But even with all the logic in the world, she felt the subtle shift in the air. It was real now.

“I can fly to Abu Dhabi?” She asked, sharp and direct.

The nurse nodded. “Yes, you can. You’re still very early. Travel is fine, just make sure you stay hydrated and try to keep your stress levels to a minimum.”

Amelia scoffed out a single breath. “Right. Sure.”

Lando gave the nurse an apologetic smile, stepping in smoothly. “We’ll make sure of it. Water, snacks, earplugs, noise-cancelling headphones, the works.”

The nurse’s smile deepened. “Good man. Just listen to your body, Amelia. That’ll be the trickiest part for you, I think.”

Amelia met her gaze, brows furrowed. “Why? Because I’m autistic?”

“Because you’re used to ignoring and pushing aside your discomfort,” the nurse said kindly. “But yes, that too.”

Amelia blinked, visibly filing that away.

The nurse handed her a card. “Call and make your next appointment as soon as you’re back. That’ll be for your first scan — around gestation week seven. You can ask for me by name if you’d like.”

Amelia took the card, examined the name — “Colette” — and gave the barest nod of approval. “Okay. I will.”

Colette gave them both a final smile. “Take care of each other. And congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Lando said quietly, while Amelia murmured something that might’ve been a “you too” out of sheer social obligation.

As they stepped out of the clinic and into the soft Monaco sunlight, Lando reached over and laced their fingers together. Amelia let him. Didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Just walked beside him, her expression unreadable — but her grip on his hand was firm.

He glanced at her as they waited for the elevator. “So.”

She glanced up.

“You’re gonna have to let me look at that report later,” he said. “Just to double-check you’re not secretly growing twins or something.”

Amelia huffed. “I’d know if I were.”

He grinned. “Sure you would.”

—

The private jet hummed softly beneath them, the kind of quiet that came with luxury and familiarity. Amelia had curled up beside the window, iPad balanced on her lap, headphones hanging loosely around her neck. Next to her, Lando was dozing — hoodie pulled up, mouth slightly open, dead to the world.

Across the aisle, Max sat with a protein bar and a very serious frown as he scrolled through Instagram. For all the years they’d known each other, Amelia had rarely seen him sit still this long.

She, however, was very much not still.

Her finger tapped quickly across her iPad screen, eyes scanning an article titled “What To Expect in Your First Trimester.” She had three tabs open; one medical, one forum-based, and one purely dedicated to nutrition. Her nose wrinkled as she read the phrase “morning sickness may begin as early as week six.” She was almost six weeks, according to the timeline Colette had scribbled down.

“Oh, screw that,” she muttered under her breath.

Max leaned slightly toward the aisle and blinked at her screen. “What’re you reading?”

Amelia startled slightly and tilted the iPad instinctively away from him. “Nothing.”

Max tilted his head. “No, I definitely saw the word ‘placenta’ just now.”

Amelia pursed her lips. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

He blinked. Then his eyes went wide. “You’re pregnant.”

“What? No. Don’t be absurd.” Amelia spluttered.

“Your ears are red!” Max pointed out.

“Lots of people have red ears,” she lied boldly.

“Name two people.”

“Um.” She looked around desperately. “Um.”

Max raised a brow.

“Okay, whatever, fine.” She sighed.

He choked on his protein bar, coughing into his sleeve. “So you are pregnant.”

Amelia groaned, setting the iPad facedown on her lap. “You can’t know! I’m not even supposed to know, I don’t think. Google says no one is allowed to know until the second trimester.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know!” She whispered-shouted, flinging her hands up in frustration. “Apparently there's this whole unwritten rule that you’re meant to keep it secret until like week twelve in case things go wrong but also I can’t stop Googling everything because what the hell is a mucus plug and why is it in my body?”

Max looked vaguely alarmed. “Oh, god. That sounds disgusting.”

“Exactly!”

Lando stirred at the noise, cracked one eye open, and muttered, “Did you tell Max?”

“No,” Amelia said at the exact same time Max said, “Absolutely.”

Lando sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face, clearly too tired to argue.

Amelia shifted slightly in her seat, frowning. “Is it weird I don’t feel different yet? Like I thought I’d… know. That there’d be this, I don’t know, gut feeling. Like how I know when it’s going to rain or when Oscar’s about to spin out of a corner.”

Max softened a bit, leaning over the aisle. “Everyone’s different, I think.”

“Yeah, but I already feel behind.” She nudged her iPad back into her lap. “There are apps and charts and... symbiotic uterine developments. It’s like a project I didn’t plan for. And you know how I feel about unplanned variables.”

Lando reached over sleepily and squeezed her hand. “You’re doing fine.”

Max nodded. “Plus, your kid’s gonna have, like, the two most ridiculous godparents in the paddock.”

She blinked at him. “I never said anything about godparents.”

“You will.”

“I might not.”

“You will.”

She rolled her eyes, but a small smile tugged at her mouth.

Then, after a pause, she muttered, “The mucus plug thing is still on my mind.”

Max gagged theatrically, Lando groaned, and Amelia opened another article, determined to understand the entire gestational timeline before they landed.

—

The Abu Dhabi sun was already unbearable by the time they stepped onto the tarmac, the heat pressing down like a hand on the back of her neck. Amelia barely blinked at it. She was too busy focusing on not gagging.

It wasn’t morning sickness. It wasn’t anything that dramatic. There’d been no dramatic sprint to a toilet. Just this constant, low-level nausea that clung to her throat like the aftermath of turbulence. Cloying. Lingering. Like the scent of someone else’s perfume in a closed room.

She clutched her water bottle a little tighter as they walked toward the paddock entrance, sunglasses on, headphones around her neck, McLaren lanyard tucked into the front of her shirt. She wasn’t on duty yet — they were just arriving — but already, her brain was buzzing with briefings and timing windows and tyre strategy for FP1.

Lando walked beside her, one hand on the small of her back, close but casual. He wasn’t smothering her, he never did, but his body was attuned to her like a second radar system. When she slowed for a moment, swallowing hard, he adjusted his pace instantly.

“Still feeling off?” He murmured, quiet so no one around them would hear.

She nodded once, not breaking stride. “Feels like... I’ve had warm milk out of a shoe.”

“That’s a disgusting analogy.” He said, nose twitching.

“I feel disgusting.” She moaned.

Lando gave a small, sympathetic laugh and handed her a peppermint from the stash he’d brought specifically for this. “Want to skip the garage for now? Go to hospitality. Sit down.”

“I’ll be fine,” she said quickly, bluntly. “We land, we go to the garage. That’s the routine.”

He didn’t argue, not really. He just looked at her for a beat longer than usual and nodded. “Okay.”

Max had peeled off earlier, some Red Bull meeting already dragging him into another PR vortex, so it was just the two of them when they reached the McLaren motorhome. Amelia paused for a moment outside the hospitality entrance, letting the air-conditioned breeze spill over her as the door opened and closed in waves.

She stared forward, expression flat.

Then, without looking at him, she muttered, “If I throw up in front of Oscar, I’ll lie and say it’s food poisoning.”

Lando grinned. “You’d lie to Oscar?”

“I lie to Oscar all the time. I tell him the car has good rear grip when I know it doesn’t. I tell him his haircut’s not weird.”

“He knows it’s weird.”

“Then I’m not doing my job properly.”

He kissed the side of her head and ushered her inside.

The nausea didn’t leave; it didn’t even lessen. But she filed it away somewhere behind tyre allocation updates and garage temperature readings. Pushed it back. Compartmentalised.

She had a job to do.

Even if her body, her whole world, had quietly started to change.

—

The garage was its usual symphony of motion, tyre blankets, torque wrenches, low chatter on radios. Amelia stood just behind Oscar’s car, one hand resting on the side-pod, her iPad in the other, watching the data scroll. Her other hand was shoved in her pocket, fingers twisting the small piece of fabric — an old tag from one of Lando’s fireproof undershirts. Grounding. Textural. Familiar.

Oscar was climbing out of the cockpit, unzipping his suit halfway and tugging off his gloves. “How’s it looking?” He asked, pushing a hand through his hair.

“Like you are still lifting off too early into Turn 14,” Amelia replied, not looking up.

Oscar squinted at her. “Nice to see you too.”

She handed him the tablet. “Look at the overlays. You’re lifting fractionally earlier than yesterday.”

“I don’t feel like I am.”

“That’s the thing about data,” she said flatly. “It doesn’t care how you feel.”

Oscar made a face but didn’t argue. He took the tablet and perched on the edge of the front wing as he scrolled. Amelia leaned on the pit gantry behind him, eyes tracking the mechanics, her brain juggling three different timelines.

Tyre test. Race sim. Media obligations.

And nausea. Always the nausea. A thin layer of wrongness settled at the base of her throat.

“You look pale,” Oscar said suddenly.

She flicked her eyes up. “Thanks.”

“I mean it. You good?”

“I’m always good.”

He gave her a suspicious side-eye. “You’ve said that to me before. Usually when you’ve gone two days without sleep.”

She took the iPad back from him. “I’m eating. I’ve slept. I’m hydrated. I’ve had breakfast. What more do you want?”

“Some forgiveness if I don’t get the lift right on the next run?”

Amelia’s lip twitched, barely. “Not happening.”

Oscar didn’t push, but he watched her as she turned back toward the screens. She knew it. Felt his gaze linger.

But she didn’t offer anything more. Not yet. Not when the garage was full of people, and cameras, and microphones always somewhere nearby.

She just reached for her earpiece, shoved it into place, and keyed into the radio with a sharp, clean voice. “Oscar’s ready for the next run. Let’s do race trim, full fuel, softs.”

The engineer on the other end acknowledged her. The crew got moving.

And the nausea, ever present, curled a little tighter in her gut.

Still. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t step back.

Amelia Norris stayed exactly where she was — sharp, unfazed, in control.

—

The air conditioning hummed steadily overhead, and Amelia sat cross-legged in one of the lower chairs, stylus tapping as Oscar muttered something about corner exit balance. She wasn’t entirely listening. Or rather — she was, but her body was staging a full-scale rebellion against her.

The nausea had been background static all day, but now it was cresting into a full wave. Her fingers tightened slightly around the stylus. She blinked twice, tried breathing through her nose. No improvement.

She could hear Lando in the corner, chatting with one of the engineers, blissfully unaware that his wife was currently sweating through her team polo in slow motion.

Oscar nudged her shin with the toe of his socked foot. “You’re quiet. Am I saying something stupid?”

Amelia opened her mouth to answer, but—

Her stomach twisted violently. She slapped the tablet onto the low table and stood up in one movement, but it was too fast, too late.

Her hand flew to her mouth, eyes wide.

And then she doubled over and vomited squarely into the only available container-like object at ground level.

Oscar’s race boots.

The room fell silent.

Oscar blinked once. Then looked down. Then back up at her.

“Well,” he said, with a perfectly dry inflection. “That’s one way to critique my driving.”

Amelia groaned, wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her hoodie. “I’m so sorry,” she managed, breathless. “I— I tried to make it.”

Lando was already at her side, hand on her back, concern etching itself into his features. “Jesus, baby—are you okay? You need to sit down?”

Oscar, meanwhile, remained seated, staring down at the shoes like they might attack him. “Those were custom-moulded.”

“Yeah,” Amelia said weakly, dropping back into the chair. “They’re custom-moulded to hold the exact volume of my stomach contents, apparently.”

“I’m never putting my foot in those again.”

“I’ll get you new ones.”

“You’ll buy me a new digestive system, because I’m never forgetting this.” He frowned.

Amelia finally laughed; a little breathy, a little unhinged. “I hate this,” she muttered, head in her hands.

Lando crouched in front of her, gently brushing her hair back from her face. “You’ve done three days of data crunching and garage shifts while apparently fighting the urge to puke in various footwear,” he said quietly. “Come on, let’s go clean you up.”

Oscar stood up finally, crossing to the corner where someone had mercifully placed paper towels and a bin bag. “Can we agree to never tell anyone about this.”

“Yes,” Amelia agreed.

Lando snorted. “Too late. I already texted Max.”

“You what—?”

“I’m kidding,” he grinned. “But I’m tempted. He’d find this absolutely hilarious.”

—

Amelia was curled up on the end of a low sofa, sipping flat Sprite from a paper cup. The AC was finally hitting just right, and she'd gotten through the rest of the afternoon without projectile vomiting on any more personal items. Progress.

Oscar wandered in, a granola bar half-unwrapped in one hand, still in his race suit tied off at the waist.

He flopped into the chair opposite her, stretched his legs out, and with no preamble at all, said, “Happy pregnancy, by the way.”

Amelia blinked. “Oh,” she said flatly. “So it’s obvious, then.”

Oscar shrugged. “To me? Yeah. You’ve been chewing your pen caps like you’re trying to murder them, you haven’t had coffee in three days, and you were sick in my race boots, so.”

She tilted her head. “That’s a lot of observation for someone who thinks toothpaste is spicy.”

He laughed. “I’m very detail-oriented. And still peeved about my boots.”

She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he said, far too magnanimous. “They were hideous anyway.” There was a pause. Then he added, “Honestly, everyone else just assumed it was heat stroke.”

Amelia lifted a brow. “And you didn’t?”

“Nope.” He took a bite of the granola bar. “You go green when you have heat stroke. You went green this time, so I knew it was different.”

She barked a short laugh. “That’s horrifying.”

“And accurate,” he said, chewing. “So… Lando knows, obviously?”

“Yeah. He made me pee on a stick at six in the morning. Then I had to go and get blood drawn to confirm it.”

Oscar winced. “Disgusting. Anyway—congrats, I guess.”

“Thanks. And sorry again about the shoes.”

Oscar leaned back in the chair, arms behind his head like he hadn’t been personally victimised. “Eh. If the kid turns out to be a world champion, I’ll tell this story in the Netflix documentary.”

“Can’t wait,” she deadpanned.

They sat in silence for a moment. Then, with a smirk that was all mischief and no sympathy, Oscar added, “Next time, at least aim for Lando’s sneakers. His fans would pay for them.”

Amelia snorted into her Sprite. “God, you’re vile.”

“I know. And yet you can’t get rid of me,” he said, and stood up, already texting someone; probably Lando.

She groaned again. Loudly.

—

The Yas Marina Circuit always felt like the end of something.

By the time the sun dipped beneath the glowing skyline and the lights snapped on around the track, the paddock was buzzing with the familiar edge of finality. Mechanics moved with that distinct rhythm—half instinct, half exhaustion. Cameras flashed. Engines roared. And on the McLaren pit wall, Amelia sat completely still, headset pressed tight, her eyes fixed on Oscar’s live telemetry.

No one would’ve known she was pregnant. No one would’ve guessed she’d thrown up in her colleague’s race boots less than 24 hours earlier. No one would’ve known that she’d spent the flight to Abu Dhabi Googling “why does pregnancy make you feel like your body is a hostile foreign nation” or that she’d quietly rested her head on Lando’s shoulder for the last twenty minutes of final practice, just to stay upright.

But now? Now she was fine. More than fine. Because when it came to the race, Oscar’s race, she was always prepared to lock in.

Oscar had qualified well. Not perfect, but decent. Enough to put him in the fight.

Lando, meanwhile, had his own race to run, starting P5. Amelia didn’t let herself think about his car in the first ten laps. She’d gotten very good at compartmentalising again. Still, every now and then, she could feel his presence, could hear his voice from earlier:

“One more race. Then we get a break. Then we breathe.”

God, how she wanted to breathe.

The race itself was tense. Ferrari and Mercedes were locked in their Constructors’ battle, chaos unfolding all across the midfield. Amelia kept her voice calm on Oscar’s radio.

“Strat 7, we’re going to offset slightly from Gasly ahead.”

“Understood.”

“Clean exit turn 3. Good traction now. Let’s build.”

He listened. He always listened.

Mid-race, Oscar made an aggressive but beautifully timed overtake, and Amelia let herself smile—just a little.

Lando, a few positions ahead, was holding ground. Quietly, steadily. Nothing dramatic. Amelia could handle steady. Steady felt manageable.

The final laps bled together like watercolour under pressure. Amelia felt her stomach twist, nausea creeping up again. She ignored it. She had work to do.

In the end?

Oscar crossed the line P6.

Lando, P4.

Respectable. Solid. A good end to a hard-fought season.

When Oscar pulled in and killed the engine, Amelia finally took a long breath and peeled off her headset. Her hands were trembling. Whether it was adrenaline, hormones, or just sheer relief, she couldn’t tell.

Lando found her on the pit wall not long after, hair sweaty, fireproofs unzipped halfway.

“Hey,” he said, brushing her shoulder lightly. “You okay?”

She looked at him for a long moment, the smile tugging at her lips slow and almost reluctant.

“I am now.”

He grinned. “We did it.”

She snorted. “You did it. I just puked in Oscar’s boots and managed his brake maps.”

Lando bent down and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “You did both with tremendous style.”

Somewhere nearby, champagne exploded. But for Amelia, the noise faded into the background. The season was over. They were having a baby. They’d finished best of the rest.

And the MCL38-AN was going to be an absolute masterpiece.

559 notes · View notes

pbaz7 · 29 days ago

Text

SOFT SPOT: CHAPTER 1

paige x azzi

word count: 7.1k

A/N: Not much to say about this one yet. It was a random idea I got and I decided to combine my two interests lol. Let me know what you think and if this is something you’d like to see play out more!

—————————————————————————

The Sparks were up by twenty-four. The starters pulled halfway through the third, and Azzi sat near the end of the bench, her legs were stretched and a towel was sitting around her neck as she casually sipped from her water bottle.

The energy in the arena had changed. The crowd was still loud but they started entertaining themselves with whatever the jumbotron fed them: dance cams, kiss cams, baby cams. Azzi’s body had cooled, but her mind still flickered with the movement on the court, tracing the plays, missed shots, moments that might’ve gone differently.

She only half-registered the familiar cadence of the courtside camera sweep. A ritual of sorts in a city like LA—celebrities shown on the jumbotron like saints. The crowd responded on cue: applause, laughter, a few cheers too loud to be genuine.

A few big house names and faces flashed across the screen—actors, influencers, former players—each one hamming it up for their moment. They didn’t pay for their court side seats for nothing.

Then the frame landed on someone who didn’t match the rest.

Blonde. A little stone-faced. She wore a cream Essentials sweatsuit, ankle resting over her knee, a few rings on her fingers, completely still.

She didn’t wave at the camera. Didn’t smile. Just stared at it like it had interrupted her thoughts—then looked right past it, completely disinterested.

Azzi blinked her eyebrows drawing together.

“…who is that?” she murmured, subtly nudging Rickea beside her.

Rickea followed her gaze and then smiled widely. “Oh that’s my Paigey wazy. She’s Cam’s god sister she’s always talking about.”

Azzi nodded. “She famous or anything?”

Rickea nodded. “She does MMA. Popular as hell in UFC right now. She’s...definitely different, I love her though.” Rickea said it and her tone was like a warning mixed with a compliment.

Azzi glanced back toward the baseline, toward the blonde who hadn’t moved since the camera left her. She didn’t fully blend in—but she didn’t look like she needed nor wanted to stand out. Unfortunately for her, the mere presence alone did the work.

When the final buzzer sounded players filtered off the court, their laughter started to echo through the tunnel, a chorus of their sneakers against the concrete. Azzi walked slowly, towel over her shoulder, thoughts already shifting to her recovery and film review.

She was halfway to the tunnel when an arm threw over her shoulder.

“Wait,” Cam said, grinning. “You’re the only one who hasn’t met her yet.”

Azzi blinked. “Met who?”

“My sister,” Cam said, casual, like it was obvious. “Well—god sister. But she’s basically blood so.”

Before Azzi could protest, Cam was already guiding her back toward the floor, past security and stragglers still lingering for selfies.

She was standing court wide on her phone, seemingly waiting for Cam. Same expressionless face. A storm sealed behind glass.

Cam stepped up beside her, nudging her gently with an elbow to get her attention. “Paige, this is Azzi I don’t think you guys have met.”

Paige looked up slowly.

Her gaze flicked over Azzi in a single sweep—measured, unreadable. No smile. No raised brow. Just a quiet recognition, like Azzi had been noted, filed, and shelved in the space of her brain.

“Hi,” Azzi offered politely, her voice warm but tempered by a slight curiosity. “Nice to meet you.”

A pause.

Then Paige gave a small nod. No handshake. No return greeting.

Just acknowledgment. As bare as it could be.

Azzi let her eyebrow raise slightly, a smile still tugging at the corner of her mouth. There was something oddly fascinating about someone so immune to her charm. Most people lit up in her presence—Paige barely flickered.

Cam chuckled, watching the exchange like it was perfectly on brand.

Then she turned back to Paige. “How was weigh-in this morning?”

Paige’s gaze didn’t change much. “Good. One thirty-five exactly.”

Cam grinned. “So you can eat again without whining about still being hungry.”

A breath of laughter left her, but Paige didn’t outwardly react—no smile, no eye roll. Just stillness. Cam barely noticed. She was used to it.

Undeterred, she kept talking, stuffing her hands into her hoodie pocket. “Some of the team’s coming to the fight tomorrow. We’re sitting in your section again.”

Then Cam turned to Azzi, face brightening. “You should come.”

Azzi blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah! I swear you haven’t really seen Paige until you’ve watched her fight.”

Azzi glanced at Paige again, intrigued. “Is that right?”

Cam nodded. “Totally different energy. You might actually see her blink. You’ll love it. Rae basically got a girl crush on her after seeing her fight the first time.”

Azzi laughed under her breath, surprised by how curious she suddenly felt. She didn’t know if she’d love it—but the idea of seeing what stirred beneath that quiet, unreadable exterior intrigued her.

Her smile returned, softly, her eyes returning to Paige. “Then I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Paige didn’t answer. She just nodded—precise, barely perceptible.

Cam rolled her eyes and mumbled something about Paige being a pain in the ass before she and Azzi walked toward the locker room.

…

The octagon was much bigger than Azzi expected. Not just physically—but in presence. Under the heavy lights, it felt enormous, like a coliseum dressed in modern steel. The energy inside the venue was a little unnerving, thousands of fans humming with anticipation, loud enough that it vibrated in her chest.

People packed every seat, most with eyes locked on the cage watching the current fight. Some wore merch, shouting names with beer-slicked voices. Others were dressed like they belonged on a runway, leaning into each other with glossy lips and barely hidden intentions—here less for the fights, more for whoever looked good throwing punches.

Azzi had never seen a crowd like this.

The Sparks players arrived late, just in time for the final card—Paige’s fight. Their seats gave them a clean view of the octagon, and even then, Azzi felt miles away from the quiet girl in the Essentials sweatsuit.

It didn’t feel like her world. Until it did.

The lights changed. The announcer’s voice boomed across the arena as he introduced the final card.

“Fighting out of the red corner—ten wins, three losses, three draws…”

A pulse of music filled the air. Loud and flashy. Her opponent stepped out, face painted with focus, arms raised as her corner hyped her up. The screen showed her highlight reel, knockout clips, quick hands. She worked the crowd like she was made for the attention.

Azzi watched, her arms folded, lips pressed together. She glanced at Cam. “She any good?”

Cam shrugged. “She’s fine. But she’s not Paige.”

The lights dimmed again, then roared back with Paige’s name.

“Fighting out of the blue corner—twelve wins, no losses…”

The crowd erupted. Louder than before. A different kind of loud—not hype, but reverence as fans screamed her name.

No dramatic song. No chest-thumping entourage. Just Paige.

Her bun was pulled back tight. Her expression as unreadable as ever. She didn’t play to the crowd. She didn’t acknowledge the noise. Her hands were wrapped, feet steady, and her eyes were locked straight ahead—already in the cage long before she stepped into it.

She hadn’t blinked. Not once.

Inside the cage, the difference in opponents was transparent.

Her opponent stood in the red corner, flanked by a full team—three cornermen barking last-minute instructions, one of them pounding their fist into a pad like they could transfer momentum through noise. She bounced on her toes, muscles twitching with anticipation, feeding off the crowd’s energy like it was oxygen.

Paige, by contrast, sat quietly in the blue corner with just two: her trainer crouched beside her, and a cut man leaned casually against the gate, hands folded, already knowing his night would likely be uneventful.

Her trainer murmured something low in her ear—brief. Paige didn’t respond. Just a slow nod.

No fire in her eyes. No bravado. Just a complete stillness that felt more dangerous than all the antics.

She tugged off her shirt, revealing a black UFC sports bra. Her frame was lean. She rolled her shoulders back, tilted her neck side to side until it cracked, took a steady breath then rose to her feet.

No theatrics. No psych-up routine.

Just the quiet poise of someone who already knew how this would end.

Azzi watched from the stands, her heart ticking a little faster in anticipation all of a sudden. She’d never seen someone so calm in the center of so much chaos.

The bell rang.

From the start Paige moved like water—never still, never rushed. Her stance was coiled. Calculated. From the opening seconds, it was clear she wasn’t pressing for control. She gave her opponent space, let her circle. Almost like there had been an agreement—an unspoken one—to make this last.

Azzi leaned closer, her eyebrows drawing in with confusion. “She’s…not even trying.”

“Not yet,” Cam said beside her, arms crossed tightly as she studied the blonde intently. “That’s just Paige. She reads. Waits.”

Inside the octagon, Paige’s eyes never left her opponent. Every jab that came her way was slipped or parried, her head moving just enough, her feet dancing just out of reach. Not a single clean hit landed.

Then, like a breath between beats, Paige struck.

A quick jab to the ribs and then another to the shoulder before sliding out of range like nothing had happened. Her opponent stumbled for a moment, surprised by the speed, the force.

Azzi sat forward a little in shock. “She’s fast.”

“Quicker than most,” Cam replied. “She’s still holding back. Hasn’t gotten the read she wants.”

It was strange, watching someone so calm in a cage built for violence. Paige moved with a quiet rhythm, not aggressive, not passive—just controlled. There was no adrenaline in her face. No fire. No nothing. Every attempt at a choke, every kick, punch, she slipped out of it with an ease.

The bell rang again for the start of the second round.

Paige returned to the center like nothing had changed—fluid, unhurried. The same measured steps. The same calculated distance. To anyone else, it looked like she hadn’t felt a thing in the first round. Like she still wasn’t interested in finishing the fight.

Azzi crossed her arms, shifting in her seat. “She’s still not pushing.”

“She will,” Cam said softly.

The two opponents moved around the cage. Paige throwing a few hits that landed clean, easing just out of distance every time her opponent tried to counter.

Then—snap. A right hook came quick out of nowhere and landed hard across Paige’s jaw.

The sound cracked above the crowd, a clean connection that rocked her head to the side.

The arena gasped and Cam sat up a little bit.

Azzi's breath caught. “Damn.”

Rickea leaned forward, wide-eyed. “Oh shit she’s about to be pissed.”

Paige didn’t go down. Didn’t even stagger. Her feet stayed planted, spine straight. Just the subtlest tightening in her jaw, a flicker of something in her eyes.

She stepped forward—not aggressively, but with intent. Her hands came up a little higher. She slipped a jab, ducked under a left cross, and countered with a shot to the ribs. Her opponent winced, retreating, but Paige followed—not rushing, just closing space.

Another hit—clean, to the ribs again. Then an uppercut with dominant hand that snapped her opponent’s chin up.

The crowd roared.

Azzi leaned in, almost transfixed now. Paige was still silent, still unreadable, but her body was speaking for her.

A left calf kick.

A right jab.

Then, when her opponent flinched Paige threw a final cross throw, hitting the side of her jaw like a switch being flipped.

She dropped.

The referee dove between them waving his hands.

It was over. The final card of the night meant for five rounds done in two.

The crowd exploded around her, but Paige didn’t move much. No celebration. Just a steady rise of her chest turning toward her corner, jaw set, breathing calm.

Azzi sat frozen in her seat, blinking like she’d just come out of a dream. The fight was still playing in her head—the jabs, the fluid movement—the stillness that followed.

Paige spit the slight blood from her mouth into the bucket beside her. She muttered something tight to her trainer—no emotion on her face, no victory or pride, just words exchanged, a formality.

Azzi could see it in her eyes. The flash of fire behind her cool blue orbs. A controlled anger. The flicker of frustration that didn’t quite make it to the surface.

With a final nod to her trainer, Paige stepped out of the cage, eyes forward, posture straight.

Azzi couldn’t look away for some reason.

The hallway leading to the back of the venue was buzzing—staff, security, the hum of celebration from other fighters and teams. But the air shifted the moment they rounded the corner and stepped into the private area Paige was assigned to.

Azzi heard it before she saw it—the sharp thump of fists slamming into leather, steady and forceful.

Paige stood in front of a heavy bag, wrapped hands pounding into it with methodical anger. Sweat clung to her skin, her jaw was clenched tight, and a faint bruise was already blooming across her jaw like a slow, dark sunrise.

Azzi slowed, instinctively when she felt the tenseness in the room. So did Rickea.

Only Cam kept walking like she didn’t feel the weight in the room.

“Hey,” she called out casually, stepping right into the storm.

Paige didn’t turn. Her punches came harder now. The bag jerked with every hit. The anger she never showed on her face bled through her fists instead.

“You know she’s lucky she landed that hit, right? You let her dance for a whole round and a half for the sake of entertainment and the contract.”

Still nothing.

“You pissed ‘cause she got that shot in, or ‘cause you gave her the space to?”

Another strike—harder. Paige’s shoulder tensed, her jaw tighter now.

Cam groaned, completely unfazed. “Okay, silent treatment. Classic.”

Azzi stayed near the wall, her arms crossed, gaze flicking between Cam and Paige.

Rickea leaned in and whispered, “This is how she decompresses. Last time she almost broke the damn bag.”

Azzi didn’t respond. She felt like she shouldn’t talk. Her eyes were fixed on the slow rise and fall of Paige’s chest, the focus in her face, the storm she carried so tightly under the surface.

She was beautiful, but in the way fire was beautiful—dangerous and controlled only by choice.

Azzi watched her hit the bag again, harder, sharper. Her body said what her mouth never would.

Cameron stepped closer, folding her arms as she watched Paige continue hammering the bag, knuckles snapping against leather like a ticking clock.

“You know,” Cam started, voice lighter than the atmosphere deserved, “one of these days you’re gonna hit the bag so hard it punches back.”

Paige still said nothing.

Thud.

Cam sighed. “You could at least pretend to listen. I brought people to watch you fight today.”

Thud.

“You don’t get to brood in a corner every time you get touched—”

CRACK.

The next punch landed louder, the bag swinging violently. Azzi flinched.

But Cam didn’t budge. “Seriously. It was one punch. And you won. With a knockout. Again. So let’s wrap this post-fight existential crisis up and go get a drink like normal people—”

THUD.

“Paige,” Cam said, sharper now.

Still, Paige didn’t stop.

So Cam grabbed her.

She stepped in close, hands catching Paige’s wrist mid-swing.

Paige whipped around. Her expression that was once unreadable, flared. Her jaw was clenched and her blue eyes seared through Cam like a fuse had finally been lit.

Azzi froze.

“Don’t touch me when I’m not ready Cameron,” Paige snapped.

For a moment, everything stood still but Cam held her ground not concerned by the anger.

Then, slowly, Paige pulled her wrist free, shoulders still tight, chest rising and falling with the restraint it took to pull the heat back in.

She looked away before mumbling, “Fine. I’m done.”

Cam raised her eyebrows, unfazed. “Wow. What a glowing yes.”

Paige didn’t answer. She turned and started taking off her gloves.

Cam glanced over her shoulder at Azzi and Rickea. “You see what I deal with?”

Azzi blinked, completely confused. Her gaze lingered on Paige as the blonde gathered herself, recentering.

Despite the snap in Paige’s voice, despite the way her jaw tightened when Cam grabbed her, Azzi hadn’t been afraid.

Because Cam hadn’t moved and Rickea didn’t react either.

It was clear that this wasn’t unfamiliar. Paige’s temper was a known storm. One that rumbled, but didn’t destroy the people she cared about.

Azzi found herself wanting to be the one who could calm it. Which, she admitted to herself, was probably the stupidest thought she could have. Still, the feeling settled in her chest.

Paige muttered something to Cam, the words too soft for Azzi to hear, but the way she shrugged out of her hoodie and grabbed a towel made the intention clear.

“Gonna shower.”

And just like that, she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her, the room finally exhaling.

Rickea immediately snorted, breaking the silence. “I swear, Cam…one day you’re really gonna piss that girl off.”

Cam rolled her eyes. “If she hasn’t snapped on me by now, she’s not gonna. I used to really push her buttons when I was in college.” She shrugged. “Besides, someone’s gotta rile her up a little bit here and there.”

She turned toward Azzi, a smile tugging at her lips. “Don’t let the glare scare you. She’s a softie. That’s just her version of agreeing to be social.”

Azzi laughed under her breath, the tension softening in her shoulders. Her gaze flicked toward the closed door again, curiosity twisting like thread around her thoughts.

Social. Sure.

The three of them talked a little longer, light conversation humming to fill the space as they waited for Paige. Azzi listened, but her mind kept circling the same question. She couldn’t quite let it go.

After a pause, she finally asked, “Why was she so upset?”

Cam’s mouth opened, but before the answer could come, the bathroom door creaked open.

Steam curled into the air, and Paige stepped out, hair damp, the fresh bruise harsh along her jaw. Her expression was blank—but her eyes landed on Cam.

“Stop talking about me, Cam,” she said, her voice even and clipped, not bothering to slow her pace as she crossed the room.

“I wouldn’t have to if you pulled the pole outta your ass.”

Rickea snorted again, laughing into the back of her hand.

Azzi blinked, but she couldn’t help the grin that slipped onto her face. Paige paused for the smallest second, like she registered it—then kept walking, grabbing her phone off the bench.

Cam just shook her head. “Anyway,” she said, picking up the thread like Paige hadn’t just tried to end the conversation, “She hates getting touched in a fight. Takes it personally. She doesn’t admit it, but she’s a little vain. Hates when they mess up her face.”

Rickea laughed, sitting in a nearby chair. “That bruise is already turning purple. You’re gonna be cranky about that for days.”

Across the room, Paige sat on the bench, towel draped around her neck. She didn’t even glance over. “You’re the one who said it looked good last time.”

“Yeah,” Rickea shrugged, “but that was a black eye. This one’s different. It’s got character.”

Paige finally looked up, her gaze sliding to Rickea first. “If you’re trying to butter me up, it’s not working.”

Rickea grinned. “I’m just saying. You still look pretty Paigey, don't worry.”

Paige snorted, quiet and barely audible—but it was there. A crack in the stone.

Azzi, still leaning against the wall, tilted her head slightly as she decided to chime in. “So it’s the face you’re protective of. Not the record?”

Those blue eyes shifted, landing on Azzi like they’d just remembered she was in the room. Her expression didn’t change, but there was something focused in the way she looked at her now.

“You ever get punched in the jaw in front of a screaming arena and ten cameras?” Paige asked.

Azzi’s smile curved. “I’ve taken elbows from girls twice my size. So maybe pretty close.”

A beat passed. Then Paige’s gaze drifted away again. “Then you kinda get it.”

Cam grinned like she’d just seen lightning hit dry land. “Wow. Full sentence and everything on the first day. That might be a record.”

Azzi laughed. “Do I get a prize?”

Paige reached for her phone, not looking up. “Don’t push your luck.”

Rickea leaned toward Azzi, whispering behind a not-so-subtle hand, “That’s basically a compliment from her.”

Azzi smiled, her eyes drifting back to Paige—who still wasn’t looking at her, but something in the quiet set of her shoulders said she was listening.

…

The restaurant had polished floors, beautiful wood tables, and a bar that stretched long under a wash of amber light. It wasn’t flashy, but perfectly familiar.

Azzi walked in followed by Cam and Rickea, all three of them caught in easy conversation. Her gaze drifted around, slowing as she caught sight of Paige already at the bar.

“How the hell did she beat us here?”

Cam didn’t bother looking. “Told you she would. She drives like a crazy person sometimes.”

Azzi felt it then—the same quiet pull she’d felt last night at the game.

They approached the bar together, Cam sliding in beside Paige with a light shoulder bump. “Look who actually showed up to be social,” she teased.

Paige didn’t look up. “Debatable.”

Rickea gave Paige a half-hug from behind that she didn’t react to before turning to Cam. “I think I saw someone James knows near the back. Come with me real quick?”

Cam looked over her shoulder, spotted what Rickea was talking about, then glanced back at Azzi. “You good here for a second?”

Azzi nodded, her eyes still on Paige. “Yeah.”

They disappeared into the crowd, leaving Azzi to ease into the empty seat beside her. Paige didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just tilted her head slightly, eyes flicking to her, then forward again.

Azzi took her time, letting the silence stretch as she rested her arms on the bar. Then softly, “You always this friendly?”

Paige’s lips barely moved. “You always this brave after watching someone knock somebody out?”

Azzi laughed—fullly, like it came from somewhere deeper than amusement. “So you do talk.”

“I thought we established that already,” Paige said, eyes still on the mirror behind the bar, watching the room without ever turning toward it.

Azzi’s gaze flicked to the bruise along Paige’s jaw. “Does it hurt?”

There was a pause. Paige glanced at her again, like she wasn’t used to being asked questions.

“You never really get used to being hit by someone who hits people for a living,” she said finally. Her voice was flat—but not dismissive.

Azzi winced sympathetically, then gave a small smile. “So no secret trick to making it hurt less? Ice, adrenaline, pride?”

Paige tilted her head just slightly. “Denial.”

Azzi laughed softly. “That tracks.”

There was a beat of silence as Azzi’s eyes lingered on her face—the bruising, the set of her mouth.

“So…no celebration? No smile? Not even a little shoulder shimmy like Steph?” Azzi teased gently.

Paige blinked at her once. “I don’t shimmy.”

“Everyone shimmies for something.”

“I don’t.”

Azzi grinned, leaning in a bit. “What about a smile? You got one of those, or are they pay-per-view only?”

Paige’s lips quirked—barely. It could’ve been amusement or irritation. “Expensive ticket,” she said dryly. “Most people don’t make it past the preview.”

Azzi laughed again. “You know, I think that was a joke. You might be more charming than you let on blondie.”

Before Azzi could push her luck further Rickea slid in beside Paige again with a smile as she looked at AZi. “If she’s talking to you, that’s like…step two in the Paige friendship program. Step three’s making her laugh, but I don’t think anyone’s ever made it that far.”

Paige took a sip of her drink, ignoring them. “Y’all alk too much.”

Cam grinned, dropping her bag on the bar. “Yeah, but admit it—you’d miss us if we stopped.”

Paige didn’t respond, but her silence felt a little lighter.

As time passed the bar had filled out fast, music pulsing beneath the chatter and clinking glasses. Paige sat quiet at the bar, still nursing the same drink. Azzi was leaned in, teasing something light out of her, when a sudden jolt rocked Rickea’s chair next to Paige.

A man, maybe late twenties, stumbled back with a grin, clearly not sorry. “Shit my bad,” he said with zero sincerity, eyes already scanning Rickea’s body. “Didn’t mean to bump into something so pretty.”

Rickea frowned. “Yeah, you’re good. Not interested, though.”

He leaned in closer anyway, undeterred. “That’s fine. I’m not asking for forever or nothing like that, just the rest of your night.”

Rickea once again made it clear she wasn’t interested but the man insisted.

“Damn I can’t even try the ride out? You like pussy or sum?”

Paige’s chair scraped back and she stood, calm in the way a storm is calm before it breaks open the sky.

“That’s not what she said,” Paige said, voice like gravel under pressure.

The guy turned, sizing her up—and then smirked when he caught the bruise along her jaw. “Jesus, you look like someone already handed you your ass tonight. You sure you wanna get in another round, pretty girl?”

Azzi and Rickea didn’t move, both a little terrified for the man—Paige’s jaw clenched tight enough to crack her teeth, knuckles ghosting over the edge of her seat.

Her voice was almost surgical. “You got three seconds to get the fuck outta my face before one of your friends is carrying you outside.”

She started to step forward when Cam was suddenly between them, hand braced flat against Paige’s ribs like it wasn’t the first time.

“Hey,” Cam said, firm but easy. “You don’t need another lawsuit tonight.”

Paige didn’t look at her. Her eyes stayed locked on the man’s. But she didn’t move forward either.

The guy gave a dry, uneasy laugh. “Whatever. Crazy bitches,” he muttered before melting back into the crowd.

Without saying anything, Paige picked up her glass and tossed back the last of it, ice clinking against her teeth. “I’m going home,” she muttered, already turning away. Her shoulders were stiff, her jaw tight, and the bruise on her face was darker under the bar lights. None of them tried to stop her.

Cam returned a few seconds later, sliding into the chair with a sigh and grabbing a fry from Rickea’s plate. She caught the way Azzi’s eyes lingered toward the door Paige had just walked through.

“Don’t worry.” Cam said, chewing. “That wasn’t bad she’s fine.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow.

Cam shrugged. “She’s always been like that. Bad temper—quiet until she’s not.”

“She ever actually do anything?” Azzi asked.

“Couple of things,” Cam replied dryly. “Mostly in high school. Nothing wild, but enough that my dads best friend—her dad—got her into fighting when she was fifteen. Said if she was gonna throw punches, she might as well learn to do it right.”

Azzi nodded slowly, the pieces falling into place.

Cam grinned. “She’s probably just going home to hit a bag. With the lights off and no music on. She’s real dramatic like that when she’s pissed.”

“Guess that explains why she left without saying bye.”

Cam laughed. “She always does. Paige doesn’t do long goodbyes. Or small talk. Or...people, really.”

Azzi tilted her glass thoughtfully. “But she’s close with you two.”

Cam shrugged. “We’re not people. We’re furniture at this point.”

Rickea laughed. “Background noise she tolerates.”

Azzi huffed out a quiet laugh, eyes lingering on the door Paige had walked through. “She ever crazy a smile?”

“Sure,” Cam said, then squinted. “Like...twice a year. Usually when she knocks someone out faster than she expected or when she’s had a few drinks and a stupid dog video shows up on her phone.”

Rickea added, “Besides us, the only person she even tolerates is probably DiJonai.”

“I wouldn’t even say tolerate—she loves that girl.”

Azzi glanced between them. “DiJonai Carrington? From the Wings?”

“Mmm,” Cam nodded. “No clue how or why, but she always has Paige laughing like it’s nothing. It’s kind of freaky.”

Azzi smiled. “So it’s possible.”

Rickea chuckled. “Barely.”

Cam leaned back, watching her. “Why? You planning something?”

Azzi’s smiles “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Cam laughed into her drink. “Good luck. Just try not to lose a tooth in the process.”

Azzi grinned. “No promises.”

…

A few days later the sun hung high over Beverly Hills, casting golden light on the modern homes lining the hills. Paige’s place sat a little higher—tucked back from the others, quiet and unbothered. It was sleek, clean lines and glass, concrete softened by manicured greenery.

Cam led the way through the side gate without knocking, as if she'd done it a thousand times. Azzi followed with Rickea close behind, the faint echo of music drawing them around to the backyard. There, offset from the house, was a sleek, glass-and-metal shed—if you could even call it that—more luxury gym than anything makeshift.

Cam pushed the door open and air rolled out to greet them—along with the rhythmic snap-snap-snap of a speed bag being worked over.

Paige didn’t look up right away.

Her skin gleamed with sweat, the muscles in her shoulders shifting constantly under the light, ponytail hanging down her back. She didn’t miss a beat when they stepped in. Just kept going.

Only when she hit her final strike, hand catching the swinging bag in its path, did she glance over. Her eyes flicked to them. Then she turned away to unstrap her gloves, breathing even, back rising and falling calmly like she hadn’t just been keeping the rhythm of the speed bag for the past 15 minutes.

“Didn’t know we were making this a group thing,” Paige said, voice indifferent, like it didn’t matter—but she definitely noticed.

Cam tossed her bag down. “You knew I was someone. The more the merrier, right?”

Paige wiped her face with a towel completely unimpressed. “That’s probably the most bullshit saying I’ve ever heard.”

She finally turned toward Rickea and Azzi, giving them a small nod in greeting. It wasn’t exactly a warm welcome, but it was something.

Rickea deciding to start the day of bothering Paige smiled, eyes running over Paige purposefully. “You know, you actually look kinda pretty without the bruise blondie.”

Paige blinked once, slowly, then shook her head as she turned back to the bag. “You spend way too much time with Cam.”

Rickea just laughed, dropping to the mat with Azzi and Cam to start stretching. “That’s not a thank you, by the way.”

“I didn’t hear a compliment back either,” Cam added, reaching overhead.

“Y’all are loud as hell for two people who can’t throw a punch,” Paige mumbled, already back at the bag. The sound of her fists striking the leather echoed in the gym rhythmically—despite her bare knuckles.

Cam crossed her arms. “Gloves, Madison.”

Without missing a beat, Paige shot back, “My bank account tells me it doesn’t matter.”

Cam scoffed. “That bank account’s not gonna matter when you break your hand being hard headed.”

“Then I’ll fight southpaw. Problem solved.”

She didn’t look at anyone as she spoke, didn’t even pause her movement, but Azzi’s eyes lingered on her. It was another glimpse of her personality—dry and quietly cocky. Her expression remained unreadable, but that hint of personality cut through.

Azzi found herself smiling, just a little.

Paige didn’t look in her direction—didn’t have to. Her hands moved faster on the speed bag, before she finally spoke. “I promise you won’t survive if you don’t stretch.”

Azzi arched her eyebrow, dropping into a lunge. “You threatening me?”

One last hit. Then Paige caught the bag mid-air. She turned—just slightly, just enough for their eyes to meet.

“Warning,” she said. “Threats usually come with follow-through.”

Her tone was dry, but something flickered there—amusement? A challenge? Whatever it was, it made Azzi’s smile grow.

“You really are a sweetheart,” Azzi said softly, voice filled with sarcasm.

“Thank you,” Paige said, tone just as dry. “I really do try.”

Azzi tilted her head, continuing the banter. “No, really. The warmest presence in the room. I felt it the second we walked in. Like sunshine.”

Paige exhaled through her nose. “That’s just the heat coming off the lights, but sure.”

Azzi laughed. “Do you wake up this grumpy or do you warm up to it?”

“Depends who’s talking to me before 9 a.m.,” Paige replied, catching the bag again after a few hits. She glanced at Azzi, that unreadable look still etched into her face.

Azzi pressed her some more, voice a little playful. “So I should text you at 8:59? Make sure you start the day right.”

Paige let the bag hang, tilted her head slightly. “You text me at 8:59, I’ll block you by nine.”

Azzi fake pouted saying, “Aww but I’ll miss you.”

That got a reaction—slight, but there. A dry chuckle slipped out of Paige’s mouth before she turned away like it didn’t happen. No smile. No change in expression. But it was something.

Azzi caught it. And she grinned. “Noted,” she said, more to herself than anyone else.

Rickea looked between them, her eyes squinted. “Did…did Paige Madison just laugh?”

Cam blinked, then grinned. “Swear I heard it too. Thought it was the ceiling creaking.”

Paige didn’t acknowledge them at first—just shook her head, grabbed her towel, and muttered, “Alright. I’m done.” She tossed it over her shoulder and jogged toward the door without another word, adding dryly as she passed them, “Keep up, or don’t bother.”

Cam laughed. “There’s the ray of sunshine we all love.”

Rickea snorted, grabbing her water bottle.

The three of them followed her out, the soft sound of their running shoes echoing through the gym as the door swung shut behind them.

The trail was quiet except for the rhythm of their sneakers hitting dirt and gravel, the cool morning air crisp against their hot skin as they ran. Paige led the group with a pace that wasn’t brutal—but definitely not gentle. No one spoke much, the silence broken only by the occasional breathless grunt or snap of twigs under their feet. After about a mile, she slowed, glanced back once, and wordlessly turned around, leading them back the way they came.

By the time they returned to the house, sweat clung to their clothes, and Paige didn’t waste a second getting them started on the workout.

The workout moved fast—jump rope intervals, rounds on the assault bike, steady sets on the rower. Paige moved through it effortlessly, only occasionally glancing over to make sure they were keeping up. No weights, no high-impact movements. Just conditioning.

Halfway through, Rickea groaned, flopping down dramatically beside the bike. “You’re evil for this. Like genuinely sick in the head.”

Paige didn’t even look at her. “Cardio builds character.”

“Fuck you,” Rickea shot back.

Without missing a beat, Paige mumbled, “James prolly wouldn’t fuck with that.”

Rickea blinked, caught off guard before bursting into laughter. Cam doubled over, wheezing. Even Azzi let out a surprised laugh, looking at Paige like she was discovering a new layer.

Paige barely reacted—just adjusted her ponytail, grabbed a towel, and moved on to the next station.

After the workout they settled on the turf just outside the gym, the morning sun higher in the sky now, burning off the last of the chill. Everyone was stretched out, legs extended or crossed, bottles of water in hand. The air was quiet in that satisfied, post-workout way—tired bodies, endorphins still buzzing.

Cam sat up a little straighter, eyeing Paige from across the turf. “When’s the next one?”

Paige reached for her water bottle, unscrewing the cap without looking up. “Month and a half.”

Cam blinked, clearly shocked. “That soon?”

Azzi glanced between them, eyebrows slightly raised at Cam’s tone.

“You just fought, like…two weeks ago,” Cam said, frowning now. “Why the hell are you getting back in the cage already?”

Paige took a long gulp of her water, then looked at her. “Someone challenged me.”

Cam threw her hands up. “So? You don’t have to accept every dumbass who thinks they can hang with you.”

Paige shrugged, wiping the sweat from her neck with the towel draped over her shoulder. “You know I’m not turning down a fight Cam.”

Cam shook her head, exasperated. “Jesus. One of these days, someone’s gonna call you out just to test that stubborn ass pride of yours.”

Paige didn’t flinch. “Well I’d hope they’re ready.”

Rickea, still sprawled on her back, let out a low sound. “You’re gonna give me anxiety before the playoffs.”

Azzi’s gaze lingered on Paige. “Who challenged you?”

Paige’s eyes flicked to her for a moment, then back to her water. “Some girl out of Houston. Up and comer. Had six fights—all KO or TKO apparently.”

That made Cam sit up fully, the tension tightening across her shoulders. “All six? And you still said yes?”

Paige didn’t answer, just took another sip.

“Paige,” Cam pressed, voice changing. “You can’t keep signing up for these reckless ass matchups just because someone talks shit.”

“She didn’t talk,” Paige said evenly. “She signed the contract.”

“That’s even worse,” Cam shot back. “You know how this goes. They line up someone with hype and a perfect record hoping to make a name off you. You know all they care about is the damn check.”

Paige’s jaw ticked slightly, but her voice stayed level. “Then she picked the wrong name.”

Cam blew out a breath clearly frustrated. “You act like you’re invincible—”

“I’m not,” Paige cut in, eyes lifting to meet Cam’s for the first time. Her voice didn’t rise. “I know exactly what I am. And I know exactly what I can take. So if you’re trying to talk me out of it, don’t. I’m fighting.”

The group went quiet for a moment, the air thick between them. Even Rickea wasn’t cracking a joke.

Azzi, still seated on the ground with one knee pulled up, studied Paige. Trying to figure out a fraction of what she was thinking.

Finally, Cam leaned back again with a sigh. “You’re gonna give me gray hair.”

“You already got two,” Paige mumbled, tossing her towel over her shoulder again as she got up and turned toward the house.

Rickea snorted. “She’s not wrong.”

As Paige disappeared through the sliding doors back into the house, the three basketball players sat in a loose triangle on the turk, still catching their breath.

Cam ran a hand through her hair and exhaled hard. “That girl’s gonna get herself killed one day because of fuckin pride.”

Rickea leaned back on her palms, still slightly winded. “You still think she takes fights just because of pride?”

Cam nodded without hesitation. “Absolutely. Paige would say it’s about proving something, about staying sharp, whatever—but really? She hates the idea of someone thinking they can take her. It’s like a switch flips.”

Azzi’s brows drew together slightly as she stretched her legs out in front of her. “So she’s been like that since you met her?”

“She’s not always like this,” Cam said, softer now. “She’s just a little more intense around fight time. Gets short. Coiled up like a rubber band about to snap.”

Azzi rubbed her thumb over her ankle, as she thought. “But she’s not reckless like that in the ring.”

“No,” Cam agreed. “She’s calculated as hell. She’s just competitive to a fault. Wants to win everything.”

Rickea snorted. “Honestly, sounds familiar.”

Azzi tilted her head. “To who?”

Rickea smirked. “To you.”

Azzi gave her a look but didn’t argue, just rolled her eyes. After a second her eyes lingered on the house where Paige had disappeared.

The three of them sat there stretching for a few more minutes but as they started packing up, Cam stood and stretched, wincing a little. “Damn, I forgot to grab the protein bars I have in there. They're in the kitchen by the fridge—Az, can you grab 'em? If I go in there it’ll be World War III.”

Azzi glanced at her, then at the house. “Sure.”

She wiped her face with a towel and walked across the backyard, slipping inside the house. The interior was just as modern and minimal as she expected—clean lines, neutral tones, cool air against her skin. The kitchen was easy to spot, but what caught her attention first was Paige, standing at the sink with her back to the room, filling a glass with water.

Azzi paused not wanting to scare her before realizing how ridiculous that sounded. Instead she decided to announce her presence by speaking. “You always put people through hell and act like it doesn’t faze you?”

Paige didn’t look over. “Would’ve gone easier if you stretched more than you looked at me.”

Azzi tilted her head and smiled. “Maybe you’re interesting to look at.”

Paige drank from her glass, then set it down. “I have blonde hair and blue eyes. You can find that all over LA.”

“It’s more interesting when it comes with a side of asshole.”

That earned her a small huff—it was the closest thing to a laugh she’d gotten. Paige still didn’t smile.

Azzi crossed the kitchen, leaning against the counter directly across from her. “Do you purposefully not smile?”

Paige looked at her. “Yes.”

“So what’s that about?”

Paige held her gaze. “Every facial expression’s a tell in fighting. So I try to control em when I can.”

“I’m gonna get you to crack a smile eventually.”

Paige raised an eyebrow, finally giving her a full look. “Why?”

Azzi shrugged, the corners of her mouth tugging up. “Because I think it’d look good on you and I like looking at pretty women.”

Paige stared at her for a moment, unreadable as ever. Then she pushed off the counter and turned toward the hallway. “Tell my sister to lock the door on the way out.”

She didn’t wait for a response.

Azzi just smiled before finally grabbing what she came in there for.

#pazzi #paige x azzi #pazzi fics

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prael · 1 year ago

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Newjeans Hanni smut (M reader) - the title is a hint to the TW.

6.6k words

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It didn't happen through a cliché.

Well, maybe it did, but not one of those where she's stuck head-first into some kitchen appliance or something of that ilk, though you would say this really did happen by accident.

What? She tripped, fell, landed on your dick?

Not quite like that, but the point still stands. You didn't begin that day, or even that evening, intending to fuck your step-sister, but, well…

"My apartment. My TV. My choice," you told her, as you have so many times before.

"But this film is supposed to be the best. It's got great reviews. Dani loved it..." Hanni was talking far too fast to even really pay attention. She soon started reeling off a cast list and everyone involved, and how this review called it a revelation to the genre, but you had long since started ignoring her. You know how she gets. Excitable beyond the point that someone normally would be. It's an endearing trait, if not also annoying. The rundown of her reasons was cut short as she threw her body at you in attack.

"Hanni! What are you—"

"Just gimme the controller already!" She shouted right into your ear as she threw her arms over your shoulders. You held it out in front of you, keeping her behind your back so her arms couldn't reach; not that it stopped her from trying. "Just one time. Please? Pretty pretty please?"

You climbed up from the sofa. Hanni clung to your back like a young panda, with her legs locked tight around your waist and her arms still fumbling around. You grabbed her by the ankle, trying to pry it away so you could drop her, or something, anything other than letting her continue. "Alright fine. Just let go, you idiot. You’re going to tear my arm off."

She loosened her hold, just enough for you to swing her around; one arm and leg slipping free so you could throw her onto the couch. In your flailing she managed to take the TV remote with her, but the moment of peace, of silence, of satisfaction in hearing your idiot sister bounce against the cushions before breaking into a laugh and asking, "what the hell was that for?"

"What did I ever do to deserve the step-sister from hell?" You said as you flopped down at the opposite end of the couch.

"Have a mother hot enough that my dad wanted to fu—"

"You're sick." You cut her off before she finished. She smirked, lifting her sock-clad feet onto the sofa and settling in for movie night. She brought her knees up below her chin and started flicking through the options on the screen to find the one she wanted. Her eyes were wide in her stare, her lower lip bitten. It was pretty much the last time you ever looked at her in this innocent way again.

It was another one of those shitty horror flicks. The kind that didn't even slightly live up to the billing she gave it before. This, however, was Hanni's thing—whenever she convinced you, or otherwise, to finally give up control of your TV, she would put on one of these cheap horror movies and spend the whole night tucked behind a cushion.

As much as you tried for it not to be, it's become something of a ritual, pretty much any night that she was at home, and not unbelievably tired from being overworked and didn't have to be up at the break of dawn.

It's your acceptance of things like that which really showed how much the two of you had grown. You remember fighting for your life against your mother and stepfather to not have to take her in. Convinced that if she wanted to move into the city so badly, she could get her own place, or go to one of those company dorms. Ultimately, you were made to see reason. Your apartment is close to her company, and you had a spare room, after all.

Not that she ever stopped annoying you beyond belief.

The movie, if you could call it that, had you fall into a slumber, and when you woke up Hanni had crawled across the length of the couch and was laid against you, her arms wrapping one of your own. She didn't even realise you had woken up, staring as the credits rolled with a slight, peaceful smile on her face.

She had tied her hair up by now into a ponytail, pulling the hair away from her mostly bare shoulder, where the thin strap of her cropped pyjama top rested. As you peeked down at her, your eyes accidentally fell on the space down her top. It wasn't your fault; they were just right there.

"Shit..." you muttered, catching Hanni's attention.

"Still alive there?" She chuckled a little as she gently patted her palm against your cheek. You feigned a yawn and shut your eyes, settling your head against the pillow once more.

"Hanni, put something else on. This movie is dumb."

"You fell asleep after like ten minutes."

"Yeah, and it seems it didn't take long for you to use me as a body pillow."

Hanni pursed her lips. A red flush ran through her cheeks, and then she quickly sat up. You were watching her the whole time through half-open eyes, chuckling under your breath at her reaction.

"You're an idiot," she says. "Always have been."

You shrugged in reply, "And you're easy to tease, always will be."

"Asshole." She kicked at you.

She tried to kick again, and you caught her foot. You held her bare leg in the air and then lightly kicked her back, hitting her thigh.

"Let go! I'll kick you again. Asshole!" She shouted at you, again and again, struggling to break her foot free from your hand. When you finally let her go, all her struggles made her stumble off the couch. As she went, you kicked out again, this time catching her right on the ass. "Ah! Fuck be careful you hit my plu—" She brought her hands right to her mouth when she realised what she was saying.

"Your what?" You asked.

Hanni cleared her throat, blushing to the point of matching the colour of her red short shorts. "Nothing."

She turned away from you. Just standing there. There's a part of you that wishes that you could go back to this moment. You would have left it there and gone to bed—never kicking her a third time.

But you did it.

Your foot flicked gently against her ass a final time and you felt it. Something hard tucked between the softness of her cheeks. She yelped again. You pinpoint this moment as the catalyst for everything that followed. It’s the part where her innocent image crumbled before your eyes and that’s what allowed you to do what you did. Though really, can you ever be sure that if it didn’t happen now, it wouldn’t have just happened the next day, or next week, or a few months down the line? You tell yourself it was inevitable.

"Is that what I think it is?"

She spun around, facing you once more, trying to muster something. She stumbled over and stuttered her words. "No! I... it's not mine. Minji loaned me one for... just to try... it's not." She held the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes. "This is... oh, god. This is so embarrassing."

Hanni slumped back onto the sofa and pressed a cushion tight against her face. "Why'd you loan it?" You ask her, only to see her tighten her grip.

"Because."

"Because what?" You sat up by her side and said something that at the time you thought would make it better, but looking back, probably came off rather creepy. "I clean your room, Hanni. I have seen worse things."

Hanni slowly dropped the cushion into her lap and looked at you with a glare. "The fuck?"

"And if you're going to use my laptop, try deleting the history." At this point, you were just piling on the embarrassment.

"Fuck! Oh my God, what did you see?" She threw the cushion into your face.

You picked it out of the air. "Nothing." You lied.

"Bullshit!" Hanni swore. "Did you see everything?"

"Nothing at all..." you said sarcastically while standing up. "I definitely didn't see all the step-brother porn you were binging last week."

She screamed and jumped up. You threw the pillow to stop her and stepped out of reach. "I hate you! You freak!" she shouted, cheeks burning red as the fury rose within her.

"Says the chick wearing a buttplug." You taunted her again as you darted across the room away from her.

"What happened to boundaries!?" She lunged at you again, and you quickly sidestepped her.

She tried jumping at you once more and missed, only to strike her knee against the corner of the coffee table. She hopped back on one leg with the pain.

"You're an asshole, you know that!?" she shouted, holding onto her knee. You stepped closer, thinking she was really hurt. Until she used the chance to lunge at you and grab you. "What's wrong with a girl enjoying some fantasy? Not like I want to actually fuck you."

You realise now that the proper thing to do would have been to match her disgust. Tell her something along the lines of how the thought repulses you. Continued to tease her about how fucked it is that she would even look at that sort of stuff. The whole thing could have dissolved, but it's when she had hold of you, hammering her fist into your arm, that you said, "don't you?"

Then the long silence ensued. The one that said a hundred unspoken words. As her punches turned into light taps and then to her just holding onto your upper arm. She looked up at you with her pretty eyes open wide. Her lips parted slightly and the tip of her tongue rested on the bottom one as if she had something to say, but the words wouldn't come.

That's the first time you kissed her. Your own step-sister, a girl who should be off-limits in every conceivable way. Yet she opened her mouth and accepted you in that moment. The taste was so sickly sweet.

It was brief, but it told you everything you needed to know, and everything seemed to spiral from there.

First, there was the confusion. The immediate aftermath where you both let go of each other to turn away. Your backs turned on one another as the awkwardness reached its peak. Neither of you was willing to confess the enjoyment of that little exchange.

Then came the passing of the blame. First, it was Hanni who turned to you with a "What the fuck are you doing?"

And you replied with "Me!? You're the one who kissed me!"

She scoffed and shouted a response, "That was all you! Stop being such a perv, freak!" Hanni stomped past you towards her room, face half-full of anger and topped off with shame.

"I'm the perv? You're the one who I hear moan through the walls while, apparently, watching step-brother porn! I think that makes you the messed up one!” you called after her.

A pause. The hesitation. The possibility of confession. She reached her door, and it flew open. In she walked before slamming it closed with a, "you're sick!"

You stared at the door and vainly said under your breath, "you're the sick one." In your head you had realised the real truth to that; how maybe you're both sick because, as the dust settled, you can only think about a handful of things.

The kiss. Her ass. Her cute little tits.

You didn't see her again for the rest of the evening. She reserved herself to her room, while you resigned to the couch with nothing but the television keeping you company.

It had been a long time since you had a shouting match like that with Hanni. See, it used to happen all the time when she first moved in. The problem with a girl like her whose whole world revolves around singing, dancing, media training and beauty is that she lacks any sense of what it's like to be an independent adult. It seemed like the fights would never end, on account of her being seemingly incapable of washing a dish, her clothes or even cooking the most simple of things without burning it or setting something on fire.

But this? This is uncharted territory.

The night wound down, and you were headed to bed, but you found yourself outside her door. Your hand raised, ready to knock. Your breath held. Right when you finally built enough courage is when you heard it. Heard her. Moans muffled through the wood of her door. Your stomach knotted. Your groin twitches.

You lingered, unable to tear yourself away. Even as your logical side began arguing with you that you were in the wrong. That you're probably the worst sort of pervert imaginable and you should feel nothing but guilt.

The other voice, the more confident one; the devil on your shoulder told you that it's Hanni's fault. You had just warned her, and this is what she did in response, like it’s all some sort of game. You refused to admit to yourself that hearing her groaning, whimpering, and moaning through the wall influenced you—tempted you.

Louder and louder. Her voice raised higher, getting to the point where you knew she was practically screaming in the throes of pleasure. Harder and harder you grew. The rational side of you was saying that you should ignore it. Just go to sleep. Forget about it.

"Fuck!" she moaned, and you remained, listening through the door—lost in imagination.

Then you heard footsteps. Bare feet patting on wooden flooring coming closer and closer towards the door. A rush to retreat and you slipped toward your bedroom door. You barely reach the handle before the door across the hall opens.

There was a moment. The two of you locked eyes. Every fibre in your being fought against looking down.

"What?" she asked with a stone-cold expression.

"Nothing." You said, and your willpower broke. You glanced down. Completely naked, she stands at the door, her nipples peaked to fine little tips. And your gaze drifted down her soft curves and slender figure, her wide hips and full thighs.

"Nothing," she mocks.

Her eyes glanced down for a second, then back to your face, and her gaze narrowed. You panicked, dipped into your room and slammed the door just like she did earlier. You press your back to it, the cool wood against your burning body. Your mind raced.

Her feet slapped again against the wooden floor and headed toward the bathroom. That should have been that. You slipped into your bed, frustrated and confused. The sound of the shower running quickly drifted through the walls, but her cries from earlier replayed in your mind until you fell asleep.

That should have been that.

You woke to the darkness of the room—not the morning sunshine—sometime later. Half in a haze, not quite conscious yet, but something had roused you from your slumber: a movement under the sheets and a strange sensation. Warm and damp. Your eyes flicked open, adjusting to the darkness. Your hands jerked reflexively toward your groin and then your senses sharpened.

Someone between your legs. A warm and wet something sliding up and down the shaft of your hardness. Tongue? Yeah, a tongue. Your fingers reached and buried themself into hair. Stomach muscles spasmed as your hips thrust up on their own. Your lips parted as you moaned, "Fuck."

You glanced down.

Hanni.

Naked.

The tip of your cock at her mouth, lips pursed around it. Her smiling eyes sparkled and her skin glimmered, bathed in moonlight coming through the open curtains. Hanni giggled when your eyes met. Your hand dropped to her shoulder.

"Hanni..." Your throat choked dry, and you pushed at her shoulder.

"Shhh." The word whispered against your sensitive tip.

"What the hell are you..." You tried to ask, but Hanni shook her head before sucking in a breath. Then she drew the length of your cock into her warm, wet mouth and the question escaped you. "Holy shit," you gasped.

"This can be our dirty little secret," she said when she lifted her head, fingers stroking you. "We can pretend it didn’t happen in the morning, but for the rest of the night," her finger tickled down the underside of your cock as she spoke, "it can be as real as you want it to be."

You remember being convinced that it was a dream. Maybe one that you would wake up from with a mess in your shorts and, honestly, that probably would have been bad enough—having a wet dream about your step-sister. Reality intruded and threatened to drag you back from your delusion. Hanni took you into her mouth again and it was so very real.

There was no doubting the pleasure, and it was too good to make her stop. You took your hand away from her shoulder, allowing her to do as she pleased. Maybe if it was just a dream, you could allow yourself to indulge in the madness just one time…

"Fucking hell, Hanni." The words slipped from you, and with it, her warm mouth left your throbbing cock.

You peered down at her. She wiped the drool from the sides of her lips and smiled at you. Her eyes were wide as she lowered her head and slipped your dick into her warm mouth once more. Your body jolted as she put her tongue to work. She swirled the tip along the contours and ridges, then licked down the underside of the shaft and then right back up the top, leaving a thin film of saliva on your hardness.

She clasped her hand around you and it all felt far too real. Mixed emotions. There was a cold sense of terror in your heart, even with the heat of arousal radiating all over. The things she did with her lips and her tongue made you doubt your sanity.

"Does that feel good?" She said as she took a quick pause, stroking her hand along the full length. She had just caught her breath in the one moment where she stopped sucking, the first chance where her mouth wasn't busy trying to draw the soul out of you through the tip of your cock.

"You were right." She spoke almost as quickly as your mind spun. "About... the step-brother thing. It feels sick, and gross, and... wrong. It makes me feel dirty." Hanni pauses for a second, seemingly running her eyes over your body and then asks, "how depraved does it make me that it gets me really, really horny?"

Hanni had no clue that the same thoughts filled the back of your mind. Only that you weren't able to string it into words like she did. She was right. It felt really wrong, and yet there was a rush to do something that should never be done. This was where the next step began. The breaking of the boundaries. The perverse excitement in the face of the taboo.

Her hand reached out behind her and pulled back the sheets that covered her body. She was crouched between your spread legs, head still by your cock, her soft ass in the air. The cool light from the moon kissed her skin as she slowly slipped her fingers between her plump cheeks. "And this only made it worse. I've been so horny ever since I started wearing it."

Her hand moved slightly, just out of view behind her, and she let out a breathy moan.

"Hanni. What're you—

You're interrupted. "It hurt a little at first. Just a bit but you get used to it, and if it's in a good spot, if you hit it right..." She kept touching herself in front of you, and another breathy gasp escaped her lips and then she looked up at you still lying there. "What are you waiting for? Isn't this what you want?"

That's when you stirred. Reciprocated. You sat up and she rose to meet you. In seconds, you were embracing. Frenzied. Wild. All teeth and tongues and roaming hands. Shorter than you. So much smaller. She let out a yelp when you grabbed her, though she instantly silenced it by shoving her tongue back in your mouth and kissing you deeply.

Pressed against your bare chest, her breasts felt small but supple, perfect little handfuls. Her waist is slender beneath your grasp. The thick flesh of her thighs was so full and shapely. When she opened her eyes, they had such want. Lust—pure and undeniable.

So close, and the faint whimpers at her throat are a seduction. You felt it was an invitation, and your lips kissed her chin, trailing kisses down her neck. "Yes. Yes. Yes..." she encouraged you lower. Your tongue tasted the saltiness of her skin, teeth grazing and then pinching softly. Her arms were tight around your head, nails biting into the base of your neck.

She trembled at your every caress, shook each time you teased a pert nipple. Gasped louder each time you nibbled her collarbone. You turned, lifting her, and then she fell back and presented herself to you. Her legs splayed open and her bare, wet cunt dripping, begging you to take it, but...

"No," you told yourself, "it's too fast," and you began a line of kisses down her stomach, beginning at her cleavage and trailing straight down her stomach. The muscles beneath her pale skin twitched and clenched in response and her breath had gone erratic. You reached her belly button and she hooked her legs over your shoulder, and when you dipped further she clenched her thighs and squeezed as you toyed with her.

You remember savouring the moment. Savouring the pleasure, savouring the veniality.

"Lower, please," she begged in the most needy voice. "Please, I... fuck, oh, fuck please..."

It's hard to describe it all.

Somehow, in the night, you both reached a state of understanding. A state of consensual debauchery that came with a sense of agreement; a pact signed with tongue on skin in this moment of depravity.

You kissed her, playfully moving between her legs. Thigh to thigh, to dangerously close to her wet core, and there you lingered. The air grew humid. Hanni's sweet scent filled your nose. You ran your hands up her legs and felt the warmth in your palms. She gripped onto the hair at the top of your head; her fists tightened.

"Why're you teasing me, asshole?"

Hanni's moans grew louder and more needy when you used your tongue against her. Her legs wrapped tight, hooking behind your back. There was something satisfying about her reactions to your actions, something exciting about seeing her squirm.

The tip of your tongue ran up the lips of her cunt, dipping between the fleshy folds and coming to suck upon her swollen clit. Her eyes widened at the touch, and her jaw slacked to the point her words went incoherent. Her whole body spasmed as she arched and moaned out something filthy.

One moment you had hold of her thigh, feeling her clench up and quiver, the next you found that your fingers had moved downward and pressed against her slick opening. At the slight touch of your fingertips to the tenderness there, a short cry slipped out of her again. She tightened and clenched around them as you pushed in deeper.

"Who's teasing?" you asked before you buried yourself to the knuckles in her.

A smirk formed, and Hanni was about to speak, but no words came. You pumped her at a steady pace, curling your digits within her while lapping at her clit. The taste of sin never tasted so sweet.

The combination drove her insane, and it didn’t take long until you were on the verge of making your step-sister cum.

You wrapped your lips around that swollen nub of hers and flicked it with the tip of your tongue, faster and harder, until her many moans became one, long, drawn-out and passionate, as a climax rocked through her.

Her ass lifted off the bed and her legs quivered, shaking uncontrollably while her fingers tugged painfully at the hairs on the back of your head. She jerked and gasped with a look of ecstasy on her face as she moaned your name over and over, almost reaching a scream. Your name on her lips again, and again, and you were drunk on this euphoria.

She released your head, and you postured over her, still slipping a pair of fingers into her, but slower. She drew a deep, trembling sigh and forced a smile, watching you. "I hate you," she managed.

"Do you?" you asked as you drew your cum-soaked fingers out of her. Her legs rested on your hips and the underside of your stiff cock was against her pussy. You reached around her hip, to her ass, to the plug still sat between her cheeks. Hanni hissed at your touch, biting her lip at the sensation.

"Yes. I hate you," Hanni whimpered, giving the softest moans as you tugged on the metal. Her eyelids fluttered.

"Why?" you asked.

"I just do," Hanni weakly gasped, struggling to stay strong in the moment. "You make me feel things. Things I shouldn't feel. It shouldn't be this easy."

"In that case. I hate you too, sis'."

There was this moment after you said that, where you shared a stare. Maybe the most confusing stare of your life. Calling her sis', in this position, should have been horrifying. And it was, but only at a peripheral level. Otherwise, it felt surprisingly... hot.

You dipped into her for another kiss, and this one seemed ever more ravenous than the last. You kissed with hunger and her hand ran around the back of your head. Kissed as lovers would. She was just as aroused as you and eager for more.

Slow and soft, you rocked yourself against her wetness. Your length dragged between her lips, up over her clit, and down again to poke at her entrance. You moved over and over, enjoying the tease.

The slow, sticky friction between the two of you. Her breath was sharp, as you slipped yourself over her and kissed at her neck. Every rock of your hips, she ground back against you.

"I think..." She hesitated. "Fuck. I think I'm ready. Just... go slow?"

The guilt of what's happened was a distant thing, a buzzing fly on a summer afternoon. The kind of thing that when you're so enthralled by something else, it becomes invisible. Then, with a nod and a shivering sigh, she reached down and gripped your cock. You bent back from kissing her so she could guide you.

Her tiny cunt. Her beautiful wetness. Her forbidden, decadent treasure.

Her breath was shaky. Her next words came out amid a tremble, "I've never... No one else."

You brushed stray strands of hair out of her face and ran your hand over her cheek. You gave her the reassurance she needed.

She told you, a few weeks later, how grateful she was that it was you. See, for all the filth that ran through her mind on an almost daily basis, she never imagined what it would be like. It being you—who you are and everything you meant to her—made it easy. Natural. Wonderful.

That first time, you took it all so slow. With her legs raised over yours. Watching the subtle changes in expression as you gradually moved more and more of your cock into her. Sinking deep between her pink, delicate walls. Your step-sister, panting and squirming beneath you.

"You okay?" you asked her.

"Ah... yes. This is... I love it," she responded between whining breaths.

It was just enough, the reassurance, so you could push into her the rest of the way. Her hand found its way to your shoulder; bracing as you eased in, her delicate frame tensing as you buried fully.

You watched her reaction and tried to be still as you felt her slick cunt pulse around you, wanting you. She swallowed and gripped you with the muscles within her. The second of respite didn't last long though; you weren't sure if it was a request or accident when her feet tapped against the curve of your ass, but it prompted you to fuck her.

"Feels... fuck." You sucked your breath between your teeth and braced yourself up on a shaky arm. You drew out slowly, and you noticed her nails digging into the arm you supported yourself upon.

You groaned in relief more than anything else as your hips pumped the shallow strokes that sent electricity through your body. She started pushing herself onto you as she clutched your back, drawing her heels over the small of your spine. You looked down to see her eyelids were flickering, and the sight only served to inflame you more. Her moans were so erotic and encouraging.

That first time, it was special. You took your time together to explore each other's bodies, the curves of hips, the muscles, the valleys and ridges. You caressed your stepsister's gorgeous body and then tried your best to put her through another climax, as if your efforts to reach your own were less important.

"Fuck you're so tight," you told her, during those final thrusts, buried to the hilt in her tiny, soft pussy.

She spoke, her voice weak and shuddering, "You're big... inside me..."

The fact that she held you tighter in her embrace and how it seemed that she refused to let you out of her even as she came apart was telling.

She came that night, again, this time all over your cock. The first of many times to come. A string of incomprehensible cries erupted from her in the throes of that first proper fuck. Hanni's thighs flexed around your hips. She clung desperately to your body as she cried into your mouth as she climaxed.

Not long after is when you felt it too, that impending release. A coil of pressure. Unfamiliar and intense. The mere thought of emptying inside her drove you mad. Your fingers dug into her hips as you fucked your step-sister with complete abandon.

"Don't. Not inside. Please, not inside," she murmured in an incoherent mantra of guilt and pleasure, right next to your ear.

You didn't, of course. You drove yourself right to the edge and pulled out. Her juices coated your length, slick and wet as your cock twitched in anticipation of the final moments. Hanni wanted your release as badly as you did. She took you into her hand for the finish, gripping tightly and jerking that first hot shot of cum onto her soft tummy. You thrust through her hand to let the pleasure course through you. Each thrust sent a long rope splattering onto her naked skin as she grinned up at you, flushed and sweaty, covered in your lust.

That was the first night, but definitely not the last.

The next morning arrived with Hanni in your arms—the little spoon. The little naked spoon pressed against your body. Skin to skin. She woke you with the slow rocking motion of her body, grinding her plump cheeks against you.

"I could get used to this," she whispered under her breath, smiling against the crook of your arm. "Good morning," she said to you over her shoulder. "Sleep well? You had some pretty naughty dreams last night, didn't you?"

You responded with your erection growing against the warm crevice of her butt and a gentle hum as her ass rocked over it. That was no dream. "I did," you said groggily. "As naughty as yours."

"Mmmm," is all she had as a response, lost in the pleasant distraction, grinding herself back into you even more. As she did so, you grew harder, until your stiffness pressed against the plug still wedged into her ass. Hanni had left it there overnight. "The thing about dreams is that they're easy to forget. Want to remind me of mine?"

You ran your hand down her thigh, and that's how the second time started. You caressed her flesh for a while, feeling the softness of her thighs while she silently lay there, patiently allowing you to enjoy her.

Then, you grabbed her by the knee, opening her legs and then she spoke, "Are you going to make your step-sister cum again?"

So quickly did she become so utterly shameless. You grunted in reply and then you held her leg up by hooking under the knee, and shuffled down slightly, letting your hard cock slip from between her cheeks and go between her legs.

You closed your eyes and leaned into her. Lips at her shoulders, the kisses soon trailed to her neck. She hummed as you ground your cock between her folds. Not even putting in the effort to try to actually enter her just yet, just teasing your stepsister for the moment.

Her voice filled with the sweet sound of passion.

Your heart began pounding and a flush rose to your cheeks. You could have written that first night off as a mistake. One you would regret, forget and never make again. Not after this. This is a definitive choice. One of sound mind and body, not under the tension of an argument or anything else that happened before.

This is different.

Hanni reached her hand down between her legs, pulling your cock so it would slip into her when you shift your hips. "Fuck me," she begged.

You did. You slipped inside her and heard her moan in such sweet ecstasy. She gripped the pillow she slept on the night before, burying her face in it, and moaning into it in such sweet rapture. "Fuck, yes, harder," Hanni moaned.

When she pushed her hips back onto you, her ass brushed against your belly. The rhythm began. Slow. Lazy thrusts. Enjoying every sensation in the post-sleep haze, savouring the fact that you knew how good she felt on the inside. How incredible her wet, silky, tight depths felt when you slid in and out of them.

"Is this what you wanted?" Your voice is low, near a growl. Your arms around your step-sister. It shouldn't, by all accounts, feel natural to have her like that, but it did.

"Yes, it feels incredible. Please don't stop." Your cock bottomed out within her. As deep as you could go. You groaned, and stayed there for a while, feeling your stepsister clenching down, her inner walls trying to pull you in further.

Hanni's hands gripped at the bedsheets, clutching tightly to them. The position pressed the metal of the plug between her asscheeks, and as your thrusting continued, the sensation sent a tingle through her body. It was a filthy combination. One that allowed every stroke you drove into her cunt to simultaneously send an equally blissful shock straight into her ass.

It was madness for her to indulge in the ecstasy—for both of you to lose yourselves.

You grew faster, and she unwound completely. She grew limp as she reached her climax. She couldn't even grip the bedsheets, or the pillow, her body simply submitting to the pleasure. She merely lay there as your hips battered against her soft ass, fucking her right through it.

Then she asked you, right after it subsided, "Ever fantasised about cumming on my ass before?"

The way she asked that made the question feel almost normal. "That the sort of thing they do in the porn you watch?" You slowed for a bit to deliver the tease.

Hanni couldn't keep the shy smile from creeping across her lips. "There was this one video where a guy put it all over his sister's butt. Seemed like he really liked it."

The fact she talked to you about the dirty things she likes helped it all along. It was the extent of her experience, the videos, but it helped. What it told you about what she really likes, what she enjoys... It became the basis for all your dirty experiments.

"That sounds hot. You have a cute ass."

She giggled to herself, rolling her hips, getting up onto her hands and knees and facing away from you.

You seated yourself onto your calves, giving her space and watching as she turned, giving you the view you craved. "I do?" She said as she glanced back over her shoulder, showing her innocence and naïvete in all its splendour. Her eyes sparkled and then a smile spread over her lips to match that look in her eye.

"The cutest," you told her as you kneeled behind her. One hand caressed the outside of her thigh while the other gripped the base of your cock. Eyes firmly set on that beautiful plump ass. That was the second time in just a few hours that you covered Hanni in your cum.

She watched every second as you did, barely managing a blink. Arousal and delight danced over her features in equal measure, and your name left her tongue in the form of a delightful, drawn-out groan. The effect was very apparent. With every streak and ribbon of white landing, she gasped and moaned while staring at the mess.

From that moment on, you entered regularity. It seemed like for months, every chance the two of you got to fuck, you fucked. Her room. Your room. The shower. The sofa. The kitchen. Against that window that overlooks the city's skyline. A public bathroom. A hand job in the car while you're stuck in traffic. Riding your face in a park, hidden among trees, grass, and bushes. Fucking, kissing, and biting until the both of you are exhausted and sore and dripping with sweat. It never ceased. Two insatiable appetites. Your mutual loss of control continued. The affair felt so exhilarating. An explosion of forbidden sin in an otherwise normal existence.

It all came with its fair share of close calls. That Saturday morning surprise visit from your parents where you answered their knock at the door and they invited themselves in, all while Hanni lies naked in your bedroom. How you sneakily warned her before she emerged and spun the story to them both about how she slept on your floor out of fear after watching another one of her horror movies. They bought it, of course, because they couldn't imagine there being any other explanation.

Then there was Hanni's near miss with her group. She told you all about how Minji had picked up on how something had changed with her; about how convinced Minji was that Hanni had found herself a boyfriend. About the look Minji gave her as Hanni protested, and finally how she got away with a half-truth.

She told the girls it was because of you and how you would work out together on weekends to make her feel better.

Everything was going so well, which made this week even more confusing.

It's been days since you last saw her. The longest you have gone in some time. Long hours and staying over with her members are one thing. Going days with no word or anything at all is another. She ignored your texts, never returned your calls, and stopped showing up at home like you'd come to expect.

No warning.

Nothing.

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