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cressidagrey · 15 hours ago

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White Horse - Chapter 31: September 2024 - Part 2

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes:

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Text Messages: Alexandra Saint-Mleux & Belle Verstappen

Alexandra:

Hey Belle! We were thinking of doing a little shopping on Saturday — nothing serious, just wandering and coffee. Charlotte, Pascale and I. Thought you might want to come with?

I saw the cutest new baby boutique near Place d’Armes and I thought of you We could make a day of it? Lunch, tea, little outfits?

Belle:

That sounds really lovely But I’m going to have to pass this time Still healing from my impromptu dive through the shower door 🙃

Alexandra:

Wait—are you okay?? Charles mentioned something but he was vague and grumpy and I couldn’t tell if it was real or guilt-induced hallucination

Belle:

Real 😅 Slipped in the shower earlier this week Sprained my wrist, bruised my knees Nothing serious, but not exactly in boutique-ready shape

Alexandra:

Oh my god Belle We really need to teach your family how to communicate I’m glad you’re okay — that sounds terrifying

Belle:

It was a little scary, yeah But I’m okay. The baby’s okay. And Max has already ordered approximately seventeen non-slip mats and now refers to the bathroom as a “hazard zone”

Alexandra:

I love that for him And by “love” I mean he’s the only man I know who’d install childproofing six months early

Belle:

It makes him feel better

Alexandra:

When you’re up for it, let me know I’ll bribe you with pastries and matching lion onesies

Belle:

Deal Just give me a few more days until my knees don’t scream when I wear pants

Alexandra:

I’ll start assembling a pastry lineup And if you need anything, let me know. I mean it. Anything.

***

Alexandra reached for another croissant and laughed at something Lorenzo said about Arthur’s latest failed attempt to cook risotto. The late sun poured in through the windows, the kitchen full of warmth and weekend ease.

“…anyway, Belle sounded fine when I talked to her,” Alexandra said, casually. “Still bruised, but she said the baby’s doing great and Max is being sweet about it.”

There was a sudden beat of silence.

Pascale slowly set down her espresso cup.

“…bruise?” she asked. “What bruise?”

Alexandra blinked. “Oh—Belle’s knees. And her wrist. From the fall.”

Pascale’s brows pulled together. “Fall?”

And just like that, the air in the room changed.

Lorenzo stiffened slightly beside her.

Alexandra faltered. “Oh—sorry, I thought… I assumed you knew. It happened last week? She slipped in the shower. Sprained her wrist. Charles took her to the hospital.”

Pascale stared at her, expression rapidly shifting from confusion to alarm. “Hospital?”

“Yes, but she and the baby are fine—”

“She went to the hospital and nobody told me?”

Alexandra’s eyes went wide. “I—God, I really thought someone would’ve said something—”

“She’s pregnant,” Pascale snapped, standing abruptly. “She fell, she was injured, and I had to hear it from you over brunch like it’s some passing anecdote?”

“Maman,” Lorenzo said cautiously, “calm down—”

“No! Don’t you dare tell me to calm down. My daughter ends up in a hospital and I’m the last to know?!”

Alexandra looked mortified. “I’m so sorry, Pascale. I didn’t mean—”

Lorenzo sighed heavily. “She asked us not to tell you. She didn’t want to worry you.”

“Oh, now she’s protecting me?” Pascale snapped, voice cracking with emotion. ��Is that what I am now? Too fragile to know my own daughter’s hurt?”

Alexandra murmured, “She really is okay. She said the baby’s heartbeat was strong. That Max was with her—”

“She fell in the shower,” Pascale repeated, voice rising. “Sprained her wrist. Bruised her knees. And none of you thought I deserved to know?!”

Charles winced from his place on the arm of the couch, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Maman, please—”

“Don’t ‘Maman, please’ me, Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc,” Pascale snapped, whipping around to glare at him.

Lorenzo let out a low whistle from behind his glass of wine. “Full name. That’s it. We’re done for.”

Arthur, stretched across the other couch like a teenager on parole, muttered, “We’ve hit DEFCON 3.”

Pascale rounded on them next. “You all lied to me.”

“We omitted,” Lorenzo offered weakly. “That’s different.”

Arthur propped his head up on one hand. “Because we knew you’d do this.”

“What is this? Concern?” she demanded, voice cracking. “She’s pregnant. She fell. She could’ve hit her head. What if she’d been alone longer? What if she’d blacked out? What if something had happened to the baby?”

“She’s okay,” Charles said, trying to soothe, though his voice was hoarse. “I took her to the hospital. The doctor said—”

“The doctor said,” Pascale repeated mockingly, tears shining in her eyes. “You think that’s the point?”

Silence fell like a hammer.

“You know,” she continued, quieter now but no less furious, “every time one of you gets hurt, I go insane. Every single time.”

“Oh, trust me,” Arthur muttered, “we know.”

“Remember when I had the flu and you called the ambulance?” Lorenzo added.

“Or when I twisted my ankle karting and you made soup for three weeks?” Arthur said.

“Because I care!” Pascale cried. “Because I’m your mother!”

“Exactly!” Charles snapped. “That’s why she didn’t want to tell you!”

Pascale went still. Her chest rose and fell, sharp with emotion.

“She didn’t want to tell me?” she repeated, quieter now. “Why?”

Arthur sat up straighter, finally looking serious. “It wasn’t about you. She just... she didn’t want it to be a thing.”

“She’s had a hard time. Because of us,” Lorenzo said gently. “And she’s trying to handle it. On her own terms.”

“She’s still figuring out how to let us in again,” Charles added, voice rough. “She didn’t want to be fussed over.”

Pascale’s eyes filled again. She stood in the center of the room like something fragile pretending to be furious.

“I would’ve helped,” she said softly. “I want to help.”

Charles stepped forward. “Then call her. Ask how she is. Not what happened. Just... how she is.”

Pascale hesitated, then nodded once. She turned, walked into the kitchen, and quietly dialed.

***

Belle’s phone lit up on the bedside table, buzzing once with a call.

MAMAN.

She stared at it. Sighed.

From the other side of the room, Max looked up from where he was folding one of the soft little onesies Belle had already started nesting with.

“Did you do something?” he asked.

Belle raised an eyebrow. “Apparently.”

“Should I leave the room?”

She stared at the phone a second longer, then picked it up and slid her thumb across the screen.

“No,” she said, already bringing it to her ear. “But you might want to take cover.”

“Belle?” Pascale’s voice came through the phone, already too tender. Too heavy.

Belle leaned her head back against the pillows, letting her eyes close. “Hi, Maman.”

“I just heard,” Pascale said, and Belle could hear it — the unshed tears, the guilt, the panic clamped down behind manners. “Chéri, why didn’t you tell me?”

Belle paused. “Because I knew you’d sound exactly like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’d died,” Belle said, not unkindly.

A breath caught on the other end of the line.

“I slipped,” Belle added. “The tiles were wet. It’s not a crime.”

“You’re pregnant.”

“I’m also not made of glass.”

Pascale was quiet for a long moment.

“I’m your mother.”

“I know.”

“I want to help.”

Belle hesitated, eyes flicking across the room to where Max was still folding tiny socks, very deliberately pretending not to listen. His eyes flicked to hers. Steady. Warm. A silent I’m here.

“You can,” Belle said at last. “But only if it’s actually about me. Not about how bad you feel. Not about how guilty everyone else should be. Just me. Just now.”

The silence that followed was thick with understanding.

Then Pascale said, “Okay.”

It wasn’t much. But it was real.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, gentler now. “Truly.”

Belle exhaled. “Sore. Tired. My knees look like I lost a fight with a staircase. And Max has started hiding the cleaning supplies like I’m a safety hazard.”

Pascale let out a soft, wet laugh. “That sounds about right.”

“I sprained my wrist,” Belle added. “But the baby’s fine. He kicked my cereal bowl of the bump this morning.”

Pascale choked out another laugh. “A boy.”

“Yeah,” Belle said. “A boy.”

There was a beat. A silence that hummed with everything they hadn’t said.

Then Pascale whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Belle didn’t flinch. She didn’t soften either. She just let it sit.

“Okay,” she said.

And for once, Pascale didn’t try to fill the space. Didn’t try to fix it with noise or fuss. She just let the words be enough.

“I’ll let you rest,” she said after a moment. “But… I’ll check in again. If that’s alright?”

“It is,” Belle said. “Goodnight, Maman.”

“Goodnight, ma chérie.”

Belle ended the call.

Max looked up from across the room, holding a baby sock between two fingers. “So?”

Belle didn’t move. Just tilted her head slightly. “She’s trying.”

“And you?”

She gave a tired half-smile. “Trying to let her.”

Max crossed the room and dropped onto the bed beside her. He placed the sock on her belly like it was sacred.

“Well,” he said. “One step at a time.”

Belle reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his. “Yeah. One step at a time.” ***

Belle sat on the end of the couch, one hand resting lightly on her belly, the other clutched around a bottle of water she hadn’t opened yet.

Across from her, Pascale sat upright, hands clasped tightly in her lap like she was holding herself together through sheer posture. Her rings caught the light every time she fidgeted. Her eyes, however, didn’t leave Belle.

Arthur and Lorenzo were to her left, silent for once. Charles was on her right, elbow on his knee, head low. Nobody looked comfortable.

Camille glanced down at her notes, then gently said, “Belle, let’s talk about your fall. You didn’t tell your mother immediately. Would you like to talk about why?”

Belle didn’t answer right away.

She traced a thumb over the cap of her water bottle and said, after a moment, “Because I knew she’d spiral.”

Pascale flinched. “I was worried—”

“You always spiral,” Belle said, not cruelly. Just plainly. “You make everything bigger. More dramatic. And this time… I didn’t have space for that. I just wanted to be okay. Quietly.”

The room went still. Then—

“I didn’t know it had gotten this bad,” Pascale said, voice low.

Belle looked at her. “It didn’t get bad. You just didn’t notice when it stopped being good.”

That landed like a crack through glass. Not loud, but irreversible.

Camille shifted gently. “Can you give examples, Belle?”

Belle hesitated.

Then: “You went shopping with Alexandra and Charlotte.”

Pascale blinked. “When?”

“Back in December,” Belle said. “We ran into each other, you remember? You had lunch with both of them. You said it was just a last-minute thing. You didn’t invite me. Charlotte said you didn’t think I’d be interested.”

Pascale opened her mouth. Closed it again.

Belle exhaled. “It’s little things like that. Always. You expect me to be the one who remembers birthdays, who buys the Christmas gifts, who arranges the dinner reservations. You never check in. Not unless I remind you.”

Arthur looked sideways at Pascale. “She’s not wrong.”

Charles nodded slowly. “Belle’s been the one holding everything together since Papa died.”

And there it was. The air shifted again.

Pascale’s throat bobbed. “Your father… When he died you were all so young,” Pascale continued, almost to herself. “And I was trying to hold everything up. Everything felt like it was slipping. If one of you so much as sneezed, I panicked. I thought if I kept everything perfect, nothing else would fall apart.”

“You couldn’t keep it perfect,” Belle said. “So you just… kept trying to control what you could. And I became part of that.”

Pascale looked like she might cry.

“You think I don’t love you?”

“I know you love me. In your own way” Belle said tiredly. “But you don’t see me. Not really. I’m the one you turn to when things need fixing. But you don’t turn to me when things are good. You don’t invite me to the fun stuff. You just assume I’ll handle everything else.”

There was a long pause. Nobody moved.

Belle took a breath.

“And you forgot my birthday.”

Pascale looked up, stricken. “I—”

“You told me you accidentally sent Charles a message instead,” Belle continued, voice like cut glass. “You lied to make me feel better. Or maybe yourself. But you forgot. And I had to sit there pretending it was okay. Because I didn’t want to make it a thing.”

Tears welled in Pascale’s eyes. “I was ashamed.”

Belle nodded. “I know. That’s why you lied. But it didn’t help. It made it worse.”

Charles shifted beside her, visibly crumbling. “Isabelle…”

She shook her head. “I’m not saying this to hurt anyone. But you need to know how it felt. How it feels.”

Camille gave a small nod. “And Pascale, can you reflect on what Belle’s sharing?”

Pascale looked at her daughter. And for once, didn’t deflect. Didn’t argue.

“I didn’t want to admit how badly I’ve handled things,” she said quietly. “How much I put on you. I thought you were coping. That you liked being the one who kept things running.”

“I didn’t like it,” Belle said. “I just thought that was the only way I’d be needed.”

Pascale’s face crumpled.

“I don’t want to be needed like that anymore,” Belle said, softer. “I want to be wanted. To be included. Without having to earn it.”

No one spoke for a moment.

Then Pascale reached across the arm of her chair — hesitant, trembling — and placed her hand near Belle’s on the couch. Not touching. Just there.

“I want that too,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I’ll try.”

Belle looked down at the hand. And after a long pause, she placed her own on top of it.

Just once.

Then pulled away.

One step at a time.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: So? How was it? Did Charles cry? Did Arthur get kicked out? Did Pascale throw a chair?

Belle: No chairs were harmed in the making of this session And Arthur looked like he was trapped in a hostage situation.

Emilie: Growth. We love to see it. And your mom?

Belle: She cried. Admitted some things. Apologized. Didn’t try to fix it all in one breath for once.

Emilie: …are you okay?

Belle: Weirdly, yes. It was hard. But it felt real. Like she finally heard me instead of just reacting.

Emilie: I’m proud of you. You said everything you needed to say?

Belle: I did. She knows about the birthday. The lying. The shopping trip. All of it.

Emilie: Did she cry about the birthday?

Belle: You would’ve LOVED the face she made. Like she’d stepped on a Lego made of guilt.

Emilie: chef’s kiss I wish I’d been in the room with popcorn.

Belle: Honestly, you’d have made Arthur laugh and ruined the fragile emotional progress. So thank you for staying home 😘

Emilie: Rude but fair. And Max?

Belle: He waited outside. Said he didn’t want to interrupt a Leclerc-specific reckoning. When I came out he just held my hand and asked, “One step?”

Emilie: God I love that man. You got a good one.

Belle: I know. I really, really do.

Emilie: Come over later. I’ll feed you something that isn’t Max’s obsessive soup rotation. And we can watch that baby lion documentary again. For research purposes.

Belle: You just want to cry over baby animals again.

Emilie: And you don’t? 👀

Belle: …I’ll bring tissues.

Emilie: I’ll bring cake. Love you.

Belle: Love you more. 🧡

***

They sat curled on the couch in the soft light of early evening — Belle with her legs stretched over Max’s lap, a mug of mint tea balanced on her bump, and his hand absently tracing patterns on her shin.

Her wrist was still wrapped. Her knees still ached if she moved too fast. But the worst had passed.

“Have you thought more about the nursery?” she asked, voice quiet.

Max looked up from the iPad resting on the armrest beside him. “I figured you were already designing it in your head.”

“I was,” she admitted. “But now… I don’t want it to just be my vision. I want it to be ours.”

His brows furrowed slightly, like she’d said something backwards. “You know I’m fine with whatever you want, schatje.”

“I know,” she said gently. “You said that when we did the penthouse. You said, ‘whatever you want, I’ll love it because you made it.’ And I appreciated that. But this is different.”

She shifted, nudging her foot against his hip. “This isn’t just a room. It’s his room. And he’s your son too.”

Max was quiet for a beat.

Then he set the iPad aside and rested both hands on her legs. “What if I don’t know what I’m doing?”

Belle smiled. “Then we’ll figure it out together.”

He looked thoughtful. “Okay. So what don’t we want? No racing theme?”

She snorted. “Absolutely not. No miniature Red Bull helmets.”

“Not even one?” he teased.

“Maybe a soft toy car. But if you hang a framed replica of your first pole position above the crib, I’ll personally replace it with a print of a duck in a bowtie.”

Max grinned. “Fair.”

She reached for her phone and pulled up the notes app. “I was thinking something more… warm. Calm. Nature-themed, maybe.”

He was quiet for a second, then said, “I was thinking jungle animals.”

She blinked. “Really?”

“I saw this wallpaper once,” he said, suddenly serious. “In a hotel in Malaysia. There were giraffes and elephants and trees everywhere. I remember thinking it looked like a story you could live inside.”

Belle’s heart twisted — soft and sweet. “A story.”

Max nodded. “Not just a room.”

She shifted, her head on his shoulder now. “That actually sounds kind of perfect.”

He smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “We could do greens and golds. Maybe a little lion plush in the corner. Monkeys on the light fixture.”

“Are you saying our son is going to be chaotic?”

“I’m saying it’s genetic,” he said dryly.

Belle laughed, the sound small but real. “Okay. Jungle theme it is.”

“Jungle,” he agreed. “But cozy. Peaceful. Not too loud.”

“And no wallpaper that peels.”

“Obviously.”

They fell quiet again, and Belle let herself imagine it — sunlight through linen curtains, soft green walls, bookshelves filled with Max’s childhood favorites, a little wooden mobile spinning lazily over the crib. A room that felt alive and safe. A room their son would grow into. Would come home to.

Max rested a hand gently on her belly. The baby kicked — just once, but strong — like he approved.

Belle smiled. “He’s on board.”

Max leaned over and kissed her knee. “We’ll make it perfect. Together.”

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Belle: Hey, do you have a minute? I need nursery help. Professional-to-professional. Sister-to-sister. Desperate-pregnant-woman-to-mother-of-three. 😅

Victoria: Always 💁🏼‍♀️ What’s going on? Colours? Layout? Toy storage apocalypse?

Belle: Yes. All of the above. Also: Max has OPINIONS now.

Victoria: Oh no. Did he say “jungle animals”?

Belle: …how did you know that?

Victoria: Because when we were kids he used to draw Formula 1 cars racing through jungles. He once made our dad hang up a poster of a tiger holding a steering wheel. He was seven. And apparently it stuck.

Belle: That is both deeply concerning and very on brand.

Victoria: So what are we thinking? Jungle but make it tasteful?

Belle: Jungle but cozy. He said “a story you can live inside” and now I’m emotionally compromised.

Victoria: Omg Is Max nesting????

Belle: …he denies it But he also bookmarked a giraffe lamp and said we needed “calm jungle vibes” So yes. Yes he is.

Victoria: Iconic.

Belle: I was hoping maybe you could come over sometime and help me mock up a few ideas?

Victoria: Of course. You helped me with all three of mine — I owe you for that race car wallpaper alone. I’ll bring samples. And cake. And maybe a toddler or two, if you don’t mind chaos.

Belle: Yes please 🙏 Also… would you maybe want to help me brainstorm a layout? You know, professional interior architect panic and all Suddenly nothing I draw feels right for this space and I designed the whole damn penthouse

Victoria: Would it be crazy if we did Max’s birthday that weekend too? Low-key. Everyone’s already around. Cake, coffee, chaos.

Belle: YES That’s brilliant

Victoria: I’ll bring the cake. And chaos. You just focus on keeping your ankles elevated and Max emotionally stable

Belle: I’ll try. No promises on the second one 😅

Victoria:I’ll handle logistics. Also: giraffe lamp is a strong choice. Proud of Maxie.

Belle: He said it was “tasteful.” With a straight face.

***

Belle was curled sideways on the couch, her knees tucked under her, a paperback in one hand and a bowl of cut-up peaches balanced precariously on the armrest beside her. She hadn’t touched them. Max noticed.

He was sitting opposite her, laptop open on the coffee table, trying to concentrate on back-to-back track walks, tire compound charts, and whatever new nonsense FIA had dreamed up since Zandvoort. But his eyes kept drifting to her.

Her wrist was still wrapped. The bruises on her knees had turned yellow around the edges. Her hair was clean and twisted up, and she was wearing one of his shirts again — the really soft one that always made his chest feel too tight when he saw her in it.

But she was quiet. More than usual. And Max didn’t like it.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, breaking the silence.

Belle glanced up without lifting her head. “Dangerous.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He huffed, nudged his laptop shut. “Come with me.”

She blinked. “To where?”

“Baku. Singapore. The double header.”

Belle sat up slightly. “Max—”

“I know it’s a long trip. I know the flights suck and you hate hotel pillows and your feet are already swelling when you stand too long.” His voice softened. “But I’d feel better.”

She looked at him. Really looked.

At the tension in his jaw. The worry in his eyes that never quite went away — not since the fall. Not since he’d walked into that hospital room and nearly lost his mind at the sight of her in a hospital gown.

He didn’t say because I won’t be able to sleep if I know you’re alone. He didn’t say because I keep seeing your bruises when I close my eyes.

He just said: “I’d feel better.”

Belle’s hand drifted to her belly, absently.

“You’ve got media,” she said gently. “Track walks. Strategy briefings. You can’t be glued to your phone worrying about if I slipped on the tile again.”

“Exactly,” Max said. “So don’t stay here.”

She hesitated. “Baku’s chaotic. And Singapore’s—”

“Hot. Loud. Long.” He nodded. “But we’ll make it work. You stay in the drivers rooms. I’ll sneak you into engineering debriefs so the baby can start learning telemetry.”

She snorted. “Max—”

“I already checked with the team. Everyone’s on board.” His tone turned softer. “Please, Schatje. Come with me.”

She looked at him again — and it was all there.

His fear. His love. His need to know she’d be safe, even if that meant carrying her through customs himself.

And maybe Belle had spent too long trying to be independent, trying to prove she could handle things on her own. But just this once, she let herself lean into him.

“Alright,” she said, quiet but firm. “We’ll go.”

Max’s shoulders dropped an inch. He reached across the couch and took her hand gently.

“We’ll bring the soft pillows,” she added, smirking slightly. “And the magnesium foot soak.”

“And the peach gummies,” Max said, already smiling like it was a podium finish.

Belle squeezed his hand. “And noise-cancelling headphones for when Baku makes me hate everyone.”

“Done,” he promised. “You and me. And the baby.”

She looked down at her belly, then back up at him.

“You’re ridiculous,” she murmured.

“And you’re coming to Baku,” Max said, already leaning in to kiss her forehead.

And that was that.

Because Belle might’ve been tough as hell on her own — but even she could admit that sometimes, love looked like aisle seats, hotel footstools, and letting someone else carry the weight for a while.

***

It started with rustling.

Not dramatic rustling, not panic-rustling. Just a quiet, persistent shuffle from the other side of the bed. Max blinked awake, one hand already reaching across the mattress by instinct.

Belle was sitting up, barely illuminated by the soft glow of her phone screen. Her hair was loose, falling over her shoulder in sleepy waves, and she had that deeply suspicious expression she only wore when she was trying not to wake him on purpose.

He squinted at her, voice still gravel-thick with sleep. “Everything okay?”

Belle looked at him, guiltily frozen like she’d just been caught stealing state secrets.

“I want…” she paused, then said it all in one breath. “Fries. Like the proper trashy kind. With the fake cheese sauce. And chicken nuggets. And a cheeseburger. And a milkshake.”

Now he really stared.

Because Belle—his Belle—ate steel-cut oats and roasted vegetables and things with seeds in them. She actually liked quinoa. She’d once told him, dead serious, that she didn’t understand the appeal of vending machine snacks.

He blinked again. “You… what?”

“I don’t know,” she said, almost distressed. “I woke up and thought about it and now I can smell it and if I don’t have fries in the next fifteen minutes I’m going to cry.”

Max was already swinging his legs out of bed. “Okay. Fries, Nuggets. Cheeseburger. Milkshake. Got it.”

Belle’s eyes widened. “Wait — where are you going?”

Max grabbed his hoodie from the chair. “To get my very pregnant wife her midnight fries before she cries and then sues me for emotional negligence.”

She let out a soft laugh, surprised and grateful. “Max, I wasn’t ordering you. I just— I didn’t expect you to get up.”

Max leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Belle. The woman who meal-preps chia pudding just asked me for fries. I will sprint to McDonald’s if I have to.”

She laughed, sleepy and fond. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Fully aware,” he said, grabbing his keys. “Back in twenty. Text me if you think of anything else.

Belle beamed. “I love you.”

Max pointed at the bump. “You, kleine man, better appreciate this.”

And with that, he was out the door, hoodie pulled up, wallet in hand, ready to face the night like a man on a mission.

Max Verstappen: three-time world champion, 1AM fry retriever.

Twenty-five minutes later, Max returned with two paper bags, a milkshake, and the distinct smell of judgment from the drive-thru worker who clearly recognized him. He didn’t care.

Belle was waiting on the couch in one of his hoodies, hair messy, blanket draped over her legs. She looked up with pure adoration when he walked in.

“Oh my god,” she said reverently, taking the bag. “I love you.”

Max sat down beside her, watching her take her first bite like it was the answer to world peace.

“Worth it?” he asked.

Belle moaned. “I want to marry this fry.”

“Little late for that,” Max murmured, placing a hand over her bump. “You already married me.”

She smiled mid-chew, leaning into his side. “Don’t worry. You’re still my favorite.”

Max kissed her temple, then reached into the bag for a fry. “Good. But I’m stealing one anyway.”

“Touch the milkshake and you die.”

Max grinned, settling in.

He used to think happiness was trophies. Laps. A perfect quali.

Now?

It tasted a lot like midnight fries and Belle’s sleepy smile in his hoodie.

And he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

***

Somewhere over Eastern Europe, on the long-haul flight to Baku, Lando twisted around in his seat and stared down the aisle.

“Mate,” he whispered, nudging Oscar with the toe of his shoe. “Look at Max.”

Oscar, half-asleep and curled into his hoodie, cracked one eye open. “What?”

“Look. Just—look.”

Oscar followed his gaze, squinting toward the front of the cabin. And there he was: Max Verstappen. Reigning world champion. Deadliest late-braker in the sport. Currently holding a neck pillow like it was a newborn lamb, adjusting it behind Belle’s head with the concentration of a neurosurgeon.

She was fast asleep. Hoodie pulled over her belly. One hand tucked under her cheek. Max crouched beside her seat like some kind of loyal retriever, gently tugging the blanket higher over her legs.

Oscar blinked. “Oh my god.”

Lando grinned. “He fluffed the blanket. Did you see that? He fluffed.”

Oscar choked back a laugh. “You think he knows we’re watching?”

As if summoned, Max glanced their way. Didn’t even look sheepish.

“What,” he said flatly.

Lando gestured dramatically. “I’m just saying. You used to fall asleep with your face in a telemetry spreadsheet. Now you’re out here fluffing blankets and hand-feeding gummy bears.”

Max arched a brow. “She’s carrying my baby.”

Oscar, wheezing now: “You didn’t even blink.”

Max stood, completely unfazed. “She gets uncomfortable on long flights. And the neck pillow is shit.”

Lando looked between him and Belle. “You’re already a dad. Like, fully. Diaper bag energy. I bet you have snacks in your pocket.”

Max didn’t hesitate. “Ginger chews. For nausea.”

Oscar slumped into his seat, choking with laughter. “This is incredible. You’ve turned into her emotional support Dutchman.”

Max folded his arms. “She’s literally growing a human. You’d all be lucky if anyone ever loved you enough to fluff your blanket.”

Lando held a hand to his heart. “Ouch.”

Oscar held up a hand. “Let him have this. It’s majestic.”

Belle stirred slightly, and all three of them froze. Max was immediately at her side again, smoothing her hair back, whispering something too soft to catch.

Lando leaned back, watching.

“Honestly,” he murmured. “It’s kind of terrifying.”

Oscar nodded. “Yeah. But also kind of goals?”

“Definitely goals.”

And somewhere in the front of the cabin, Max tucked the blanket just a little tighter around Belle’s legs and didn’t care one bit that they were watching.

***

Belle wasn’t entirely sure how it had happened.

One moment she’d been minding her business near the Red Bull hospitality, sipping a mango smoothie and trying to stay in the shade — and the next, Nicole Piastri had looped an arm around her like they’d been close family friends for years.

“Come on,” Nicole said cheerfully, steering her with all the gentle force of someone who’d wrangled toddlers, teenagers, and F1 drivers alike. “You need proper shade. And maybe a cold compress. I told Oscar to start carrying one, but he just gave me a funny look.”

Belle blinked, half-laughing, half-bewildered. “I’m okay, really—”

“You’re pregnant,” Nicole said, matter-of-factly. “You’re not allowed to be ‘okay.’ You’re only allowed to be ‘looked after.’"

And just like that, Belle found herself seated in the VIP shade of the McLaren hospitality tent, a cold bottle of water in her hand, a gentle fan pointed in her direction like she was a national treasure instead of a slightly overheated Verstappen. Nicole was fussing gently, adjusting the umbrella angle like she was personally in charge of UV exposure. Belle didn’t even bother resisting.

“This feels like overkill,” she murmured.

“This,” Nicole said, adjusting Belle’s sunglasses like a stage mom, “is called community care.”

Ten minutes later, Oscar wandered over looking mildly suspicious and very confused. “Mum, what are you doing?”

“I’m taking care of Belle,” Nicole replied serenely, patting Belle’s knee. “She’s part of the family now.”

Belle nearly choked on her water.

Oscar blinked. “Did we… adopt her?”

“Someone has to keep an eye on her when Max is off sweating in the garage,” Nicole said. “And besides—” she turned to Belle, her eyes twinkling “—I’ve been meaning to thank you.”

Belle tilted her head. “For what?”

“Oscar’s apartment,” Nicole said. “He won’t admit it, but I know you helped. You saved him from a lifetime of grayscale walls and furniture that looked like it was ordered by accident.”

Belle snorted. “All I did was drag him into one store and convince him that color wouldn’t kill him.”

“That’s more than I managed in twenty years,” Nicole said, mock-dramatic.

“I’m literally standing right here,” Oscar mumbled, sipping his own smoothie like it might save him.

Nicole ignored him completely. “Now, tell me — do you know if it’s a boy or girl yet?”

Belle hesitated, the moment stretching just slightly. Then she smiled, soft and a little shy. “A boy.”

Nicole gasped, delighted. “A little Max!”

Oscar’s eyes widened. “Wait—seriously? It’s a boy?”

Belle blinked at him, amused. “You didn’t know?”

“No!” Oscar exclaimed, flailing a bit. “Why am I the last to find out everything? Does everyone else know? Does Lando know?”

“Emilie knows…so I am pretty sure that Lando knows,” Belle said helpfully.

Nicole looked far too entertained. “Oscar, sweetheart, you really need to spend more time in the gossip loop.”

“Or less,” Oscar muttered. “I don’t even know what loop I’m in anymore.”

Nicole leaned back, pleased as punch. “A baby boy. That’s going to be so fun. You just wait. Boys are chaos.”

Belle sipped her water and gave a wry little smile. “Don’t remind me.”

Across the paddock, Max had finally clocked what was happening. He was standing with GP, glancing over every few seconds — his brows drawn together like he was debating whether to intervene or let it happen.

Belle waved at him.

He gave her a little waveback and then narrowed his eyes at Oscar, clearly clocking his proximity to Belle and his mother in one go.

Nicole followed her gaze. “Does Max know I’ve claimed you yet?”

“Not officially,” Belle said dryly. “Do you want to break the news?”

Nicole shrugged. “He’ll survive.”

Belle laughed — really laughed — and leaned back in her chair as the fan gently whirred, her free hand resting lightly on the bump beneath her dress. For once, she wasn’t planning. Wasn’t navigating. Wasn’t managing how everyone else felt about her. She was just… being. And Nicole, for all her sass and maternal might, somehow made it easy.

Oscar looked between the two of them and sighed. “This is going to be a thing now, isn’t it?”

Nicole beamed. “Oh, absolutely.”

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/f1paddocktea: Belle Verstappen and Nicole Piastri spotted together in the McLaren hospitality at Baku. Fan spotted them laughing over smoothies with Oscar looking helpless nearby.

@/oscarpiasteabag: Nicole: claims Belle as another daughter Oscar: “I’m literally right here.” I NEED THIS DYNAMIC FOREVER

@/mclaren: Would it be unprofessional to post “Belle Verstappen is now an honorary Piastri”? Asking for a friend. (and by friend we mean Nicole)

@/beebeehive: Give Nicole and Belle a YouTube series. Just them drinking tea and discussing how to force Oscar and Max to eat vegetables.

@/f1stepmomenergy: Nicole Piastri adopting Belle is not the crossover I expected from Baku but it’s the one I deserved

@/formulaloveletter: There’s something so wholesome about Belle accidentally becoming the paddock’s collective little sister/pseudo daughter/wife/chaos magnet. Like. She was just vibing. And now she’s got godparents lined up, a fan, and probably Nicole Piastri plotting baby shower themes.

@/f1chaoticneutral BREAKING: Nicole Piastri has officially adopted Belle Verstappen. Oscar was not consulted. Max is concerned. I am THRIVING.

@/gridgossipqueen: Nicole Piastri commandeering Belle from Red Bull hospitality like “you’re mine now” is the kind of paddock power move I live for.

@/mclarenhomewives: Nicole Piastri claiming Belle as “part of the family now” and dragging her into the McLaren tent??

Oscar is now Belle’s younger brother

Max is going to be so confused when he picks up his wife and she’s in papaya merch

@/charlesshoes: every time i see belle getting casually adopted by someone new on the grid i gain a year of life

@/mclarenverse: Nicole Piastri claiming Belle like a prized collectible and Oscar just going “I’m literally right here” is so sibling-coded it’s actually hilarious

@/maxielarchives: Max: why is Belle in McLaren hospitality Nicole Piastri: she’s mine now Oscar: same Belle: eats a papaya macaron like nothing happened

***

They were sitting on one of the low outdoor couches near the back of the paddock hospitality area — just Oscar and his Mum, the sun beginning to dip behind the skyline.

It was quiet except for the soft rustle of Nicole flipping through the tea selection like she was deciding the fate of nations.

“I still don’t know how you always end up hijacking people,” he said eventually, watching her settle on a peppermint sachet like it had personally offended her.

Nicole looked unbothered. “I didn’t hijack Belle. I gently redirected her to a more appropriate location.”

“You stole her from Red Bull hospitality.”

“She was overheating,” Nicole said, clearly satisfied with her maternal diplomacy. “And alone. Honestly, I should’ve swooped in sooner. If you’d seen yourself standing there — all confused, drinking a sad smoothie while she wilted under an umbrella.”

Oscar sighed and slumped back against the cushions. “It’s just funny how you do this. You see someone once and you’re like, ‘You’re mine now.’”

Nicole gave him a look over the rim of her tea cup. “Sweetheart, I raised four children and half your karting team. I know the signs. She needed someone.”

He snorted, then sighed. “You really like her, huh?”

Nicole didn’t even hesitate. “I adore her.”

Oscar picked at the label of his bottle for a moment. “You know her family forgot her birthday?”

Nicole blinked. “Her birthday?”

He nodded, jaw tight. “Didn’t even text her. Not one of them. Not her mum. Not her brothers. Nothing.”

Nicole was quiet now, the kind of quiet that meant she was carefully tamping down a volcano of maternal rage.

Oscar kept going, like the words had been stewing for a while. “And it’s not just that. They forget stuff all the time. Important stuff. She used to plan all their holidays, always checked in on everyone else. And no one ever asked if she was okay. No one made the effort for her.”

Nicole exhaled slowly, steady. “If I had ever seen you treat Hattie or Edie or Mae like that… if I’d seen you treat one of your sisters the way Belle’s been treated—”

“You’d have driven a wooden spoon into my skull,” Oscar muttered.

“Correct,” Nicole said, no hesitation.

Oscar smiled faintly. “I think that’s why I get so… prickly about it. I keep thinking about them. My sisters. If they’d gone through what Belle has. If they’d hidden how much it hurt.”

Nicole looked at him then — really looked. And whatever mischief had lived in her smile earlier had been replaced by something quieter. Something sharper.

“She deserves more,” she said simply.

Oscar nodded. “She’s finally getting it. With Max. With Emilie. Even Lando, weirdly.”

Nicole smiled again at that. “And now with us.”

Oscar blinked. “Mum—”

“I don’t care how famous her brothers are. If they won’t show up for her, then she gets me. She gets the whole damn Piastri family. I’ll knit her ugly baby blankets and text her reminders to drink water. That girl is mine now.”

Oscar stared at her, half-horrified and half-delighted.

“She’s going to think we are all insane,” he said.

Nicole smiled serenely. “Then she’ll fit right in.”

Oscar grinned.

And deep down, something in him relaxed — knowing Belle had one more person in her corner now.

***

The paddock was a blur of movement — media crews, mechanics in half-unzipped race suits, engineers pulling headsets off and already dissecting data. Baku’s sticky heat clung to everything like a second skin, even in the growing twilight. Belle adjusted the loose linen shirt knotted above her bump over the dress she wore and threaded her way past the Red Bull garage, careful of her steps. Her knees still ached when she walked too long.

Max was doing media rounds. He’d finished P5 — a hard-fought recovery, all things considered. But she wasn’t here for him right now. Or even for Oscar who had driven to a win in Baku that was everything Hungary hadn’t been.

Ferrari red came into view just as the celebratory chaos began to ebb. There were still photographers trailing Carlos, and team members buzzing around the pit wall, but the man she was looking for stood half-turned toward the back of the garage, like the adrenaline hadn’t quite left his system yet.

Charles.

She hadn’t planned to come.

She’d meant to stay near Max, stay out of sight, stay neutral.

But then she saw the replay of the overtake. The fight. The fact that Charles had driven his heart out. That he'd earned that podium. And despite everything — the weight of all their unspoken hurts, the therapy sessions, the missed birthdays — she still felt proud of him.

“Charles,” she called softly as she stepped just inside the boundary line.

He turned.

Surprise flickered across his face. “Belle?”

She smiled. “P2,” she said, her voice warm and sincere. “You drove beautifully.”

His gaze dropped to her belly, then back to her eyes. “You didn’t have to come.”

“I wanted to,” she said. “Just for a minute.”

He hesitated, then gave a small nod and stepped closer. “Thank you.”

There was a beat of silence between them. Not awkward — just… delicate.

“You really mean it?” he asked, quieter now.

Belle met his eyes. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

Something in his shoulders loosened. Just a little.

Then he surprised her — reaching out and resting a hand gently on her arm, careful and featherlight.

“I’m trying, you know,” he said. “With all of it. I know I’ve been... slow. Selfish. But I’m trying.”

“I know,” Belle said. “So am I.”

Charles looked at her again — properly this time — and for the first time in what felt like forever, it didn’t feel like a minefield between them. Just two people standing in the wreckage, trying to rebuild something.

Not what it used to be. But maybe something new.

“Do you want water or something?” he asked suddenly, glancing around the garage. “We have those fancy Italian fizzy ones—”

Belle laughed. “I’m okay. Max is about to come looking for me anyway.”

Charles smiled crookedly. “He was glaring at me through the cooldown lap, by the way.”

Belle rolled her eyes. “He always glares.”

“That one felt extra.”

She bumped his arm with her elbow. “Be nice.”

“I’m trying.”

They stood there a beat longer.

“Congrats again,” she said, stepping back. “You earned it.”

He gave a soft nod. “Thank you, Belle.”

And this time, when she turned to go, it didn’t feel like a goodbye. Just a pause.

Something gentler.

Something that might, one day, be whole again.

***

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lupinqs · 1 day ago

Text

THE WAY I LOVED YOU ━━ paige bueckers x ex-girlfriend!reader

☆ ━ summary: a night out leads you right back to your ex-girlfriend’s bed.

☆ ━ word count: 10.8K

☆ ━ warnings: smut (oral, fingering, strappp, scissoring, pure filth)

☆ ━ links: my masterlist

☆ ━ author’s note: not proofread and basically just porn goodnight

THERE’S NOTHING WRONG with Lucas.

You tell yourself that a lot. Not because you don’t believe it, but because you do. You believe it so much, it almost feels rehearsed.

Lucas is easy to love. Easy to explain. He says what he means and he follows through. He’s the kind of person who brings you flowers on a random Tuesday and remembers your favorite kind without needing to be reminded. He holds the door open for you—not in the forced, performative way, but just because that’s the kind of person he is. Thoughtful. Steady. Soft around the edges in a way that makes other people relax just by being near him.

Your friends love him. Your mom keeps saying things like “he’s a keeper” and “baby, he is so in love with you” and it’s not like she’s wrong. He texts back. He listens. He laughs at your jokes, even when they’re not funny. He gets along with your dad. He plays video games with your little brother. He always smells like laundry detergent and cinnamon gum, and when he kisses you, he cups your cheek like he’s holding something precious.

You like that. You like him.

It’s good.

It’s normal.

It’s healthy.

And for the most part, you don’t think about anything else. Not really. You’ve been… training yourself not to. You’ve developed entire routines around the art of not thinking about her—deleting old playlists and creating new ones, watching different shows, changing your route to class, rewriting entire chapters of your day-to-day life just so you don’t trip and fall back into the places where she used to live.

And it’s worked. Mostly.

Until it doesn’t.

Because Lucas will be saying something—something sweet, something thoughtful, something that would’ve made you melt if this were your first relationship—and you’ll feel this tiny flicker of something you can’t name. Not sadness. Not longing. Just… something. A quiet, sinking realization that you should be feeling more than you are. That what he’s saying is right, and hood, and all the things you’ve ever been told to want—but it’s landing in your chest like a feather instead of a thunderstorm.

And that’s the thing. Lucas is feathers. Warm, light, gentle.

But Paige?

Paige was fucking weather.

Not sunshine or softness or stillness, but storms. Paige was thunder and static and lightning under your skin. Being with her felt like leaning too far out of a window just to see what would happen. Like running a red light or driving a hundred miles an hour. Reckless. Stupid. Exhilarating.

Not that you think about her. You don’t.

You don’t think about the way she used to kiss you like it was the last time, even when it wasn’t. You don’t think about the fights that started over nothing and ended with slammed doors and tear-streaked apologies. You don’t think about the 2 AM screaming matches in her car that would turn into the 2:07 AM make-outs that made your head spin and send heat to your core. You don’t think about how being with her made you feel like a live wire—shocking, wild, electric.

Lucas makes you feel like you’re being taken care of. Like your future has clean lines and soft landings. He respects your boundaries. He never raises his voice. He doesn’t make you wait three hours for a reply, only to show up at your window like he’s in a movie. He’s never left you crying in the rain. He’s never made you cry in the rain.

It’s easy, being with him. Comfortable.

And maybe that’s the whole point. Maybe that’s why you said yes when he asked you out, and why you kept saying yes after that. Maybe that’s why you’ve tried so hard to get used to all this normalcy. You wanted someone who didn’t make your heart feel like it was constantly trying to break out of your chest. You wanted someone calm, steady, safe.

Lucas is all of those things.

He doesn’t make you feel like you’re on fire. He doesn’t make you feel like you’re on fire.

There are no extremes. No chaos. No bruised egos or tearful apologies or scream-raw throats. He doesn’t make you second-guess yourself, and he never looks at you like he’s seconds away from either kissing you or shouting at you. He just looks at you with kindness, with a quiet sort of adoration, like you’re exactly who he hoped you would be.

And still—still—there are nights when you find yourself lying awake next to him, the glow of your phone lighting up the ceiling, and you feel something sharp and shapeless pressing at the back of your mind. Not a memory. Not a name. Just pressure. The kind you used to feel when things were about to go wrong. Or when things were too good to be true. Or when she was around.

You don’t let yourself go there.

You shut it down

Because it’s not fair to Lucas, and it’s not fair to you. You’ve moved on. You’re fine. Everything is fine.

And besides, you already tried loving like that.

You gave everything—everything. You screamed and sobbed and kissed like your life depended on it. You threw yourself into someone like Paige Bueckers and got spit back out with bruises you couldn’t explain. It wasn’t sustainable. It wasn’t good.

You remind yourself of that whenever your mind drifts.

Lucas doesn’t make you cry.

Lucas shows up.

Lucas texts back.

Lucas doesn’t run hot and cold. He doesn’t storm out of rooms. He doesn’t pull you into closets at parties and fuck you until your legs are shaking, only to pretend like nothing happened the next day. He doesn’t keep you guessing. He’s consistent. Warm. Soft.

You can trust him.

You just don’t burn for him.

And maybe that’s what growing up is. Learning to choose what’s good for you over what feels good in the moment. Learning to stay steady instead of chasing the highs and lows of a love that made you lose your mind.

So, no—you don’t miss Paige.

Or, at least, that’s what you’re currently telling yourself.

You’re at Ted’s. UConn’s beloved, grimy, too loud and far too small campus bar. It’s girl’s night out—no Lucas, no boyfriends, just you and your friends. The music is bad, the floor is sticky, and you’ve already had one too many drinks, but none of that is really the problem.

The problem is that she’s here.

Paige fucking Bueckers is here.

Of course she is. Of course she’d pick tonight to show up, like the universe just can’t let you have a single night off. She’s across the bar, flanked by her teammates, posted up like she owns the place. And she kind of does. She’s got that charm, that draw—the one that makes people want to be near her, even if they don’t know why. She doesn’t even have to try.

It’s not the first time you’ve seen her since the breakup—seven months, not that you’ve been counting—but that doesn’t make it easier. The sting hasn’t dulled. The ache hasn’t faded. Every time you see her, it feels like getting burned in the same exact spot over and over again. Your body should be numb to it by now, but somehow it never is.

And worst of all?

She looks good tonight. So good it makes your stomach twist and shrivel.

She’s wearing black cargo id that sit low on her hips and cling just enough to the right places. A white collared crop top, short-sleeved and perfectly fitted, which gives you a detailed fucking display of her biceps and abs—both of which are bigger, sharper, more defined than when you had her. She’s been hitting the weight room hard this summer. You know it. Everyone knows it. She must want that natty bad.

She probably wants it more than she ever wanted you.

You hate how bitter that thought tastes going down, but it’s not like it’s new. That feeling—that doubt—was there the whole time. The fights. The jealousy. The nights she didn’t text back. The way her phone would light up late at night and she’d just turn it face down and mumble something about it being nothing. You wanted to trust her. God, you tried. But it was always like walking a tightrope with her. One wrong move and you’d fall.

She was a fuckboy before you got together, and you’re sure she’s a fuckboy again now. Probably worse. Seven months is plenty of time for her to rediscover all her old habits. You can practically see it written all over her tonight—the loose body language, the flirtatious smile, the way her eyes scan the room like she’s picking her next fuck. She’ll take someone home tonight. You don’t even have to wonder.

Some girl—probably sweet, probably impressionable, probably someone who has no idea what it’s like to be wanted and discarded by Paige Bueckers—will follow her home. She’ll get to experience first hand what all the hype is about.

You try not to think about how that was once you. Try not to think about the way Paige would toss you onto her bed and kiss you like she needed it to breathe. Try not to think about the desperate way she’d strip you bare. Try not to think about the skill her hands and mouth and hips held. Try not to think about the way she used to look at you—like she couldn’t believe she got to have you.

You try not to think about any of it.

You stare at her, hating her and wanting her and hating that you want her. And her hair’s down tonight—down—long and straight and golden under the bar lights. She never wore it down when you were together unless you asked, unless she was feeling soft, unless you were the only one she wanted to impress. She’d preferred it up, out of the way in a bun or ponytail. But now it’s out and shining like a fucking halo or something.

She’s laughing at something KK said, her mouth open and easy and happy, and you hate how good it looks on her. How it makes her shoulders shake just slightly, how her head tilts back, how she glows. She’s got a Dirty Shirley in hand—of course she does—and a devil-may-care look in her eyes like she’s on top of the world. Like nothing, not even you, ever touched her deeply enough to leave a mark.

She doesn’t notice you staring.

Good.

You tear your eyes away with more force than necessary, like dragging a splinter out of your own skin. It leaves you raw. But you want let yourself look again. You won’t.

Your drink is almost gone. You need more. You need to blur this out, soften the corners of the room until her shape doesn’t stand out in it anymore.

You mutter something to your friends and slip away toward the bar. Your legs feel heavy. Your skin too warm. You feel her presence behind you like a heat lamp, burning a hole in your back even if she’s not looking.

You shove through a group of guys yelling about the Celtics and wedge yourself between a couple of juniors who are too busy taking selfies to notice you. The bartender glances at you once, uninterested. You order a shot.

Then another.

Then, one more with your friend who just walked over.

You were tipsy before—now you’re full-on drunk. It’s dangerous and smart for this situation. You needed it, but it could also make things catastrophically worse.

You glance back—just once, just to be sure—

And she’s looking right at you.

Her mouth is still curved in a half-smile from the joke someone made. But her blue eyes are locked into yours, and for a second, just a second, the noise of the bar fades.

And you remember everything.

Every fight. Every fuck. Every late-night apology. Every quiet morning. Every lie you swallowed. Every truth you ignored. Every time she held you like she’d never let go.

And then did.

You break eye contact first.

Not because you want to. Not because you’re strong enough to look away. But because the heat of her stare is too much—it crawls beneath your skin, presses against your throat, makes your chest ache in that way that only she ever could. And you’re too fucking drunk to pretend like it doesn’t affect you. Too fucking drunk to pretend it doesn’t burn.

So you look away.

Swallow hard.

And then you turn your back on her, like the coward you swore you wouldn’t be.

Your stomach twists as you push through the crowd, arms bumping shoulders, elbows knocking against glasses. You’re headed for the bar bathroom, and you don’t even care how pathetic it looks. You need a second. You need air. You need to not be near her.

You make it to the restroom, barely missing the girl stumbling out with her heels in her hand and lip gloss smeared against her chin. You shut the door, lean back against it, and exhale hard through your nose.

It’s a shitty little bathroom. One mirror. Flickering light that doesn’t help stop your intoxicated brain from spinning. Peeling poster on the wall advertising Tequila Tuesdays. You avoid your reflection because you already know what you’ll see: mascara slightly smudged, lips parted, that look in your eyes—like you’re unraveling. You can feel it. You’re slipping. The drunk is mixing with the memories now. You’re seeing her hands on your skin again, hearing her laugh against your neck. You’re remembering the way she used to back you into this same wall when the two of you would sneak off here together, tipsy and breathless and stupid in love.

You press your palms to your eyes and mutter, “Fuck,” under your breath.

You hate her.

You hate her so much.

Except… not really.

You swore you didn’t miss her. You swore you over it. You promised everyone, including yourself.

But underneath all the anger and the betrayal and the hurt you still carry in your ribcage like broken glass, you do fucking miss you. God, you miss her. The way she smelled. The way she’d look at you. The way her voice would soften when she said your name. You miss what it was like when it was good—when she let you in, when she chose you.

You squeeze your eyes shut. Try to breathe.

Then—the handle jiggles.

Your eyes snap open.

The door creaks. You forgot to lock it all the way.

And there she is. She slips inside like a shadow and shuts the door behind her, slow and certain. Her eyes are already on you—the same icy blue. You can tell by the look in them that she’s just as drunk as you are. You want to scream at her. You want to melt into her arms.

“You were looking at me,” she says simply. But there’s a rasp to it that makes your skin tingle.

You swallow and straighten your, your reflexes all sharp and brittle. “No, I wasn’t,” you snap, defensive, even though your voice cracks halfway through it.

She steps closer—crowding you, closing the distance in two long strides. You stumble back, spine hitting the cool tile wall behind you, and she plants her palms on either side your head, caging you in.

Her gaze flickers—your mouth, your eyes, your mouth again. She’s reading you like she used to. And then she’s leaning in, breath fanning against your face as she tells you, “Don’t lie.”

Your breath catches. You look up at her, feeling small beneath her height. She was always good at making you feel that way. She’s still staring at your lips. You try not to stare at hers. “Don’t,” you say, and your voice is small, too small.

But she already knows that “don’t” means “do.”

Her hands find your waist, hot and certain. You should push her away. You should tell her to leave. But you don’t. You can’t. Your fingers curl into the collar of her shirt instead, and then she’s kissing you, and it’s not gentle. It’s rushed and tough and months too late. Her lips crash into yours like she’s staring for you, and you let her take what she wants.

Because you want it, too.

Paige’s hands are everywhere and nowhere, gripping and slipping and dragging fire down your sides. You can feel her breath stutter every time your hips tilt forward just slightly, like your body is trying to remember hers on instinct alone.

You’re both far too drunk, you know that. Her balance is all fucked, her touch a little too eager, a little too messy to be calculated, but she’s trying to make it feel that way. She’s trying to keep control. Her arm is braced next to your head, her body angled so your only exit is through her. She always used to do that. Always made herself a wall. And now she’s doing it again, caging you in like she owns the right to.

And worse—you’re letting her.

You’re letting her and kissing her and grabbing at her like you never want her to leave. You’re cheating. You know that. You know that Lucas is probably asleep at home, completely unaware that you’re pressed up against a bar wall right now with your tongue in your ex-girlfriend’s mouth.

And you should care.

But you don’t.

All you can feel is Paige—her mouth, her tongue, her teeth. All you can taste is her Shirley and whatever shots she’s been drinking and your lip gloss that’s been smeared across both of your mouths.

And beneath that—deeper than the alcohol and the anger—is the hurt. Yours and hers, bleeding through your kisses like you’re both too stubborn to admit how much it still matters. You hate her. You fucking hate her for what she did, for how she made you feel, for the way she stopped calling and let everything rot in silence.

But you also want her.

Desperately. Viciously. Shamefully.

She kisses you harder, lips slotting with yours like she wants to devour you whole. One of her hands drags up your side, long fingers bunching in your tank top until it wrinkles under her grip. Her other hand finds your hip and squeezes hard—possessive, rough, like she’s trying to bruise herself back into you. And you don’t stop her. You tilt your head back when her lips begin to trail downward, dragging along your jaw, your neck.

She sucks there, open-mouthed, like she wants to leave a mark. You gasp. Your fingers tighten on her shirt. Your knees almost buckle, and you’re suddenly very grateful the wall is there.

She knows what she’s doing. Of course she does. She’s always known.

When she gets to your ear, she nips—just the edge, sharp and quick—and you inhale so hard your vision blurs.

Then her hands slide from your hips to your waist and she presses her mouth right against the shell of your ear, voice low and warm and dripping with something that feels way too much like the past.

“Come back to mine, mama,” she whispers, pinching your waist for emphasis. “Let’s leave.”

Your breath catches. Everything slows, just for a second. You hear the music pounding from the other side of the door, the sound of someone laughing in the hallway. You feel her breath fan across your neck, her body flush with yours, her large hands holding you with a firm grip.

And you want to say no. You should say no.

But you’re drunk. And this is Paige.

You lean your head back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut. Her lips brush your throat again.

“Okay,” you breathe, so quiet you’re not sure she heard it.

But she does.

She pulls back just enough to look at you, pupils blown wide, lips swollen and pink, face flushed. She doesn’t smile. She just lifts her hand, swipes her thumb across your lower lip and chin, wiping her spit away. And then she grabs your hand and pulls you toward the door.

You stumble out of the bathroom together, the door creaking wide and hitting the wall like a gunshot in the haze of noise and cheap bar lighting. Neither of you say anything—you just look at each other and then move in sync, turning toward the back entrance like it’s muscle memory.

It is muscle memory.

The same hallway, the same emergency exit sign buzzing slightly overhead. You’ve done this before—slipped out together, ducking before your friends could ask questions or try to convince you to stay, walking home in that stupid little bubble where it was just you and her and the fucked-up, magnetic thing that kept dragging you together. It feels like that again. Familiar. Dangerous.

You push the door open, and the rain hits you in the face like a slap. It sobers you up maybe half a percent, just enough to register how soaked the ground already is. You look up in disbelief. The sky is coming down heavy now, full-on pouring—of course. Of fucking course.

Paige lets out this short laugh, all breath and surprise, like she can’t even believe the timing either. “Jesus,” she mutters, throwing one arm around your shoulders, tugging you closer into her side. “We gotta walk.”

You just nod because you already knew that. Her apartment isn’t far—not that you’ve been to the new one, just that you know the building. It’s about ten minutes if you’re sober and walking with purpose. Which, neither of you are right now. You’re drunk. She’s drunk. You’re dressed for the bar, not a rainstorm. And you’re making the worst decision of your entire relationship history, possibly of your life.

But you go anyway.

The two of you start moving down the sidewalk, feet slapping against puddles, your arm wrapped tight around her waist now, because fuck it, she’s warm and solid and familiar. Her shirt is clinging to her by the minute—white cotton soaked through and sticking to her torso, giving you a clearer outline of the muscle she’s been building all offseason. You glance at her abs, now shiny and wet with rain, and immediately look away again. Mistake. Everything about tonight is a fucking mistake.

Still, your body keeps walking.

The rain is cold and heavy, but your skin is buzzing and hot from the alcohol and the adrenaline and whatever this horrible, electric thing is between the two of you. It’s always been like this—heightened. Too much. Like your nervous system doesn’t know what to do around her except overload.

You try not to think. You try not to remember.

But you do.

You remember the last time it was late at night and raining and you were with Paige. Screaming in the middle of the street, voices cracking and soaked to the bone, fighting like it was the end of the goddamn world. And it kind of was. You ended up having angry sex in her car afterward, teeth and nails and hands clawing for something solid, something familiar, even if it hurt. You broke up the next morning.

You remember the heat of her skin, the sting of her words, the way she looked at you like she didn’t know whether to worship you or run from you.

But that’s how it always was.

You and Paige were never soft. You were sharp edges and blood-hot emotions and never knowing whether the night would end in a fight or a fuck. You both went a little insane because of the way you felt about each other—because neither of you ever knew how to not feel too much.

And now, you’re cheating on your boyfriend just to feel it again.

You shove the thought down as hard as you can. Focus instead on the way Paige’s fingers dig slightly into your waist every time you slip a little on the slick concrete. On the way her hair, long and straight and down for once, is starting to curl at the ends from the water. On how your teeth are starting to chatter even though the warmth from her body is leaking into yours, bit by bit.

And then, out of nowhere, Paige just stops walking.

You barely register it at first—your steps carry you half a beat too far until she tugs you back by the hand. You turn to ask what the hell she’s doing, but then she’s already kissing you.

Right there, in the middle of the fucking sidewalk in a downpour. No warning. No buildup. Just her mouth on yours like gravity snapped and she had no other choice. And maybe she didn’t; maybe neither of you do.

It makes sense.

When you were together and she was drunk, Paige always got like this. Clingy. Touch-starved. She’d pull you into her lap at parties, curl up behind you on the couch, mouth against your ear saying dumb little things that would make you blush. Always wanting to be near you, in you, around you, on you—like proximity made it easier to breathe.

That version of her is here now, kissing you like she’s trying to devour you. Her hands cup your face, holding you steady, but her mouth is anything but—urgent, greedy, moving over yours like she’s trying to memorize every part she’s been missing. Her lips are warm and insistent even through the cold, even through the rain that’s coming down heavy, pattering against the sidewalk, running down your neck, getting between your clothes and skin. It’s kind of miserable, but it also kind of doesn’t matter.

Because Paige is kissing you like she’s pissed off. Like she wants to make a point. Like she’s angry she still wants you, and the only way to get it out is kissing you hard enough to bruise.

And God, you feel it. Your body is lighting up from the inside, every part of you buzzing. You can taste the rain between her lips, the mix of it and her chapstick and the alcohol on both of your tongues. Her hands slide into your hair, tugging you toward her harder. It’s enough to coax a gasp out of you, and that only makes her groan and lick further into your mouth.

It’s clumsy and wet and messy, teeth knocking a little, breaths hitching, the kind of kiss that leaves no room for rational thought. And you let it happen. You lean into it. You want to punish her a little, too—want her to feel it like you do. So, you kiss her back just as angrily, like she’s not the only one with something to prove.

But then the chill starts to creep in. You’re soaked to the bone now, both of you only in tank tops, and the wind cuts sharp across your face as it whips through the street. As hot as you feel inside, you’re suddenly aware your body is freezing. Besides, you need to be somewhere inside to satisfy your real need—the one resting between your legs, pulsing and aching with want.

You pull back just a little—your lips slipping away from Paige’s, breath fogging between you—and try to catch your bearings. But Paige isn’t done. She follows you forward, mouth chasing yours like she can’t stand even the smallest bit of distance. Her nose bumps yours, big hands still gripping the sides of your face.

“Okay,” you mutter, voice breathless, dazed, trying to push her back with shaky hands on her chest. “Let’s go, c’mon.”

She stares at you, blue eyes wide and glossy under the streetlight glow, lips kiss-swollen and parted.

“Needa—apartment,” you stumble, the words coming out in fragments because your brian is still somewhere back in that kiss. “Like, now.”

Paige blinks like she finally remembers where the two of you are. She exhales slowly before nodding quicker, saying, “Yeah. Yeah.”

It doesn’t take much longer to get to her apartment. She’s in a different building now, not the same one she lived in when you were dating. You don’t even get a chance to look around before she’s telling you, a little breathless, “Jana and Allie are both staying at Azzi and Morgan’s tonight. We ain’t gotta worry ’bout none of that.”

You nod. “Good,” you reply, but it’s barely out of your mouth before she’s already closing the space between you once more.

Her mouth crashes into yours with this messy, impatient heat that catches you off guard even though you probably should’ve expected it. You gasp slightly, back hitting the wall with a dull thud as her hands find your hips and press in like she’s trying to fuse herself to you.

She kisses you hot and desperate, tasting like her Shirley and rainwater and you, like she’s been starved for too long and forgot what moderation is. Or maybe she never knew in the first place. Her breath is shallow against your cheek when she pulls back just barely, only to bite at your bottom lip, gentle at first and then not. Your knees buckle a little.

She starts walking you backwards eagerly, quickly. Your shoes squeak faintly against the hardwood floor, and every few steps, she pauses to kiss you again—at your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—each one a little sloppier than the last, like she’s trying to leave her mouth on every inch of your skin that’s currently available. You stop for a second to kick your shoes off, Paige doing the same, before her hands are right back on you.

You let her guide you, stumbling slightly but somehow never really tripping, your hands tugging at her shirt now without hesitation. Your fingers find the hem and you push upward, palms grazing the warm skin of her stomach, the firmness of her abs. She lifts her arms to help you, eyes fluttering shut for just a second as the tank top peels off her like a second skin, damp from the rain and sticking to her in places. You toss it aside without even looking where it lands.

She’s gorgeous like this—hair damp and sticking to her temples, broad shoulders gleaming slightly from the rain, eyes half-lidded and wild, white sports bra soaking into her skin. You pull her back in. She lets you, fingertips digging into your waist as she spins you slightly and then walks you back the rest of the way.

The door clicks shut behind you, Paige’s hand still on the lock as she flicks it closed without even looking. You only catch a blur of her bedroom before she’s pushing you, your back hitting her mattress with a dull thud. The bed’s soft, and it dips underneath you as Paige follows right after, crawling on top of you without a second thought.

She kisses you hard the moment she’s close enough. No pretense. Just mouth on mouth, rough and messy and hungry. Her knee slips in between your thighs like it belongs there, and suddenly she’s pressing forward, using the weight of her body to open you up, her hands already sliding up your sides, tugging at the hem of the tiny tank top you wore out tonight.

She’s always been like this—especially when drunk. She got clingy, reckless, possessive. All hands and teeth and sharp exhales against your throat. She never hesitated to take what she wanted. Clearly, nothing about that has changed.

You can barely think. Your brain is cotton. Static. Her mouth moves down along your jaw, biting just a little at your skin as her hands palm over your chest through the thin fabric, rough and eager, hardening your nipples. It’s overwhelming in the same way you remember. Like she’s trying to devour your whole. Like you’re the last drink of water on Earth and she’s been crawling through the desert.

You let her take. You’re not even sure if you could stop her if you tried.

“Paige,” you murmur, just her name because you don’t know what else to say. She hums against your neck, doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t slow down. Her mouth catches your collarbone bow, her teeth scraping skin, and you can feel your tank top sliding further up, her hands bunching it near your ribs.

You try not to think. About anything. Not about where you are. Not about who’s on top of you. Not about Lucas. Definitely not about that.

But your guilt creeps in, just for a second. Just long enough to make your stomach twist.

You’re cheating on your boyfriend.

You’re actively cheating on Lucas with your sort-of insane ex-girlfriend—who, to be fair, is currently kissing along your body like you’re something deserving of worship. Like she wants to go back to the night you broke up, grab it by the throat, and shake it until it gives you a different ending.

And the worst part is that you want her to.

You want all of this. Even if it’s wrong. Even if it’s messy. Even if tomorrow comes and you have to lie through your teeth about where you were tonight.

Thankfully, you’re pulled from your thoughts as Paige’s fingers hook into your tank top, pulling it up over your head in one smooth, urgent motion. It gets caught for a second, snagged under your arm, but she doesn’t even hesitate. Just lets out a breathy laugh and helps you lift your arms the rest of the way, tossing the top somewhere behind her.

She pauses when she sees you.

You’re bare from the waist up—unlike her, you didn’t bother with a bra tonight. The tank top was enough. You shiver slightly, skin still damp.

“Fuck, baby,” Paige mutters hoarsely. Her eyes roam across your chest like she’s recommitting your breasts to memory—which, she probably is.

And then she leans back in, mouth fast and greedy. Her lips graze across the swell of your chest, her tongue flicking out against one of your pert nipples. She sucks, cheekbones becoming prominent, as her hand stimulates the other bud. You arch into the touch, a quiet gasp escaping your lips, and Paige just groans in response.

She moves even lower, trailing wet kisses down your stomach like she’s trying to worship every inch of you in the fastest way possible. Her hair is still wet from the rain. It sticks to her forehead, her cheeks. You reach down without thinking and brush some strands behind her ear, and for a flicker of a second, her eyes spring up to meet yours.

There’s something in them—something messy and unspoken and so achingly familiar it almost knocks the breath out of you. She looks at you like she doesn’t know whether to say “I missed you” or “I’m gonna ruin you,” and honestly, it might be both.

You swallow hard as her fingers slide down your sides, wet palms skimming your hips. She shifts slightly above you, her knee pressing deeper between your thighs, and then she mutters, low and little slotted, “’M takin’ these off.”

It’s not a question, or a warning. Just a statement of fact, like she knows it’s already a done deal. Like she knows how much you want her. It pisses you off, but she’s right. You don’t bother trying to argue; you’re too impatient for that right now. Instead, you lift your hips, giving her room.

The denim peels off in slow, wet scrapes—Paige tugging your jeans down clumsily, muttering something under her breath about how soaked they are. Her hands fumble at your ankles, pulling the cuffs off before she throws the mess of fabric to the floor. Her hands are cold and your skin is goosebumped from the downpour, but somehow it just makes everything feel sharper, more alive.

You watch as her gaze returns to you before stilling. The grin sidles upon her face before she even says anything. Her lip quirks, slow and smug. She blinks once, then twice, like she’s confirming something.

“Well, would you look at that,” Paige murmurs, titling her head. Her voice is thick with amusement.

You frown. “What?”

She reaches out, brushes her fingers over the lace of your underwear before snapping the waistband against your stomach. “You wore these,” she replies matter-of-factly. The way she says it makes your face go hot.

You glance down, your stomach twisting the second you register. Lavender lace. The soft pair she got you when you were still dating, the one that belongs in the set with the bra. Purple is her favorite color. You hadn’t meant to wear them tonight. It just—happened. Bad luck. Or maybe subconscious salvatore. You’re not sure.

“Shut up,” you mumble quickly, but your voice is weak, defensive. You shift your hips slightly, trying to throw her off, but she doesn’t let up.

“Nah, nah,” she says, laughing. “You wore these. Tonight. These.” Her fingers curl just under the waistband once more like she’s framing the evidence. “These are my panties.”

You groan, hiding your face in your hands. “Oh my God.”

Paige just chuckles again—low and smug, the sound all warm breath against your thigh—and leans in. She presses her mouth to the inside of your leg, right above the lace, and bites. Not too hard, just enough to make you gasp, make your hips jerk. Her hands grip your thighs, holding you still as she drags her teeth across your skin again.

You feel her fingers trail up between your legs, teasing, lazy. She doesn’t even go for the waistband. Not yet. Just presses her fingers over the damp lace, at your clothed clit, where she knows you’re already pulsing for her. Her touch is light, maddeningly so. Just pressure, then a slow little circle, then nothing. Then again.

You exhale sharply, a little whimpering escaping before you can stop it.

“Yeah,” she breathes, all cocky and satisfied, rubbing at your pussy through your underwear—her underwear. “You want this, huh?”

You want to roll your eyes. You want to curse her out. You want to tell her to shut up again.

But you also want her hand between your legs, so.

“Obviously,” you mutter instead, shifting your hips closer to her fingers. “Jesus.”

She smirks. “Still so easy for me,” she murmurs, running her thumb in a slow, purposeful drag over your covered clit again. “Still so wet, even with these on. Shit.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Not with the way your body is reacting to her—how warm and staticky and shamefully good it feels, even after everything. Especially after everything. It’s fucked yo. It’s so deeply, stupidly fucked up. But the thing about Paige is that she’s always known exactly how to pull you apart, and tonight’s no different.

Her lips move up your thigh again, kisses slower now, mouth more deliberate. She’s still teasing you with her fingers, but at least she’s pressing harder now. Your legs twitch a little under her hands, breath coming faster.

You grab at her wrist. “Paige.”

She hums against your skin. “Mm?”

“Either take ’em off or don’t.”

Another smug little grin. “Bossy,” she mutters, but she finally starts to tug them down.

And you think she’s gonna rip them off just like the jeans and your tank top, quick and careless, like she can’t get them off fast enough. But she doesn’t. She goes slow with it. Real slow. The lace peels off your skin in soft, damp stretches, catching slightly on the curve of your hips, then your thighs, like it doesn’t want to let go. She’s careful with it, rolling them down past your knees, then over your ankles one at a time.

And then, instead of flinging them off to the side like the rest of your clothes, she hesitates.

She holds them, twisting the fabric around her fingers once. She looks at them for a second, like she’s remembering something. And then, without a word, she sets them down—right beside you on the bed, neat and deliberate like she’s placing something valuable. You roll your eyes; you know she’s trying to emphasize the fact that they’re “her” panties.

You watch as her blue eyes trail over you, before settling between your legs. She can see how soaked and slick you are. When she looks back up at you, that teasing edge in her expression is gone. Replaced by something darker. Heavier. Like the sight of you naked knocked the air right out of her.

“Fuck,” she breathes, more to herself than you.

And then she moves.

No more games. No more slow burn or smug comments or smartass remarks. Just Paige, leaning in with a newfound desperation.

The first thing you feel is her breath. Hot and shaky against your cunt, curling over you in waves that make your toes curl. Then her mouth—her lips, soft and plush and open, parting against you like a question she already knows the answer to.

Your hips buck involuntarily and she groans—low and satisfied and a little dizzy—like the taste of you hit her like a shot to the head. Her hands grip your thighs firmly, thumbs digging in just enough to hold you still as she licks a slow stripe between your folds.

Your breath hitches in your throat. Paige doesn’t say anything, but she hums like she’s pleased with herself, and the vibration makes you whimper. Her mouth works steadily, not frantic, not messy, just focused. Eager, but in control. She’s pacing herself like she knows exactly how long it’ll take to make you cum—and plans to stretch it out just enough to make you lose your mind before it.

You feel her shift, settling between your legs like she’s not planning on going anywhere anytime soon. One of her hands slides up, presses lightly over your stomach, while the other stays clamped around your thigh, keeping you open and spread for her. You’re breathing hard already, fingers fisting the sheets, head tilted back against the pillow.

But then she flicks her tongue just right—right there, straight on your clit, the perfect little spot she always used to find without trying—and your whole body goes tight.

“Fuck,” you choke out, hips twitching, hand flying to the back of Paige’s head without thinking. Your fingers tingle in her hair, damp and messy and soft, and she lets you, even leans into the pressure like it spurs her on.

“Mm,” she hums again, mouth still locked on you. Her eyes flick up for a second—just long enough for you to see the heat beneath them—and then she closes them again and gets back to work.

Her pace picks up, beginning to circle her tongue on your pussy with more pressure. Like she’s chasing something now. Like she’s chasing you. And when your hips roll up again, she moans softly like she loves that—like she needs it just as much as you do.

“Paige—” you stumble, her name coming out half-broken.

She pulls back for one second, breath ragged, lips slick and swollen, her nose a little wet too, and murmurs, “I gotchu, mama,” before ducking her head again.

And you know she does—in this position, she always does.

She sucks, lips around your bud, and your legs shake.

“Oh my God,” you whisper.

Her fingers finally move—trail up your thigh again, then find their way between your legs. Her mouth moves down, tongue finding your entrance, thrusting inside. Her fingers, on the other hand, rub over your soaked clit in slow strokes.

You’re a mess now. Moaning soft and breathless, biting your lip, fucking Paige’s face. It’s too much and not enough.

Paige’s grip tightens. She keeps moving her tongue, rubs her fingers faster. The sounds emitting are obscene. Your whole body is trembling, your thighs clenching around her shoulders, your heart pounding so loud you can barely hear anything else.

You’re about to cum. You’re right fucking there. You know it, Paige knows it too.

And then: she stops.

Just for a second. Just long enough to make you want to scream.

Her mouth doesn’t move far. Her fingers don’t leave. She just slows everything down—lets her tongue go lazy, softens the pressure of her fingers into something more like a tease than an intention. Just enough to cool the fire without putting it out completely. Enough to keep you hovering in that frustrating, impossible space where you can feel your orgasm burning in your gut, but you can’t reach it.

You whimper, pathetic and desperate. “Paige,” you say. It doesn’t even sound like a protest—it’s too soft. Too needy.

And she just chuckles. Low and rough and stupidly smug. “Sweetheart, I know you ain’t think I was gon’ let you finish that fast,” she chastises.

She licks a lazy stripe up your center, just enough to make you shudder, then pulls back again to speak. “Uh-uh.” Her lips brush the inside of your thigh now. “Nah, baby. Not yet.”

You try to buck your hips, to chase the pressure, but her hand flattens against your stomach again, pinning you down.

“Be good,” she scolds.

It’s cruel. So cruel. But it’s not mean. She’s not doing it to punish you—there’s no spite in it. It’s worse than that. She’s doing it because she wants to. Because she likes this. The control, the way she can make your whole body lose itself with nothing but her mouth and a couple fingers.

She starts again. Slow. Gentle. Just lips and tongue at first—no fingers—circling softly, tasting you with this lazy rhythm that makes your whole body ache. It’s good. God, it’s so good. But it’s not enough.

Every time she gets you close—every time your thighs start to tremble and your hands fist in the sheets and your stomach starts to tighten like you’re gonna explode—she backs off again. Pulls away just enough go to keep you right there on the edge. And it happens again. And again. And again.

You lose count around the fourth time. Maybe the fifth.

Your entire body is flushed, sweat beading down your neck and across your chest, your breathing ragged and high in your throat. You’re begging now, pride gone. Just soft, broken pleads slipping from your lips.

“Please,” you whisper, over and over. “Paige, please.”

She hums like she’s thinking about it. “Please what?” she asks, voice all innocent like she doesn’t already know. “Whatchu want, baby?”

You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to cum. But mostly, you want her—her mouth, her fingers, her everything. The full weight of her attention. No more teasing. No more games.

“I want—” You can barely get the words out. Your voice is hoarse. “I want to cum. Please.”

She grins into your thigh, and you can feel it.

“Yeah?” she asks. “You want me to let you?”

You nod hard, nearly gasping. “Yes. God, yes, baby, please.”

She takes her time, still. Like she’s filing that away for later—your voice all cracked and pleading, your body practically shaking with want.

But then—finally—her mouth returns, this time with her fingers. Two of them, slow at first, just enough to ease inside, stretch you open at this perfect pace that makes your eyes roll back. And then her tongue follows—firm and fast and focused again.

She doesn’t let up this time.

Her fingers pump deep, curling just right with every thrust. Her mouth locks onto your clit, her tongue flicking and circling, and you feel it. You feel the difference. You feel her let you.

It builds so fast you almost don’t believe it’s happening—like your body can’t trust it yet, like it’s waiting for her to pull away again. But she doesn’t. She keeps going. Keeps fucking you with her fingers and sucking with just the right amount of pressure until you’re moaning like mad. Until your back arches clean off the bed.

And when you finally cum, you really cum.

It hits like a wave—full-body, all-consuming, a rush of heat and noise and sensation that floods your chest and curls your toes and makes your vision blur. You cry out, loud and unfiltered, Paige’s name breaking on your tongue as everything finally snaps.

She holds you through it. Keeps her fingers moving just enough to ride it out, keeps her mouth pressed against you like she doesn’t want to miss a single second of it. And when your thighs tremble and your hips jerk and you try to push her away, overstimulated, and breathless, she only pulls back slowly, letting you come down soft and dizzy and completely gone.

You collapse against the bed, boneless, the sheets twisted beneath you and your skin flushed everywhere. Your chest is rising and falling like you ran a marathon, your eyes fluttering shut, and your lips are parted like you forgot how to close them.

Paige crawls back up your body, slow and smug and glowing like she just won something. Her mouth is shiny, her chin wet, her eyes softer now. She leans in, kisses the inside of your knee, then your thigh, then your hip, then right between your ribs like she’s following a map only she can read.

And then she finally kisses you. You taste yourself on her tongue.

“Still alive?” she murmurs, pulling back just barely, her breath fanning over your lips.

You nod tiredly. She grins.

“Good,” she says, nudging your nose with hers. “’Cause I ain’t done with you yet.”

“Paige,” you whine, eyes squeezing shut. You can’t, you swear. After all the edging and teasing, you’re fucking spent.

“C’mon,” Paige breathes as her fingers trail back down, teasing light circles on your clit like she’s checking to see if you’re still there. Still dripping for her. Still a mess. You are.

But instead of going soft or gentle—instead of giving you a break—Paige just laughs, low and smug and annoying, leaning closer until her forehead brushes yours. She’s smiling down at you like she’s seen this movie a hundred times before and already knows how it ends.

“You can’t take anymore? Really?” she asks, faux innocent, like she didn’t just spent twenty minutes dragging you to the edge and yanking you back every time you even thought about finishing.

You shake your head, too wrecked to even be embarrassed. Your legs twitch under her, and your breath stutters when she dips her hand again, rubbing faster now, rougher. Quick circles.

Your eyes fly open. “Paige—!”

She’s right there, hovering, looking so calm it’s almost rude. Her voice drops low, warm and coaxing. “You got it,” she murmurs, then leans in, kissing you languidly. “I’mma strap you, ’kay? It’s gon’ feel good.”

You blink at her, heart stuttering. The words hit you like a wave of something—lust, maybe, or memory, or just plain old holy shit, it’s been a while type of adrenaline.

Because, with Paige, the strap is something different. And you remember.

You remember how it used to turn her into almost someone else entirely—more focused, more intense, like she stepped into a role made for her. All that cocky, athletic confidence of hers funneled into every thrust. It used to drive you insane. She’d smirk down at you, hold you steady by the hips, mutter stuff under her breath that made your brain go static. Always so good at knowing when to push, when to slow down, when to whisper something filthy in your ear like she owned you. And, back then, she kind of did.

So, if you already here, already ruined and half-gone and trembling in her bed—you might as well let her finish the job.

You nod, barely, and Paige’s smile shifts into something more serious. Still soft, but hungrier now. Like she knows this means something and she’s not gonna waste it.

“Okay,” she says, voice lower. “Don’t move.”

Then she kisses your cheek. Your jaw. Your collarbone. Her mouth is everywhere at once, moving down in quick little bursts of affection like she can’t stop touching you, even for a second.

You hear the drawer behind her open, the soft jingle of the harness. It takes her no time at all. She shimmies out of her cargos and boxers thickly, and fits the purple thing—same color as those panties she got you—to her hips with the same efficiency she’s got on the court.

She climbs back over you, eyes scanning your face like she’s checking in, making sure you’re okay—not just ready, but okay. Her hand slips under your thigh slowly, lifting it gently to drape over her waist.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just runs her fingers down your side again, resting them low on your hip as she settles between your legs. The silicone presses soft against your skin, and you twitch, already sensitive.

“Look at me,” she tells you, quieter now. Not demanding, more like a reminder. You do. You meet her eyes, and she gives you this look—tender, steady, locked in—that makes your stomach flip.

“You still want this?” she asks, even though she knows the answer.

You nod. “Yeah. Want you, P.”

Something flickers across her face when you say it. Then she leans down, kisses you once, deep and slow. Her hips roll forward just a bit, her strap dipping into your entrance.

“I’ve got you,” she mumbles.

Then she starts to move.

And—God.

You forgot how good she is at this. How well she reads you. How every stroke is meaningful—hips snapping forward in a rhythm that builds slow, steady, patient. She’s not fucking around anymore. She’s locked into this, onto you.

Your hands scrabble for purchase, fingers digging into her back, her shoulders, whatever you can hold. Your legs fall open wider around her hips, and the air goes thick between you—all breath and skin and sound.

She leans down, forearm braced beside your head, sweat already starting to gather along her hairline. Her voice is right against your ear now, rough and low, saying, “Fuck, missed this. Missed you.”

You gasp, nails digging into her skin.

She keeps going. Her hips rock into you steadily and your head tips back into the pillow. She’s so deep, so good, and your body is still humming from everything before—all that edging left you raw, still twitching and clenching down around nothing, and now she’s filling you. Driving into you with smooth, practiced thrusts.

She moves like she owns you—like this is hers, has always been hers, and you’re just finally getting back to what was supposed to be. You can barely catch your breath. The slick sounds between you, the pressure building low in your stomach, the quiet grunts coming out of her mouth every time she drives back—it’s a lot.

Paige’s body hovers over yours, strong and steady, blonde hair falling a little wild into her face—and yours—as she stares down at you. Her cross chain dangles above you as well. It makes you wet. Her eyes flick over your face like she’s tracking every breath, every twitch. Making sure she’s hitting the spot. Making sure you feel all of her.

You do.

Fuck, you really do.

Your fingers curl deeper into her shoulders, your voice slipping out in little gasps and stuttered moans.

“Shit,” you choke out.

“Yeah?” Paige says, breath warm against your mouth. She’s grinning again, cocky as ever. “That feel good?”

You nod, eyes fluttering shut. “So good. Jesus—”

“Mmm,” she hums, and then she leans in again, nipping lightly at your jaw and throat. Her hips roll deeper, sharper, like she wants to remind you exactly who is doing this to you. “Don’t bring him into this. You know I’m the one that fucks you like this.”

You shudder—because yeah. She is.

And this shouldn’t be different. Theoretically. Mechanically. You’ve been having sex with a man for months now—Lucas, your boyfriend. He has a real dick and everything. And, with him, it’s been fine.

But this?

This isn’t fine. This is Paige. And what she’s doing to you—this focused, obsessive, filthy thing she’s doing with her strap and her body and her mouth and her fucking words—it’s not even in the same universe.

It’s better. So much better.

She’s in a whole different mode now. Not the teasing, soft, cocky Paige from earlier—not even the sweet, grinning, “let me make you feel good” Paige. This version of her? The one who puts the strap on and immediately goes a little feral? You almost forgot about this side of her. Or maybe you blocked it out because of how goddamn dangerous it is.

She moves harder, faster, her rhythm never faltering as she slips a hand under your thigh and pushes it up, opening you more, giving herself a better angle.

Her voice drops again, gravelly and low, lips brushing your ear. “You miss this dick, huh?”

You gasp. “Paige—”

She laughs, all breath and grit. “Yeah, you do. Don’t lie. You’ve been lettin’ him touch you, yeah? That boyfriend of yours.”

You blink yo at her, brain short-circuiting, and she moans when she sees it—the way you clench around her strap, the way your eyes roll just a little. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

“You let him fuck you?” she asks, still thrusting, her voice starting to get breathless. “Let him hear you make all those sounds you used to make for me?”

You shake your head—not because it didn’t happen, but because that’s not what matters right now. Not when Paige is here, inside you, her hand gripping your thigh tight and her hips snapping forward like she’s trying to make you forget everyone who isn’t her.

She leans down, pressing her forehead to yours, still talking through shallow breaths.

“He ever get you this wet? Huh?” she asks. “You ever beg him like this?”

You’re too far gone to answer. All you can do is whimper, grabbing at her shoulders, your legs shaking with every thrust. Your body—your cunt, mostly—feels like it’s on fire.

“Fuckin’ knew it,” she mutters, more to herself now. “You can let him date you, whatever. But you always come back to me for this. Don’t you?”

You nod. Or try to. Everything’s blurry now—pleasure curling in your spine, building too fast again. The way she’s thrusting, angled to brush against that gummy spot deep inside you every time, it’s criminal. And she knows it. She keeps her hand on your hip, guiding you into her rhythm, using your body like she built it herself.

“Paige,” you gasp. “I’m—fuck, baby, I’m close.”

Her eyes flash, and she slows just slightly, grinding instead of thrusting, pulling out a ragged moan from your chest. “Yeah?” she whispers. “You wanna cum for me?”

You nod fast, begging with your eyes now.

She leans in again, presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then your lips.

“Okay, baby,” she murmurs. “Go ’head. I got you.”

She thrusts—so fucking deep—and your body goes completely out of your control. That pressure builds too fast, too tight, and your thighs shake. You clench around Paige, voice cracking into a high whimper. Your legs go stiff, whole body arching. Paige rides you through it, hips still moving, her mouth catching the sounds you can’t control.

You cum harder than you have in a long, long time. Even harder than the first one tonight.

And Paige—sweaty, wild-eyed, her strap glistening between you—just smirks down at you like she knows.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, kissing your cheek again. “That’s my girl.”

She eases out of you slow, careful, knowing you’re tender, and even still, it makes you flinch a little. Your whole body’s buzzing—nerves fried, legs weak, brain a complete blur. And the second she’s out, that emptiness hits you like a gut punch. You sigh, deep and shaky, already missing the weight and heat of her even though she’s right there.

You’re still leaking, thighs sticky, body limp. You don’t move—can’t, really—so you just watch her through heavy-lidded eyes as she undoes the harness and slides it down her legs. She tosses it lazily toward the floor, not even looking where it lands, and then she crawls up beside you, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Her pale skin is flushed and glistening. You feel the mattress dip as she pulls herself closer, wraps on long, sweaty arm behind your back, and drags to right on top of her like you weigh nothing.

You don’t resist. You just melt into her.

Her skin is damp and hot against yours, her abs tight beneath your belly, and she lets out a small, winded laugh as you settle in, tucking your face into her neck. Her other hand reaches up, pulls at the hem of the sports bra she’s still wearing. She shimmies it off with some difficulty, then flings it somewhere behind her with zero aim, sighing like she’s been dying to get it off for a while now.

You glance up at her, and she looks down at you, her mouth soft, a little swollen. Then, she leans in and kisses you again—slow this time. Not needy or rushes. Just warm.

You’re so lost in it that you barely notice the way she’s shifting—until her thigh hooks around yours and suddenly her cunt is pressed right against you’re. Skin to skin. Heat to heat. It sends a shockwave through you, makes your breath hitch in your throat and your hips jerk without thinking.

“One more, mama,” Paige murmurs against your lips. “Please.”

You almost say no. Almost.

Because your body is fried. You’ve cum twice—hard, both times. And you’re sore and wrung-out and still trembling in little aftershocks. But then she’s calling you mama in that voice again—sweet and wrecked and a little desperate—and you know exactly what she’s asking for.

She deserves at least once. She’s been so patient. So fucking good to you tonight. You don’t even think she cares about cumming, honestly—she’s always been the type to chase your pleasure more than hers—but still. You want to give her that. Want to watch her fall apart, too.

So, even though your body is screaming at you to rest, you give a little nod. And then another.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Yeah. One more.”

Paige kisses you hard this time, all teeth and tongue and gratitude, and then she’s adjusting your hips again, sliding one of her legs between yours and guiding your thigh up over hers. And then you’re there, pressed together, pussy to pussy, and fuck—it’s a lot. There’s no slow build. You’re already soaked and swollen, and so is she, and the friction is fast and immediate and sweltering.

She groans into your mouth as you grind your hips down into hers, and you can feel her grip tighten on your waist.

“God, baby,” she mumbles. “Fuck, you feel s’good.”

You whimper, already teetering on the edge again. “’M not gonna last,” you admit, breath catching. “I’m so—God, P—”

“I know,” she says, not missing a beat. “I know. Just wanna feel you. Wanna cum with you.”

She guides you with her hands, rocking your hips against hers, keeping the rhythm steady when your thighs start shaking.

“You’re so wet, holy fuck,” Paige breathes. “You’re makin’ a mess on me, mama. You hear that?”

You do. That obscene, slick sound where your pussies meet, the wetness mixing and sliding. It makes your cheeks burn, but it also pushes you closer.

You want to finish with her—you really do. You want to hold you, want to grind together until you both cum at the same time, messy and gasping. But your body has other plans. You’re too sensitive, too overstimulated, and it’s Paige. That combination doesn’t give you a lot of room to breathe.

So you finish first—again—your body seizing up on top of her. It’s not big like the others, but it’s sharp and sweet and hits you right behind your eyes, whitening your vision. You let out a breathy little moan and shudder all over Paige, your thighs twitching around her hips, your chest collapsing against hers.

“Fuck, baby, yeah,” Paige groans, feeling you cum against her, sliding along her own pussy. She doesn’t stop. She just keeps going, grinding up into you a little more insistently now, chasing her own orgasm.

Her grip on you tightens, essentially manhandling your hips now. She tilts up into you, breath catching, and you feel her tensing under you, her thighs locking around yours.

“God, I’mma cum—shit,” she yelps, one last grind of your pussy sending her over the edge.

Finally, you both go still, the air between you thick and humid and exhausted. You collapse fully on top of her now, cheek smushed against her collarbone, her arms wrapped loosely around your back, her heartbeat pounding under your ribs.

Neither of you talks for a minute. You just breathe.

And then Paige sighs, light and wrecked.

“Fuck,” she curses. “Are we gonna regret this tomorrow?”

You’re too tired to think about it. Too dazed to pretend like you have any clue what the hell any of this means.

So you just press your face into her shoulder, and mumble, because you do know this one thing, “Definitely.”

#paige bueckers #uconn wbb #paige bueckers fic #uconn huskies #wbb #wnba #dallas wings #paige bueckers x oc #paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers smut #paige bueckers angst #paige bueckers fluff #wnba x reader #wlw #wlw smut

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em1i2a3 · 3 days ago

Note

HII!! i’ve never really done an ask before, eeek! uhm i keep thinking about how the air that i breathe by the hollies is sooo bob. so i was thinking maybe a fluff based off of your interpretation of the song?

The Air That I Breathe

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Bob have a comfortable night on the couch.

Warnings: None, just pure fluff y’all, we love fluff in this house lol

Author’s Note: Loving these requests! I liked the idea of writing something based on a song someone else requested! I also love the song as well, so I’m glad someone requested it! Thank you for messaging me and submitting it! Hope y’all enjoy!

Word Count: 3,474

Bob always came to you in silence–never asking, or needing to–like your presence was the only place he could remember how to breathe.

The most opportune time to do this was during the night, when the compound always fell into a strange, unnatural kind of stillness–something that should’ve been rare for a place that inhabited seven people and a cat.

It wasn’t peaceful though. There were too many walls that remembered shouting, and too many doorways that had been passed through with blood still drying on boots. But some spaces–specifically the ones you inhabited or settled in–held something different, something warm, lived-in and safe for someone like Bob.

The common room was dim that night, lit only by a single soft lamp in the corner. The flickering light casted amber warmth across the battered floor and uneven throw rug, its fringe curled from too many feet dragging over it over and over again. The main light switches had been left untouched, which was the way everyone tended to leave the room at night–it was an unspoken agreement that anything brighter would feel too artificial, and would hurt their eyes.

It smelled faintly of overly buttered popcorn, and hot chocolate–the lingering ghosts of whatever Yelena and Alexei had been snacking on before their bickering laughter faded down the hall an hour ago. There were mismatched throw pillows half-tilted on the couch, a Thunderbolts hoodie draped over the back of an armchair, and a half-empty soda can precariously balanced on the edge of the coffee table. Someone had forgotten to turn off the console controller–its faint blue glow blinked lazily beside a mess of crinkled wrappers and a half-finished bag of a variety of sour gummy candy.

You were stretched across the couch like Alpine in a sunbeam, legs tangled in the too-long hem of your own sweatpants, one hand holding the remote as you flipped through channels with no real interest. You were just trying to seek out some background noise. A sitcom laugh track, clicked into a cooking show, then a rerun of some old space movie. You weren’t watching so much as resting inside the rhythm of the flickering screen.

Your own snacks were scattered across the coffee table–a bowl of chips gone mostly stale because someone left the bag open, a mug of Ceylon Gold tea you kept meaning to reheat, and a stack of napkins that you had just in case you made a mess. You told yourself you’d clean everything up in the morning. But for now, you just wanted quiet.

And that’s when you felt it.

The shift in the air, the subtle, unmistakable awareness. Not the tense electricity of an approaching threat–but the soft static hum of Bob. You didn’t look up right away, because you never really needed to. Your training made you hyper aware of your surroundings, so even if it wasn’t Bob and it was just. a regular old intruder–which would not be the case–they wouldn’t really stand a chance.

You let your voice float out into the common room, quiet but certain, “You okay?” There was an immediate pause, then the hush of his footsteps over the rug–careful and soft.

“I can never s-sneak up on you to s-save my life,” Bob murmured, voice low, filled with fondness. You smiled to yourself, before peeking over the back of the couch.

There he was–half-silhouetted in the dim safety lights that lined the hallway, soft and rumpled in the way that only someone comfortable could be. He wore a loose, oatmeal-coloured sweater that hung nicely on his broad frame–even though it hid his body very well. The sleeves were pushed up slightly, exposing the strong but gentle veins of his wrists and hands. His sweatpants were charcoal gray, slung low on his hips, the drawstring left loose. He looked good. Not fully put-together, but soft around the edges, his light brown hair tousled and curling slightly at the ends like he’d towel-dried it but never bothered to brush it out. There were faint smudges of exhaustion painted under his eyes, but it didn’t dim the quiet kind of brightness he always carried when he was near you.

He looked like he needed rest, not sleep.

You tilted your head against the armrest, eyes warm, “That’s because your footsteps give you away, you’ve got an odd shuffle and rhythm to your steps. Might as well give yourself a megaphone to announce yourself.” Bob gave a soft huff of a laugh, his hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck.

”T-That bad, huh?” You shook your head.

”Nope,” You responded, shifting yourself up the armrest a bit to make room for him in the subtle way you always did, “That familiar.” You added, correcting him.

That seemed to hit Bob somewhere tender, and his eyes seemed to soften even further, crossing the room without another word. You watched as he moved through the dim light, past the cluttered coffee table, being careful not to disturb a single thing–like he didn’t want to risk breaking the quiet rhythm of your space.

As soon as Bob reached the couch, you shifted instinctively. Your body moved with the ease of routine–pulling your knees up just enough to let him ease down into that familiar spot between your legs, right where he always settled. You lifted the blanket and let it fall gently over the two of you, your legs bracketing his hips while he lowered himself with a long, quiet exhale.

The back of his head pressed against your chest with practiced familiarity, as his entire body settled into the spot you had created for him countless times. You brought your arm around him without a word, your hand settling flat across the center of his chest–right where his heart always raced a little faster when you touched him. The other slipped into his hair immediately, combing through the soft light brown locks, smooth from the dampness that kissed them. The moment your nails scraped gently across his scalp, Bob let out a sound that was barely a breath, a complete embodiment of relief, all encompassed in a simple sound.

He melted beneath your hands, and his body softened against yours. You felt him reach down to hold your shin, his thumb dragging slowly over your silky flesh, grounding lines across the bone like he couldn’t stop himself from touching you–even if it was a quiet gesture, even if it was small.

You dipped your head slightly and kissed the side of his neck, just beneath the curve of his jaw, then again, just a little lower–gentle, and unhurried like you had all the time in the world to love him the only way you knew how.

“I was h-hoping you were gonna come to m-my room tonight,” He said after a moment, voice low, almost shy. It came out between one of your passes through his hair. You smiled against the skin of his neck.

”Well, I was going to finish watching something, then I was gonna pay you a visit.” You explained.

“Could’ve t-told me…I would’ve come here sooner instead of w-worrying and thinking I-I did something wrong.” You kissed him again, this time closer to his ear.

”You know I always end up in your bed somehow…And if you did something wrong I would let you know immediately.” He let out a soft, fond breath through his nose.

”This is true…T-Though sometimes I end up in your bed…”You nodded.

”Yeah that’s happened a few times,” You teased, fingers curling gently through his hair again, smoothing the locks down against his neck, “I wake up and suddenly you’re at my door, dragging your whole blanket with you like a sleepy cryptid.” Bob let out a soft hum, the kind of sound that came from deep inside his chest–content, unguarded. His body shifted slightly against you, nuzzling closer into you, like he was trying to disappear into your body.

You smoothed your hand over his chest once more, slipping down to the hem of his sweater to find the warmth of his skin. He didn’t flinch at the contact, he never did with you, though his breath hitched slightly, before steadying a few seconds later–like your touch sucked him into your rhythm.

That was the thing about you and Bob. You were together, and everyone knew that. It didn’t need to be defined or declared or shouted from the rooftops. There was no public claim, no ‘soft launches,’ because there didn’t need to be. Because Bob revolved around you like you were the sun and the moon and the space in between.

And in your own quiet, steady way–you revolved around him too.

You weren’t loud about it. You didn’t have to be. You showed your love and care for each other in your own ways. You showed it in how you saved him the last of your tea, even when you wanted to finish the entire pot. He showed it in how he brought you your favourite socks when your feet got cold, or how you took the time to sew any of his sweaters back together where the stitching had frayed from his nervous picking. He carried your bags without being asked, and you ran your fingers through his hair every time he settled between your legs like this–like you were his home, gravity and oxygen all encompassed in a body.

People could see it.

They saw it in the way Bob looked at you like nothing else existed in the room. In the way his voice softened when he said your name, like he was daydreaming about you constantly, and in the way he would hand over his heart, his peace, and his soul for you without hesitation, even though he already had, repeatedly.

Yelena had once muttered under her breath that the two of you shared one brain cell and one heartbeat, which was an accurate representation of how important the both of you were to each other.

Bob’s thumb continued its slow path along your shin, tracing a pattern only he seemed to know. A map, maybe–one he’d memorized without meaning to. You were still brushing your fingers through his hair, slow and rhythmic, and the moment you leaned down to kiss the side of his neck again, you felt the way his breath caught in his chest, as he cleared his throat a little, like there was a lump forming in it.

He shifted just enough so he could tilt his head back, eyes angled toward the ceiling like he was thinking too hard, or working up to something. You knew that look very well, so you waited for him to talk.

When he finally decided to start speaking, his voice was quieter than usual–thick with something tender and just a little unsure, “Do you…Do you ever think a-about what it’d be like if things were…Y’know, d-different?” You tipped your head down a bit, your lips brushing his temple.

”Different how?” The muscles of his stomach tightened and twitched beneath your touch as you traced a small square on his skin.

”Like…I-If we weren’t doing this whole…Thunderbolts thing…If w-we had time to breathe. Time to just…” He hesitated, then let out a breathy laugh, embarrassed by the sheer softness of it, “Get married…And stuff.” You raised your eyebrows at the way he casually dropped the word ‘married’ so easily, even though it shouldn’t have surprised you one bit–it still hit you hard right in the chest. You let out a sigh, trailing your kisses down to his neck again, slowly.

”You wanna marry me, Bob?” You asked gently, your breath tickling the shell of his ear. He could hear the smile forming on the words, and he replied immediately.

”I’ve wanted t-to since the first time I saw y-you.” Your hand stilled in his hair. He wasn’t joking, and you could feel it in the way his whole body tensed up slightly, and in the way his hand squeezed your leg.

”You didn’t know me then,” You whispered, nipping at his earlobe to give him a bit of a jolt. He let out a nervous laugh, and shifted against you again, his head turning to the side so he could see you.

Even in the dim light, his eyes burned like candle lit oceans–deep and quiet and startlingly blue. Not just one shade, but every possible one layered like secrets: pale frost near the center, ringed with a darker rim of indigo that made them seem impossibly vast. You could’ve drowned in them and not minded at all. There was something raw in the way they looked at you–like he wasn’t just seeing you, but eteching you into his brain. Like every breath you took bent the tide of something inside him.

“I know,” He replied, “But w-when I looked at you, I knew you w-were going to wreck me.” You smirked, feeling your heart pounding against your chest.

”Wreck you, huh?” He huffed again, as your arm tightened around him.

”I-I don’t mean it like that. I-I mean…The kind of wreck where you just change e-everything. Where s-someone walks into your life, and s-suddenly your whole world shifts, and everything y-you thought mattered stops mattering. I-It all just centers around them…” You could feel heat creeping up on your cheeks, “That’s what y-you were,” He continued, voice low and sincere, “You walked in l=like you didn’t even know what you were doing…And I thought–o-oh, there you are. There’s the r-rest of my life.” You took in a shaky breath, untangling your hand from his hair so you could gently cradle his neck, giving him the softest kiss you could muster.

It barely felt like pressure–more like a secret passed between breaths. It wasn’t rushed or rough, it was close. Your nose brushed his cheek as your lips moved together, slow and searching, and when he exhaled against your skin–shaky, sweet, desperate in the way only Bob Reynolds could be–it felt like your entire chest lit up.

He kissed you back with that same trembling care, one of his hands still resting on your shin, the other hovering just slightly over your thigh that was pressed against the couch, like he didn’t know where to touch without worship. His lips parted against yours, chasing you when you pulled back just an inch to breathe.

“I didn’t know that’s what you were thinking,” You whispered, your thumb grazing the line of his jaw, “If I had, maybe I would’ve made things a little easier for you when you were trying to ask me out.” Bob’s cheeks flushed deeply, his neck blooming a light pink.

”D-Don’t remind me of those d-days, I-I always thought I was on the brink of c-collapse when you looked at me.” You laughed–soft and sudden, causing Bob to let out a small groan.

But then, without warning, he shifted–carefully turning in your arms until he was facing you fully. The movement wasn’t graceful. His long limbs tangled with yours, one knee catching on the blanket and nearly dragging it off the couch. You snorted out a laugh as he fumbled, nearly knocking your half-full mug of cold tea off the edge of the table.

”Careful, Bob,” You teased, voice caught between a giggle and a gasp as he braced himself with a hand near your ribs, “You look like you’re gonna drop off the couch if you make one wrong move.” You could feel him rest his other hand by your hip, his body hovering over yours. His weight dipped the cushions just enough to shift you both deeper into the well-worn couch, and he huffed softly as he tried to arrange himself without squashing you.

”I-I’m trying to be graceful here.” He muttered with all the pouty indignation of a man who absolutely knew he wasn’t. You smirked, as you slipped your hands up the back of his sweater, fingertips grazing the expanse of warm skin.

”Yeah, you’re about as graceful as a bull in a china shop.” Bob let out a laugh–low and bright, that boyish sound that made your stomach flip. It crinkled the corners of his eyes and brought a fresh flush to his cheeks, one you felt bloom under your palms as you dragged them up the ridges of his muscles.

“C’mon,” He chuckled, dipping his head to nuzzle into your neck, his breath tickling your skin, “T-That’s pretty unfair…A bull at least h-has four legs to balance on.” You raised your eyebrows.

”And you’ve got two very long, very clumsy ones,” You shot back, your grin wide now as your wraps wrapped loosely around his waist, anchoring him where he belonged, “I’m just waiting for the day you trip over your own feet and Sentry slams a hole through the wall trying to keep you safe.” He groaned dramatically, lowering himself slowly so his chest pressed to yours, his heartbeat thrumming into you.

”N-Not my fault I’m built like a walking c-coat rack,” He mumbled into your shoulder.

”No, it’s not…But I love you this way regardless.” Bob didn’t say anything back immediately, he just laid there, slowly melting into you with every breath. You felt it in the way his muscles eased, in the way his hand slipped from bracing to resting–flat against your ribs like he needed to feel the rise and fall of your breathing. His other hand smoothed along your hip, curling into the fabric of your sweatpants like he couldn’t help himself.

And then he shifted just enough to kiss you again–slow and soft.

When he pulled back, his gaze was clearer now, blue and bare and honest. He reached up, pushed a stray bit of hair from your face with trembling reverence, and murmured, “I-If I had a ring, I’d give i-it to you tonight.” Your heart was thudding now–not fast, but deep, like a bell tolling softly in your ribs.

You searched his face. There was no hesitation there. No nerves, no fear. Just Bob. Warm and open and golden, stretched out above you like a man who had found the only place he ever wanted to be.

So you slipped one of your hands out from beneath his shirt, and reached up to cup his cheek, brushing your thumb gently beneath the soft blue of his eye.

“You don’t need a ring,” You whispered. “You’ve already given me everything I need.” Bob leaned into your palm, like the weight of your touch was the only thing he trusted. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, lashes brushing against the skin of your thumb like feathers, and when he opened them again, they shimmered with something unspeakably soft.

“I s-still want to g-give you one,” He whispered, voice so low you almost missed it, “Even if you don’t need it. Even if we never have the time…I–I want you to have something to wear…S-Something that says you’re truly mine.” He added, gulping down the nerves that filled his throat, “I mean…You’ve always b-been, but…” His sentence trailed off, and his confidence flickered. You could see in his eyes that he was being dead serious, and all the feelings that were stacked high for you began to topple and unravel. So you kissed him again.

Not urgently, not possessively–just long and lingering, a kiss that said I know and I’m not going anywhere. His mouth parted against yours with a softness that undid you, with a sigh that tasted like devotion.

When you pulled back just enough to breathe, your forehead resting against his, you whispered, “We’ll make time for it…If that’s what you really want to do.”

That made his lips twitch into the smallest smile. Not his usual nervous, bashful one–but the kind that came from deep inside his chest. The kind that cracked through the walls he still sometimes tried to hold up. The kind that only you got to see. His hand squeezed your waist gently, before drifting up towards your ribs, fingers splaying gently over the cotton of your shirt. His palm settled beneath the swell of your chest, not in a way that asked for more, but in a way that just held.

”I-I do…With my whole heart…”

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monstersholygrail · 15 hours ago

Text

Rushing Rapids

Merman x fem!reader— teasing, wild sex, creampie, aftercare, and a little teasing of cumplay

You could count on one hand the number of times your Merman Boss has let you see his Merman form. Far too busy running a highly successful company, the man doesn't often have time for a dip in the water to let his true self out to shine.

In fact, it was your job as his bodyguard to make sure he didn't come into contact with any source of water. Even the slightest drop ends up triggering his tail and he's left stuck like that for hours. And while your boss has gone through countless bodyguards to fulfill this task, you've been by far the best.

And you've lasted the longest too. You often hear his workers whispering to each other, secretly teasing him about how he must be in love with you to keep you around so long. While you didn't want to believe it, you couldn't ignore the way your heart flutters whenever it greets your ears.

But after today you're sure any feelings he has toward you are long gone. You half expect him to fire you on spot.

Today had been an important day for him as he had a lunch scheduled with an important client. All was going well until the waiter tripped, sending an entire pitcher of water to crash over him. You had been too slow, hadn't noticed the waiter fumbling nor the trajectory of the pitcher.

For a moment the world went still until your Merman Boss looked up at you with wide horrified eyes. While you were sure the horror was aimed at you, your boss was too busy wondering where he was possibly going to go. Luckily it just so happened that your place was nearby.

Now here you are, sitting on your toilet as your Boss' ginormous frame squishes into your tiny bathtub, his tail even falling off the edge and onto your floor. An adorable little pout marks his lips as he flicks at the water like he's this close to personally trying to fight it.

A part of you fears he's not only angry at the water but at you as well. Sure, you haven't been perfect at your job. You've made small mess ups here and there. But nothing like this.

"You seem upset."

Your Boss snaps his head over toward you, his pout growing impossibly bigger. If you didn't already know the question was ridiculous, his following scoff and the look on his face was plenty enough for you to get the message.

"Of course I'm upset. I just had a very important meeting fall through because a clumsy waiter forgot what even a merperson can do. Walk. And most don't even have legs."

His response stops you in your tracks, jaw dropping a little. He wasn't blaming you at all. The more you look at him the more you realize he isn't mad at you about it at all. Relief blooms in your chest, making you sit a little taller. You internally thank your boss, he should feel some of this relief too.

Without responding to his sarcastic reply you look around the bathroom in search of something that will help uplift the mood for him. As your eyes catch onto a bin in the corner your eyes light up.

Your boss is jolted from his thoughts as you suddenly dump a whole bin full of rubber duckies into the tub. All in attempts of making this feel more like a fun bath and less like a trap. But by the flat look on his face your boss is less than amused. Which you probably should've been expecting.

"Really? Rubber ducks?"

His voice shows his clear disdain for the toy but he hesitantly reaches out a hand and begins pushing it around. Almost... playing with it. Although he'd never admit that to you.

"Well, what else is there to do besides wait it out? There's not any other way to turn you back sooner?"

Your question settles between you two before something sparks in the depths of Merman Boss' eyes. His finger stills on the yellow duck toy but it drifts away in the water and it's impossible to know where it'll end up next. Something unsettling churns in your belly and you get the feeling you're not about to like this.

"Ok, so there may be something... But I can't say it out loud. Come in closer."

A lick of suspicion curls around you and your eyes narrow, appraising your boss. Though with one impatient look from him you know you won't be putting up an argument with him about it. He always ends up getting his way anyway so why not skip the foreplay?

"W-what is it? What can't you say out loud?"

The toilet rattles beneath you as you shift closer. It's the only real sound in the quiet bathroom aside from the swishing of water. Your breath hitches once you reach a certain closeness to your Merman Boss. This being officially the closest you've ever dared to be with him.

"Closer—“

"I'll do anything just tell me what you need," you interrupt, both not wanting to lose your job and giving any excuse you can to be near your boss.

Suddenly his hands are splashing out of the water and gripping onto your soft round hips. A shriek tears through you as one minute you're dry and the next you're soaking wet. And not in the good way either. You smack against a hard chest, your legs straddling the thick width of a tail, and it takes you a second to fully realize that your boss had just pulled you in.

Before you can lift your head to yell at him, his fingers pinch your chin and force you to meet his gaze. What you see in his eyes immediately silences you. The hunger burning in them leaves you gasping, sparking arousal deep in your core.

He leans in, stopping just short of your lips as they brush against each other. Your breath mingling and making you squirm on his slick tail. While you watch him stare down at your lips, waves of arousal continue to build within you.

"A human's kiss can turn me back much faster than simply waiting," he whispers softly like he doesn't want to break the tension between you.

Your body tingles with need as every fantasy you've ever dared to have about your boss dares to come to life. Every inch of you is overcome with impatience as you wriggle on his lap some more, gasping when something hard pops out from a slit on his tail.

"So why don't you kiss me?"

If possible, your Boss' eyes grow darker, the hunger inside them roaring to life as if trying to consume even him. His hold on your chin tightens like he's the one who needs to keep you still while he's shaking from his own restraint.

"Because once I start I won't be able to stop at just a kiss."

You go to ask what he means he bucks up his hips, intently brushing his rock hard cock along your clothed slit. And you immediately moan, totally unprofessional by the way, eyelashes fluttering briefly till you manage to look at your boss again.

You consider his words and what they could mean for you after this. But you want this, you've always wanted this since you first started working for the mysterious man. And it seems like he wants you just so much. So there's no need to fight it.

"Then don't stop," you reply.

Merman Boss surges forward before the words finish falling from your lips, his mouth clashing against yours. Mirroring moans vibrate between you like you're the sweetest damn thing he's ever tasted.

He presses into you as if trying to devour you, kissing you hard. Tongues fight for dominance and teeth knock together in your sheer desperation to make up for all the time you spent together not doing this.

His hand moves from your chin, caressing the skin of your cheek, and threading itself inside your hair. Ensuring you're real and that this is actually happening. Using his hold on you he molds your plump frame against his and starts rocking your core against his hard length.

"Get these off," he pants heavily, only breaking away from the kiss long enough to say that and then he's right back on you.

With a shocking amount of skill, the two of you manage to peel off your wet clothes in record time.

Both of you release strong powerful moans as your dripping cunt first makes contact with his thick girth. Every nerve in your body pulses as he takes hold of his cock and drags it through your folds, coating his length with your essence.

"You have no idea how long l've wanted this. Wanted you,” he breathes, his eyes shining with a longing that reflects your own.

"I have some idea."

Then you both moan as you sink down on his long pulsing cock, your hips buckling down on his length, taking him in hard and fast. Something ignites in your boss’ eyes and you shiver as his hands curl over your plush waist to help guide your movements.

But he has no idea how long you’ve been needing this, and it’s clear by the way his eyes widen as you start to ride him like your life depended on it. Your fingers dig into the scales on his shoulders to ground you and he hisses, his cock twitching and sliding against that special spot inside you.

With a fierce cry you start riding him even harder, every hard wet slap of your bodies meeting is aimed right for that spot, making you see stars. The water sloshes around in the tub like it’s in the midst of a raging storm when in reality it’s just you and your boss fucking each other’s brains out.

“Look at you, so perfect f’me. More than I ever realized,” your boss purrs, sounding as if he’s found the oceans most greatest treasure.

You moan loudly, your head rolling back as waves of pleasure rock through your body with every hard pump of his cock, his words only turning you on even more. Your body begins to buzz, on the precipice of something huge.

It only takes a few more pointed thrusts before you’re coming all over his cock with a ragged gasp, your body tensing before you sag against him, letting him take what he needs. And feeling your slick gummy walls clamping so deliciously on his length drives him nearly feral, his fangs flashing and his claws digging into your skin.

He moves your pussy up and down his cock, spurred on by every whine and whimper that falls from your mouth. Piercing growls slip from his own as your cunt drives him absolutely insane, he’s never felt anything better.

And he proves just that as he drives in as far as his cock can go and releases buckets of cum right into your depths, having never cum so hard in his life.

You both fall back to rest against the back of the tub, the only sound in the room being your harsh panting breaths. His hands smooth the tremors from your body, brushing up along your spine and holding you close. It’s nice and peaceful. Or is it the calm before the storm?

Because the longer he does it the action goes from soothing to arousing. And you know he can feel it too, just how much it’s affecting you. Your pulsing walls already trying to milk more from his spent shaft. And sea gods help him but it’s working.

“You know… it’ll still be some time before my tail fades. Why not make the most of it?” Your boss asks, hands sliding down to grab handfuls of your fat ass, and flexing his stomach as he rolls his hardening cock into your cum-filled cunt.

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theundercoversquid · 2 days ago

Text

Cat Sitting

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Reader

Summary: Your Buckys catsitter, and well, maybe Alpine isn't the only one you need to look after

Warnings: Bob

Masterlist

Walking up to the old Stark tower, come Avengers tower, come whatever the hell this was, was not how you were expecting to spend your Friday evening. Yet here you were. Alpine, Buckys cat, cuddled to your chest. Her harness was on and her lead in hand. But the cat was happy pressed against you. Purring contentedly as you narrated your thoughts to her.

"The things I do for your dad." You murmur to the cat, looking up at the towering skyscraper.

You had always been Buckys' go-to person when someone had to look after Alpine, I mean, what were friends for? But when he asked you to drop Alpine off here instead of his flat, you had been confused. But went through with his request anyway. You knew that Bucky wouldn't let anything bad happen to Alpine, and that meant, by extension, you. It was a close-run thing about who Alpine loved more, you or Bucky.

Heasitenly, you recheck the message that Bucky had sent you before stepping into the building and walking up to the lifts. Pressing the call button, you wait for one to arrive, anxiously stroking Alpines fur as you wait.

When a lift dings to tell you it has arrived, you step in. Pressing the floor Bucky had told you to, and feeling as if it takes you up.

When the lift comes to a stop, you step out into the seemingly deserted building.

"Hello." You call out hesitantly. "Bucky!" You call a bit louder this time as Alpine jumps out of your arms, landing on the ground. But still, you make sure to keep hold of her lead. Not quite trusting this strange environment.

But only silence greets you, and then the sound of shuffling feet has you turn to see a man heading in your direction, well, more like shuffling hesitantly in your direction.

"Hello?" You greet the strange person. But their eyes are firmly set on Alpine as they shuffle towards her before bending down to give the cat some fuss.

You wait for a few moments as they give Alpine some fuss before finally butting in.

"Excuse me," You call softly. Casing their head to suddenly turn to you, looking sheepish. "You wouldn't know where Bucky is by any chance." For a moment, you feel like you are going to get lost in his eyes. But you shake yourself out of it.

"Oh, sorry," the stranger murmurs, a hand coming up to fiddle with the cuffs of his sweater. "Bucky got called out last minute, but he warned me you would be coming around. he told me to tell you that he will be back soon. You can wait if you want, or you can leave Alpine with me." The stranger murmurs.

"I take it that means that you are Bob, then," you murmur. Leaning down to unclip Alpine's lead, giving her the space to roam if she wants to. Not that it looks as if she wants to go anywhere with Bob giving her fuss, so you also croach down storing the spoiled cat.

"Oh," Bob murmurs, not looking at you as he instead looks at Alpine. "You know who I am?"

"Bucky mentioned you." You admit with a shrug, also looking at Alpine instead of the man opposite you.

"What did he say?" Bob asks. Somehow, his voice seems almost even quieter, with a hesitant edge to it, as if he doesn't truly want to know what Bucky has to say about him.

"Not much." You admit truthfully. "After the attack on New York, I called him to make sure he was alright. I had seen him on the news, but I wanted to make sure he was really alright, you know. He told me some of what went down. Told me bits and pieces, I know he wants to tell me the whole story, but it's not the sort of thing you say over the phone. Then, when it came to dropping Alpine off, he mentioned that you may be around."

"That's all?" Bob murmurs, half glancing towards you, as if he wants to look at you but can't bring himself to.

"Pretty much," you shrug. "Why? Is there something else he should have told me?" You question before pausing. "You aren't allergic to cats, are you?"

"No." Bob blurts out suddenly, and you don't know which of your questions he is answering. "I mean no," Bob murmurs. "No to all of them."

"That's good." You nod. "It would be a bit awkward if you were allergic to cats, given Alpine is going to be loving with you.

"What about you?" Bob murmurs. "Do you live with Bucky and Alpine?"

"Oh no." You laugh. "Just an old friend. Well, not that old, given how old Bucky is. But I have been a friend of his for quite a while. Steve introduced us to each other. Brings back memories being back at this place."

At that Bob finally looks up at you, he hesitates, looking as if he is going to say something, but before he can pluck up the corage you can here the sound of the lift going of, filled by the sound of the doors opening and overlaping voices greet you as the others emerge from the lift. All talking over each other about something or another.

But at the sight of you and Bob crouched down to the ground giving fuss to a snow white cat, all conversation halts.

"Alpine!" Bucky call, grinning as he spots his cat. Alpine has also spotted Bucky stands up, running at him, before she throws herself at him. The man catches her effortlessly as he cradles her to his chest, giving her fuss.

"Who are you?" A woman with bleached blond hair standing next to Bucky asks, her accent thick.

Standing up, you hesitantly wave at the group, telling them your name. "I'm an old friend of Buckys and sometimes cat sit for him." You pause for a moment, hesitant before you carry on. "I also have Nat's cat." You murmur. "Liho. She used to leave her with me." At the mention of Nat, both the woman you're assuming to be Yelena and an older man's heads snap to look at you, their eyes intent. "I was going to bring her as well, but she was determined she didn't want to come." With their eyes intent on you, you can't help but carry on rambling. "I can bring her around if you want to meet her." You finally offer a trial.

"Yes," the older man nods. "That would be good." His accent also thick.

"I'm going to go now." You announce feeling awkward. "Call me if you need any more cat sitting," you tell Bucky. Edging around the imposing crowd as you make a bid for the lifts.

"Wait. A voice called, forcing you to stop and turn around. All eyes have now turned to Bob as he seems to shrink under their gaze. "Do you maybe want to stay?" Bob murmurs. "You could stay for supper."

"Oh," you murmured, a little surprised at the sudden request. Turning to look at Bucky, not sure what to do. But you can see him already nodding. Agreeing with Bob's suggestion. "I would love to." You start before trialling of, "It's just that I have some things I need to do, and then I will need to get back to Liho." You murmur.

"Oh," Bob deflates a little, taking what you have said as a not ever, when in fact it is a not now.

"That doesn't mean I would want to come for dinner some night." You amend quickly. "Just not tonight."

Bob seems to perk up a little at that, as everyone else just seems to carry on, staring at you. Well, everyone but Bucky, who had gone back to giving Alpine fuss.

"I'm going to go now," you murmur, making a bid for freedom. You end up practically running out of the Avengers Tower. Rushing out into the street, you know you have safely blended into the crowd.

You truly did mean your offer, you would love to stay for the supper. But tonight was not the night for it. Not least because you hadn't had the time to mentally prepare for it.

When Bucky had asked if you could pet sit Alpine, you had thought absolutely nothing of it. It was rather a common that you had to look after the snow white cat.

When he had asked if you could come to the Avengers tower to look after Alpine, you hadn't thought that much of it. Poor Alpine had just moved to a new home with new people. It would make sense that Bucky would want her to get used to that new environment.

What had made you suspicious, however, was Buckys' insistence that he had left instructions on the counter that you had to read. You had pet-sat Alpine enough times that you knew her as well as you knew your own cat. For heaven's sake, Alpine was practically your second cat.

But no, Bucky had some new instructions you just had to read, and being the trusting person that you were, you just chalked it up to being instructions about the new location. When to take the bins out. That sort of thing.

So you packed up the clothes you would need for the week he was going to be away. Also, packing up all of Liho's things.

Then, when everything was finally ready, you headed across to the Avnerger towers. From what Bukcy had told you, he had given Alpine breakfast before leaving that morning. So you were arriving an hour or two later.

When you get into the complex, the doors to the lift open. Silence greets you as you step out into the main room, but you can't see anyone or anything around.

"Alpine!" You call gently as you make your way into the kitchen. At your words, you can hear a soft thump followed by hurried paws as Alpine rushes to make her way to you.

Liho is still half asleep, swaddled in a pappus, so you open your other arm up to Alpine, who happily leaps into it. Purring as you cradle her.

Then, with two cats, one in each arm, you turn to read the instructions that Bucky had left you.

The instructions start normally enough. How the hob works, when to take the bins out, how the heating works and all those sorts of things. There are then a few comments on where Alpine likes to sleep, in case you can't find her. Then, when you turn that page, you can see that the title is simply: Bob.

Which confuses you? As far as you were aware, Bucky had gotten another cat, and if he had, why would he give it the same name as his teammate and the person that he lived with? But still you read his instructions, and as you read them, you feel more and more sorry for this poor cat.

When you get to the end, you fold the piece of paper up. Tuck it in your pocket before you head off around the facility. Two cats are still cradled to you as you go.

"Bob!" You call softly so as not to startle the cat.

What you were not expecting was for Bob the human to suddenly sit up on the sofa he had obviously been lying down on. His sudden appearance startles you. But somehow you remain upright and with both cats still in your arms.

Bob seems equally startled to see you as you both stare at each other with wide eyes for a moment.

"What are you doing here?" Bob suddenly asks before his eyes widen again. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that." He rushed to amend, but you assured him it was all right.

"I'm cat sitting." You explain to him. Gently lifting Alpine up in your arms. "Though I have yet to meet Buckys' new cat."

"New cat?" Bob questions, looking confused.

"Yeah," you nod. "He left me a note about him." You explain as you pull the note from your pocket. Holding it out to Bob.

Tentatively, Bob takes the paper from your outstretched hand

You watch him as he reads it. His face changes as he gets further down the paper.

"Uh," Bob murmurs. "I think that's me."

"Oh," you murmur, not suddenly making sense. "I'm going to kill Bucky." You murmur, your head dropping down to land on Lihos head as the cat meows at you.

Bob seems to take your reaction the wrong way.

"You don't need to stay if you don't want to." He rushes to assure you. "I can look after Alpine for you."

"Nope," You shake your head. "It looks like I have two cats and a human to look after."

With that, you deposit both cats onto Bob's lap. "Now, when did you last eat a proper meal?"

Bob pauses. Taken aback by your words, he strokes the cats. But then you can see as he starts to think about your questions.

"Well, that's answer enough, you tell him. Turning your head towards the kitchen, any allergies or dietary restrictions?" You call over your shoulder.

"Uh, no?" Bob calls back.

"Perfect." You call over your shoulder before you step into the kitchen.

Now, maybe when you had first entered the Avengers, you hadn't been expecting to have to look after two cats and a human. But you weren't going to leave Bob alone in the tower by himself. Who knows, maybe the company may do him a little bit of good.

But that wasn't to say you were going to kill Bucky when he got home.

#thunderbolts #thunderbolts*#thunderbolts x reader #thunderbolts imagine #bob imagine #bob reynolds #robert reynolds #robert reynolds x reader #sentry #sentry x reader #bob x reader #robert reynolds imagine #robert reynolds fanfiction #sentry imagine #sentry fanfiction #thunderbolts fanfiction #bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds imagine

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pink-petal-horns · 2 days ago

Text

Dumb & Poetic

Bob Floyd x Fem!Reader

You always liked the loud ones.

The guys who knew how to work a room, throw a wink, rattle a bottlecap on the table with a cocky laugh. You’d fall for them fast, just as fast as they’d forget to call you back.

There was something about their edges, the way they caught the light like shiny things you knew better than to touch, but always did anyway.

And then—Bob.

Not flashy. Not loud. Not even remotely interested in taking up space he didn’t earn.

Which, in your history of “types,” meant you almost missed him entirely.

—

You met him in the bar one night, the kind of night when the Navy pilots swarm Hard Deck like it’s their own little arena. Jake Seresin—Hangman—was holding court at the pool table, Phoenix was tossing darts with deadly aim, and Bob?

He was sitting in the corner. Reading. Reading, in a bar where everyone was busy being a headline.

You had a drink in your hand and a headache from someone else’s charm. So when you noticed the quiet guy with the soft eyes and crooked smile trying to make himself smaller in a crowd that prized the biggest personalities, something in you tugged.

“What are you reading?” you asked, easing into the chair beside him.

Bob blinked like he hadn’t expected anyone to approach him—definitely not you, in a leather jacket and lip gloss and the remnants of someone else’s kiss still cooling on your neck.

“Just, uh, Dandelion Wine,” he said, showing you the cover. “Ray Bradbury.”

You tilted your head. “You read that for fun?”

He gave you a sheepish shrug. “It’s kind of… dumb and poetic, I guess.”

You laughed. It was the first real laugh you’d had in a while.

—

You didn’t mean to fall for Bob Floyd.

But he had this way of making you feel seen—not watched, like the other guys, but understood.

He asked questions and actually waited for your answers. He remembered little things, like how you hated cold drinks without straws and how your favorite song made you cry in a good way.

He didn’t flirt in the traditional sense. He didn’t make you dizzy. He made you safe.

You weren’t used to safe. You were used to boys who recited lyrics and sonnets with the same sincerity they used to pick up the bartender two nights later.

But Bob?

Bob didn’t need metaphors.

—

It was three months in when you finally cracked.

You were sitting on the hood of his car, the stars out, the air between you easy and warm. He’d just driven you back from a beach bonfire, and you still had sand in your hair and sun on your cheeks.

“I don’t get you,” you said.

Bob blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”

“You’re just—” you huffed. “You don’t try to be anything. You’re not pretending. You don’t even flirt right.”

He chuckled, then turned his head to face you. “And that’s a problem?”

“No, it’s just…” You bit your lip. “You’re not like the guys I usually go for.”

Bob’s eyes didn’t flicker. “Guess I should take that as a compliment or a warning.”

You looked at him, really looked. He had this steadiness to him. A kindness that wasn’t performative.

“You should take it as both,” you whispered.

He nodded once. “Okay.”

That was the thing about Bob. No dramatics. No fireworks. Just quiet understanding.

You leaned your head on his shoulder and wondered if he had any idea what he was doing to you.

—

You started to fall hard.

Not because he bought you flowers or shouted love songs from balconies. But because he held your hand like it was something sacred.

Because he showed up. Every time.

Because when you cried after a bad day, he didn’t try to fix it with a joke or a kiss. He just sat with you. Quiet. Present.

Bob Floyd never made you feel like you had to perform to be loved.

And God, you were so used to performing.

—

It was your birthday when it happened.

The bar was packed. Everyone was there. The guys were drinking, dancing, yelling over each other. You were in the middle of it, spinning in a dress that someone else once told you was “too much.”

Bob walked in a little late, glasses slightly fogged, holding a cupcake instead of a gift.

He looked awkward and adorable and entirely out of place in the chaos.

But when you saw him, you stopped spinning.

You walked straight over to him, heart thudding.

“You came,” you said.

He held up the cupcake. “I didn’t know what to get you. But you said once you loved funfetti. This one’s got rainbow sprinkles.”

You blinked back something suspiciously close to tears.

“It’s dumb and poetic,” you said softly.

He smiled. “You like dumb and poetic.”

You pulled him down by the collar and kissed him. Right there, in the middle of the noise and the neon and the glitter of a life you were finally willing to leave behind.

—

It wasn’t always perfect.

You still had a sharp tongue. You still craved drama some nights. You picked fights when you felt too seen, too safe, too loved.

But Bob never raised his voice. Never threw your chaos back at you like a weapon.

He just waited. Anchored.

And one day, you looked at him across your messy kitchen table—his hair sticking up, wearing that NASA t-shirt you stole three weeks ago—and you thought, this is the kind of love that writes poetry in action, not words.

—

You used to fall for the ones who made you feel like fireworks.

Now?

You’d take Bob Floyd every time.

The one who never needed to be loud to be important.

The one who brought you cupcakes and calm.

The one who sat beside you, even when you didn’t make sense.

The dumb and poetic one.

Yours.

Always.

#bob floyd x reader #top gun maverick #robert floyd #bob floyd fic #bob floyd x you #lewis pullman x reader #lewis pullman fanfic #Slow burn love #dumb and poetic #Sabrina carpenter inspired #tumblr fanfiction #quiet love #soft boys #lewis pullman

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sturniolobliss · 3 days ago

Text

⌗ . . . ❛ 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐬 ❜ christopher sturniolo.

warnings ◞ ˚˖ ࣪ ex!chris, light angst, emotional vulnerability, drunk calling, explicit and suggestive content, heartbreak, longing, mentions of masturbation, guilt . . . etc.

note ◞ ˚˖ ࣪ bow divider by @/bernardsbendystraws · · ୨୧

read part two next!

you miss the first call. then the second. by the time your phone lights up for the third time—chris, glowing across the screen—your chest tightens with that old, unwelcome ache you've spent weeks trying to forget.

you don't answer.

not the fourth time. not the fifth.

by the seventh, he stops calling. starts leaving voicemails instead.

you stare at the notifications for a while, thumb hovering. you know better. you know exactly what this will do to you.

still, you press play.

voicemail one — 2:06am

0:47

"hey. s'me. i mean… obviously s'me, right?"

he laughs, light and bitter. you can already tell he's been drinking. his voice is thick, a little slower than usual.

"i don't even know why m'calling. i shouldn't be. i just—fuck. i miss you. i know m'not supposed to say that. i swore i wouldn't say that.”

a pause. you can hear him breathing.

"i think you'd be proud, though. i've been really good at pretendin'. like you don't come up when someone mentions that movie we loved or when i see someone with that hairstyle you always got or hear a song that sounds like you. i jus' swallow it. every time. like s'nothin'. but tonight i guess i forgot how to do that."

beep.

voicemail two — 2:11am

1:28

"you remember that playlist you made me? the one with all the dumb transitions? i listened to it tonight."

a quiet sound, maybe the shuffle of him sitting down.

"it still smells like you in my hoodie. i don't even wear it anymore. jus'—jus' leave it folded. fuck, i sound pathetic."

another pause. longer this time. then:

"i keep dreamin' 'bout you. about your hands. about the way you used to look at me when y'wanted somethin'. i wake up hard and aching and still smelling you in the sheets, even though you're not there. even though s'jus' me."

his voice drops, softer now, tired.

"you ruined me, y'know that?"

beep.

voicemail three — 2:18am

2:14

"i keep tryin' to find pieces of you in other people."

the silence on this one stretches. you hear the drag of a sigh, like he's trying not to cry.

"but they don't laugh like you. they don't kiss like you. they don't know how to touch me the way you did. no one ever fuckin' knew like you did."

his voice breaks on that last part. your throat goes tight.

"and i hate it. i hate you for it. for knowin' me that well. for leavin' anyway."

then quieter, like it slips out without permission—

"i'd let you wreck me again if it meant you'd come back."

beep.

voicemail four — 2:24am

3:09

he's whispering now. and you realize, with a jolt, he's not alone in his bed.

he's talking to you like you are.

"you used to say my name so sweet, remember? chris. chris. chris—like it was yours."

a rustle of blankets, maybe skin.

"sometimes i touch myself to the sound of your voice. not even dirty shit—jus' the way you'd say good morning. or fuck off. or i love you."

your breath catches.

"m'hard right now. been hard since the second ring."

you freeze.

"i don't care if you listen to this. i want you to. i want you to know you still do this to me. that no one's ever made me fall apart jus' by existing."

he groans softly.

"you always knew how to break me. and you always loved it."

beep.

voicemail five — 2:32am

4:11

"y'said no one else would understand me the way you did."

he's breathless now. slower. like he's working through something, deep in it.

"you were right. they don't."

a low noise—his throat, a choked-off moan.

"i was gonna call someone else tonight. someone easy. but it didn't feel right. because she's not you. her hands aren't yours. her mouth doesn't taste like fire and vanilla chapstick and every fuckin' thing i ever needed."

you close your eyes, biting your lip.

"if you were here right now, i'd get on my knees. tell you m'sorry. beg. let you sit on my face until i couldn't breathe. jus' to feel useful again."

his breathing is louder now. uneven.

"you always made me feel owned. and i fuckin' loved it."

beep.

voicemail six — 2:38am

1:59

"i came," he says, and it's so quiet, so wrecked, your heart nearly caves in.

"i came thinkin' about you. still holdin' my phone. still waitin' for you to pick up."

he laughs, but it's hollow.

"you didn't. you won't. i know.”

a pause.

"but fuck, i needed you to hear it. needed you to know i still think about you. every time. every fuckin' time."

another pause. longer. heavier.

"god, m'so tired. i miss your voice. i miss your laugh. i miss your mouth and the way you used to pull my hair and tell me to be quiet."

you can hear it again in his voice—the unspoken thing underneath.

"you always ruined me in the best ways. i think you still are."

beep.

voicemail seven — 2:43am

0:22

"delete these," he says, voice almost clear this time.

"or don't. i don't care. jus'… don't hate me more than you already do."

a soft inhale.

"i meant all of it."

click.

꒰ 🏷️ ꒱ : @sturniolo-szn2 / @mattscoquette / @sturnsflirt / @tezzzzzzzz . . . .ᐟ

comment or message to get added · · ୨୧

#◞ ˚˖ ࣪ 𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐒 #sturniolobliss #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo triplets #sturniolo smut #sturniolo #sturniolo x you #sturniolo x reader #nicolas sturniolo #nick sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #chris sturniolo #chris sturniolo imagine #matt sturniolo imagine #fanfic

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draftbeerbibi · 3 days ago

Text

FOR ME, IT WILL ALWAYS BE YOU - Sylus x Non MC! ( Part 5 )

Summery: you find yourself in lads universe after a particularly close interaction with truck kun. How does life go from here after arriving in the N109 zone leaders backyard when MC hasn’t arrived yet?

Disclaimer, Sylus might be OOC, since i’m not very good at writing so bear with me. This will be multiple parts!

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4

You were fiddling with your bracelet.

One you had been graciously gifted by Sylus for the auction under the pretense of it otherwise ‘gathering dust’ in his humble abode, but you had seen him looking online for it, searching for just the right one.

You heard the clock strike 12, but sleep would not come, tossing and turning, but nothing helping. You were certain you had exhausted all possible sleeping aids so you decided to just get out of bed and maybe grab a bite. Sylus and the twins are always asleep by this time, and the base was very big, so you weren't worried you would run into them.

Except for the fact you had forgot to factor in that with MC in the picture, Sylus wasn't very nocturnal anymore, his usual sleeping time now filled with trying to resonate with miss hunter, and not succeeding, and making sure she gets comfortable enough with him.

You're in your pj's, t-shirt drooping off of your shoulder as you shuffle into the kitchen. Though you had grown accustomed to the N109 zone's perpetual darkness, you missed the kiss of the suns warmth at times you felt so cold inside you wondered if anything would ever be able to warm you again.

The base is once again silent, his text from yesterday haunted your mind. You knew he wouldn't let this go, but you were a coward, so you chose to run away while you still could.

You sigh, shaking your head, as if that would make all the thoughts go away. You honestly weren't even hungry but you needed to do something to take your mind off of things. Wrapping your bedhair in a messy bun you shuffle around the kitchen looking for an easy meal.

Sylus being Sylus, he has a plethora of food sources up for grabs, so you grab a simple ready made porridge from the shelf. As you read the instructions you hear the front door open and muffled voices echoing through the corridor.

One obviously belonging to Sylus, and the other being much more high pitched you figure it was a female, specifically, the one who had shaken up everything you had just built up in the past 4,5 months.

Your shoulders stiffen without meaning too. Their voices sounded like sandpaper to you, grating past your skin, leaving your nerves open and exposed. But his voice, oh how soft it was, agitatingly teasing, but not directed at you. No, his precious miss hunter was now the center of his attention.

Your hands stop moving as your attention unwillingly centers around their conversation. To your surprise however, miss hunter hadn't sounded like she had warmed up yet at all. Curse you and your feeble hope. Though that didn't stop Sylus from almost cooing at his newfound 'lover'.

You will your hands to resume their task and pretend to be invisible. You hope he plays along. As the voices get closer you hear him faltering as he sees you in the kitchen.

You feel the blood rush to your ears, the sound so loud it drowns nearly everything else out. Heartbeat too fast, breathing once again to shallow. But then, he starts talking again, and moves away from the kitchen.

Your shoulders slump.

Without missing a beat, your eyes well up. Hot tears spill over your cheeks, and you don't even try to stop them anymore. It was useless anyway. You continued making the porridge, hands trembling slightly. How could he not even acknowledge your existence? You carefully put the porridge in the microwave, and just stare as the seconds tick by.

Numb.

That's the best way you could describe it at this point. It felt all wrong. You wanted to go home, but you weren’t certain you had a home anymore. You never really fit in. Neither here nor where you originally came from.

The microwaves harsh beep resounds through the kitchen, effectively snapping you out of your thoughts. You open the door and grab a towel to wrap around the now hot package of porridge.

You sit down at the kitchen counter and carefully open the package, nearly getting a third degree burn from the steam. You hiss as you blow on it. Moving so frantically you caught your own reflection in the oven. You looked horrid, dark circles encasing your eyes, cheeks hollower then you remember them being, and your hair disheveled.

You scoff at your own reflection. Pathetic. That was all you could think. You can’t even taste the porridge, but you shove it in nonetheless. Better something then nothing. It's become your mantra at this point.

The kitchen feels cold, the lack of companionship leaving the once warm and cozy kitchen feeling lost and deserted. The metal spoon feels foreign in your fingers as you softly poke your porridge. You discard the leftover half as you move to the bathroom. You decide it be best to take a shower, as to not draw too much attention to yourself.

You slowly undress yourself, turning on the shower to let it get to the right temperature. Once happy with said temperature, you brush out your hair and move under the shower head and let the borderline boiling water cascade down your body. You just stand there for a while, skin turning red and steam filling the bathroom.

Finally you move to clean yourself off and wash your hair. It had taken you longer then it usually would. Once done you dry yourself off and moisturize your skin, you take a second to think. Maybe you should just go out? You haven't gone out for a drink since you've been here. For a good reason of course, but maybe you could somehow sneak into Linkon and find a good bar there? That idea really struck a cord with you and you immediately look to put on something remotely wearable for a night out.

Entering the walk-in closet, you look at your small corner of clothes in the big room, made to fit hundreds of thousands of dollars of clothes. Unlucky for you, you had barely enough to fill up 3 shelves and have a couple clothes hanging. You do have a couple dresses but those are much to fancy for just a night out, so you hop into a short work skirt and a semi casual blouse and hold onto your heels as to not make to much noise when going out.

Applying a small layer of make up to hide the eyebags and make you look more alive, you feel adrenaline course through your veins. If Sylus caught you right now there was no way he would let you go. Or maybe he would? You weren't sure anymore. You check yourself out in the mirror, grinning softly when you don't look half dead and make way to the door as softly as you can.

In the hall you could hear Sylus's snores softly reverberate through the hall. Your heart clenches softly. The sound so achingly familiar, but no longer yours to dwell on. You call a cab, while surprised they even have cabs in the N109 zone. You put on your shoes and when the car arrives you get in softly and leave for Linkon.

~~~

The square is huge, and the sun was setting so beautifully. Sylus must be waking up right now. You missed the sun so dearly, so you just sit on a bench for a second, soaking up the lost time with your friend in space. The big fireball sets slowly, as if savoring the time with you just as much.

Taking a deep breath you realize you haven't smelled fresh air, truly fresh air, in months and a small smile graces your features. Once the sun has set completely you grab your phone and look for the nearest bar. Luckily for you, the nearest one was just a block away so you move from the bench to the bar.

For some reason your nerves are on edge, though you haven't seen Mephisto (You have learned all the birds hiding spots at this point) you felt like someone was watching you. Goosebumps form on your arm as you shake your head. You've just been on edge lately, your hormones and mental state are fried you tell yourself.

When you see the name of the bar illuminating the now darkening streets, you breathe a sigh of relief. Opening the mahogany doors your met with the smell of cigars, alcohol and cologne. Jazz music softly dances through the chatter of the people. You sit down at the bar and when the bartender asks you your order you ask him for a scotch neat, and as he walks away to grab your drink, you settle in your seat, focusing in on the way the trumpet conveys emotions that hit too close to home for your liking.

The clink of a glass makes you break your train of thoughts. You thank the bartender and take a sip of the amber liquid. The subtle burn flows down your throat and you feel yourself relax slowly. Though scotch would never be your first choice in other circumstances, it felt like it was called for today.

The chatter is consistent. You gaze at nothing really, letting your eyes cross the room as you take larger then necessary sips of your drink, and before you know it, your glass is empty. Ordering another one, you feel the familiar buzz of your phone still clutched in your hand.

You move it to your line of sight and your breath gets caught in your lungs when you see his name pop up. You don't even read the message, grabbing the drink that was just placed in front of you and downing it in one go. The burn was more significant this time and it makes you wince a bit. Tonight you were going to let go of everything, to the best of your abilities.

~~~

The cycle continues for a while, until you cannot read the time on your phone anymore and your positive that if you were to stand up right now your knees would buckle under the weight of the buzz in your brain.

It feels like it's been hours, maybe it has. You don't know anymore. When your certain you won't fall you get up to pay. The numbers felt astronomical to you, but you had gained Sylus's permission a long time ago to use his card, though you had never done so before, you decided today was the best time to do so.

The payment went through without a hitch and a lopsided grin dawns on your face. Your head was swimming and so was your vision, so finding the door turned out to be a bigger challenge then previously anticipated.

You not so graciously slam open the bar doors and inhale the fresh evening air. The temperature had dropped significantly, but being as inebriated as you were it didn't really bother you.

You walk. You don't know where, but for the first time in weeks, your heart didn't feel as heavy, and your steps felt almost giddy. Linkon was truly a sight to behold, technology far beyond what you had ever deemed possible, advanced to the point it was almost scary.

The buildings were tall, like, really tall. You marvel and look around in unabandoned glee. But then you feel it. An unfamiliar presence. You turn around as fast as you can without getting whiplash when suddenly your hoisted off the ground and tied up. You had no chance at resisting really so you let it happen.

Another deducted point in the battle between you and MC, because you could never fight your way out of this situation. So when the engine of the car your dumped into roars to life, all you can do is pray that Sylus still cares enough about you to come find you.

~~~

A/N: Y'all, thank you so much for the patience you have shown me! I'm very excited to know what you guys think of this new chapter! <33 Have a great day everyone💕

Taglist:

@jeondyy @animegamerfox @nm4565natty @famouschopshopgalaxy @supershygirl @justpassingdontworry @madam8 @babygirl-panda19 @sleepykittyenergy @corvid007 @bubera974 @t0rchknight @z3vl @lanxianschoenheit @paper--angel @dysphxriaii @strxw-bxrri @sillyfreakfanparty @cordidy @rynnpersonal @maria-elite @dana-nite @misselysia @phisen @wiosna88888 @hao-ming-8 @mentaltrouble2201 @gkfofucha @reni502 @0nychinus @lighting-and-shadow @harbingers-lullaby @yeahhemmings- @moonlight-dream54 @eialovescats @thisfeelswrong @cheshire-kitsune @nutshellera @mblaqgi @iunse @ninaaargh @tenaciouszombiewombat @sylusaethercore @000rpheus @udejoenrlddo @dyeinsomniadontwake @222410 @hon3yydew @angelwhizpers @dyeinsomniadontwake @starllight613 @pluto-890 a

#love and deepspace #lads #sylus #l&d #lads x you #sylus x reader #sylus x you #l&ds #for me it will always be you #angst #l&ds x you #l&ds x reader #fanfic #l&ds sylus #l&ds sylus x you #l&ds sylus x reader

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hearts4hughes · 2 days ago

Note

Please give us a Part. 2 of Rafe giving reader’s earrings to someone else 😭🥹🥹

part one

the next few days were rough. you hated how rafe could suck you back into his black hole after finally recovering from the first time through.

it was stupid, really. who cares if she has your earrings? they’re just a reminder of the years of your life with him. and yet, you still care. you care that she wore them, that she styled them better. you care that he pawned them off to her like they were from a cheap one-night stand.

you could delete his number, throw away all his things, pretend he never existed, but it doesn’t matter. because when the sunsets and the world quiets, you’re tossing and turning in your bed, praying you could fill the hole in your heart that he left.

the knock comes like guilt. it’s ten minutes past noon (you know because you’ve been checking your watch non-stop like it owed you something). you don’t answer at first. you stay curled up in the same hoodie you’ve been wearing since wednesday, half-watching the same show, half-hoping your phone lights up with his name, half-praying it doesn’t. math was never your thing, but you’re getting real good at fractions.

“it’s me.” his voice is hoarse. like he just woke up or hasn’t slept at all.

you don’t say anything. but your chest folds in on itself, bitter and too tender at the edges. it’s not fair, the way his voice still gets to you. still feels like home, even though it scorched every room. you open the door anyway.

he’s standing there in a black tee, wrinkled jeans, eyes hidden behind the kind of sunglasses he only wears when he’s hungover or trying to hide…maybe both.

in his hand he holds your earrings. they’re dangling, delicate, completely contrasting his calloused hands. the same ones he said “weren’t a big deal” when you asked.

you stare at them. then at him. and it’s like a rubber band snaps in your chest. he doesn’t say anything for a second. just rubs the back of his neck like he’s trying to massage the guilt out of his spine.

“i was drunk,” he says finally. “that night. i didn’t think.”

you blink. once. twice. “yeah, no shit.”

he flinches. good. a beat passes before he opens his mouth again, “i woke up the next morning hungover and feeling like a complete asshole. it wasn’t fair what i did.” the apology lingers on his tongue, but he’s too prideful and arrogant to say it.

you cross your arms, nails digging into your sleeves. “so what, you came to return them like a library book? little too late for that, don’t you think?”

he looks down and breathes in sharp. he holds it for a few seconds before releasing the breath like it was weight on his shoulders. “i couldn’t stop thinking about it,” he says. “about you. how you looked when you wore them. the way you used to play with them when you were nervous. i don’t know. i—” he cuts off, like the words catch in his throat and choke him.

“i told her she had to give them back,” he finishes. “said they weren’t hers to wear. she broke up with me after, but i’m not even sure if we were together.” he shrugs like it was just another day, like that same girl didn’t ruin your entire month.

your chest burns and your vision blurs and somewhere, deep down, something in you unclenches. he holds the earrings out without an argument. he doesn’t try to come inside, doesn’t even meet your eyes—almost as if he was scared he’d say something he’s regret if he did.

“i know i don’t deserve a second chance,” he says, quiet now. “but you deserve your things back. the ones that meant something.”

you don’t take them at first. just stood there with both of your hearts on your sleeves. the air around you feels thick enough to suffocate. then, slowly, your fingers brush his as you reach for them. he shivers…and you hate yourself for noticing.

“you should go,” you whisper because if you don’t say it now, you’ll let him stay. and you don’t know if you’ll survive that again.

he nods once. jaw tight. steps back. but before he turns away, he says it. he’s not loud, not begging. just a soft, broken thing he barely lets himself feel. “i miss you.”

and then he’s gone. you close the door with earrings clutched in your hand and heart bleeding into your sleeves.you miss him too. more than you’re caring to admit.

but this time, missing him has to be enough.

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @43hughes @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @favbrnette @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @bibissparkles @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife

#no happy ending…sorry #nora’s writings 💐#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron blurb #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron obx

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sugary-strawberry-shortcake · 3 days ago

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“Take It Off.” (Yandere Older Brother!Damian x Sister!YN)

A/N: if any of you want to be included in a taglist for my series 'Reverse Bloom‘ feel free to just tell me. in the next few days I’ll make a separate taglist post too.🩷

Damian didn’t understand it at first. Why something so small—so ridiculously insignificant—would make his skin itch.

A pink ribbon. Soft. Loose. Curled into her hair like something innocent.

But when she wore it, the world changed. People stared longer. Teachers smiled differently. Boys laughed too loud around her locker. They didn’t see her as Y/N Wayne—sweet, shy, quiet. Pure. They saw something else.

Something they wanted to reach for.

And that wasn’t allowed.

She didn’t understand. Of course she didn’t. She was always naïve like that—always thinking she could make friends in a city that breaks everyone. She still smiled like she didn’t know how this world worked. Like she hadn’t died in it once already.

And now that he remembered?

He couldn’t unsee it.

The photo of her corpse on the slab. Her hair matted. Her wrists bruised. Her ribbon cut and discarded on the floor.

So when she walked in with it again—smiling, soft, stupidly sweet—his control snapped.

She was his blood. His sister. The only other biological child of Bruce Wayne. She was his responsibility. His to protect. His to watch over. His to keep safe when the rest of the world failed.

If she wanted attention, she should’ve asked for his. Or the family’s. Not the world’s.

He was trained to defend.

They were not.

She didn’t get to offer herself up to the public like that. Not when she was already the only delicate thing left in this house. And if that meant taking the ribbon, the smile, the freedom from her—then so be it.

She didn’t understand yet.

But she would.

The car door shut behind her with a soft click, the leather seats still warm from the morning sun.

YN settled in quietly, brushing her fingers through her hair—just enough to fluff it a little. The pink ribbon rested neatly near her temple, tied in a small bow, the ends tucked into her curls.

It was a delicate thing.

Soft. Feminine. Innocent.

And Damian had been staring at it since the moment she stepped out of the house.

The car pulled away from the curb.

Neither of them spoke.

Until—

“Take it off.”

She blinked, glancing at him. “What?”

He didn’t look at her. His voice stayed flat.

“The ribbon. Take it off.”

Her hand hovered near it. “…Why?”

“You don’t need a reason. Just do it.”

She frowned. “It’s not hurting anyone.”

“It’s drawing attention.”

“And?”

Damian finally turned his head toward her, green eyes sharp.

“You know what kind of attention.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You can’t control how people look at me, Damian.”

“I can control how you present yourself.”

“Excuse me?”

He leaned slightly forward. “You think boys at that school aren’t already staring at you every time you walk through the hall?”

“I don’t care.”

“Well, I do.”

“You’re not my father,” she snapped.

“No,” he said, “but I’m stronger. Smarter. Faster. And unlike you, I understand what people are capable of.”

She glared at him, chin tilted. “You’re overreacting.”

“And you’re being reckless.”

“I’m wearing a ribbon.”

“A ribbon you don’t need,” he hissed, voice low and simmering.

Then—before she could flinch or pull away—his hand moved.

Fast.

Too fast.

She let out a startled gasp as his fingers curled into the fabric near her temple, not yanking—not quite—but firm, unyielding.

“Damian—”

She lifted her hand to stop him, but he was already there.

His other hand caught her wrist—easily. Her arm was like paper in his grip. His heart clenched. She was small. Frail. Soft in ways that didn’t belong in a world like Gotham. In a world he lived in.

And he knew it.

He had trained for war.

She could barely lift a textbook.

“Let go,” she whispered.

“Then stop acting like you’re not mine to protect.”

She froze.

His fingers slipped the ribbon from her hair. She tried to jerk back—not to fight, not really, just to reclaim a little space.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t loosen his hold until the ribbon was curled in his palm.

He looked at it.

Then looked at her.

Her hair was mussed now, the curl loosened where the ribbon had been. She looked younger. Smaller.

He hated that she looked upset.

He hated more that she still didn’t understand.

“Don’t wear things that make people look at you like that,” he said softly. “I won’t allow it.”

She stared at him, cheeks flushed, breathing tight.“You don’t get to decide what I wear.” He didn’t answer.

He just slipped the ribbon into his pocket and leaned back in his seat.

She turned toward the window, shoulders trembling with quiet frustration.

And neither of them said another word for the rest of the ride.

She never asked for the ribbon back.

And he never returned it.

Authors note:

my first drabble of a singular member. Will probably do a few more. If you have any requests feel free to tell them to me.:)

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sundayroadkill · 1 day ago

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🟣🚀 SPACE KIDS on comets, born to ride show me where LEGENDS go to DIE 💀🟢

i spend a lot of time thinking about how often this kid hangs out at his grave. was going to make just a lil gif but the power of mega mango songs possessed me 👻

#danny phantom #danny fenton #art #mine #uhhhhh idk what else to tag so ill ramble #this was some of the most fun ive had with art in a while #im mostly a beginner with animation so this was a challenge and i feel like i learnt a lot #im really proud of this and im really happy i was able to do something like this for one of my all time favorite medias from chilhood #hoorahhh #animation #mega mango

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hyperdeath-kisses · 20 hours ago

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I remember having severe mid-stomach pains that were specifically on my right side for awhile. They flared up here and there but they were unpredictable.

I went to the doctors and they did a couple tests and they went “I have no fucking idea what this is.” I was like “wtf do I do” they were like “drink this”. It was belladonna phenobarbital. (Great hangman word.) It was meant to shut down part of my brain that triggered pain in that area. I was like “what if it gets worse”, they were like “we’ll cross that bridge when we get there good luck”

I had this damn thing for years. One day I was in college working a late night in the computer lab. I had a bag of salt and vinegar chips as I typically did. I went to use the bathroom. I came out of the stall and I immediately hunched over in pain. Like a good seven out of 10 pain. I was in tears just curled up on the floor. It was the dead of night and there were only 1-2 girls working with me. 😅 So I laid on the floor for a while. Finally, one of my friends heard me through the door and burst into the room. He took me to the ER that night.

After waiting in the waiting room for over four hours, and finally getting my own cot, the doctor did a whole bunch of scans and found again nothing. They had no medicine to treat me, but the IV that they put in my arm made me feel better.

Several years had passed and I was at my job and I punched in. I noticed I had a stomach ache. I shrugged it off no big deal. Around 2 o’clock in the afternoon the stomachache got progressively worse and that pain in my side returned. I thought I was being a wimp, but I decided to go home early that night. The pain started progressively getting worse. I tried weighing in bed. I tried ibuprofen. I tried taking a shower, a hot shower, a cold shower, nothing. I started getting really panicky. I went to the ER.

As I got into the ER, the doctor was asking me several questions and they made me do a urine test. The doctor was asking if I was sexually active I said yes, but I was with a girl. The doctor looked at me strangely. Admittedly, I thought he was just being homophobic. (I was in Florida at the time) He told me that that was incredibly strange because my urine test came back that I was pregnant. I was INSANELY CONCERNED because the last guy I was active with was over 2-3 years ago, right before I met my ex-girlfriend. They did a whole bunch of x-rays and then they finally did a CAT scan.

Turns out I had a big kidney stone that lasted for years and could not be pushed out. That was the source of my pain. I had this thing potentially for five years, and a fucking CAT scan was the thing that detected it. They sound blasted the kidney stone a day later.

Let me tell you something. People say that when you have a kidney stone, before you get a procedure, it is the most painful thing in the world. It is not before. It is after.

I woke up from the procedure in an empty room with just my bed and the other cots blocked off. The lights were incredibly bright and no one else was in there. The first couple seconds was me slowly, waking up to wherever the fuck I was. The next couple seconds slowly build up to the most excruciating pain I’ve ever felt in my entire life. And being alone in this room and having this excruciating pain, I seriously thought I was dying. I’m not exaggerating. The pain was so absolutely devastating that I started to fucking crying out like a baby. It felt like someone took a chainsaw from my crotch ALL THE WAY UP MY ENTIRE BODY. Thankfully, after hearing my sounds, the nurse scrambled in to give me a higher dose of my IV.

Slightly TMI but peeing for the rest of that week was like waiting to be tortured. Whenever I had the urge to go use the bathroom, I was already wincing at the potential devastating pain that I was going to feel.

So for the future, please hydrate, please drink lots of water. Don’t be like me.

chronic pain diagnoses are all like yeah we don't know what this is or why it happens. we also don't know how to treat it. good luck out there soldier

#personal #tmi

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thewriteadviceforwriters · 2 days ago

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🕳️ What to Write When You Have No Idea What Happens Next

aka: you’re staring into the creative abyss and the abyss is not only staring back, it’s asking for a rough draft

hi writer. welcome to that fun little liminal space in your project where ✨absolutely nothing✨ makes sense. you wrote the last scene. you know you’re not at the end. but suddenly your characters are just standing there like NPCs waiting for a quest marker and your brain is doing the spinning beachball of death.

so. what now?

let’s break down some actually useful strategies for when you hit That Point™️. not vibes. not ✨manifest your way out✨ energy. not the “just keep writing” slog. here’s what to do when your story is refusing to tell you what happens next:

———————————————

zoom out: do a “scene audit” ———————————————

you don’t need a full outline to do this. take five minutes and sketch a bullet list of every scene that’s happened so far. not just what happened, but why it mattered.

like this:

MC lied to their boss (sets up stakes re: trust/power)

antagonist shows up at cafe (establishes tension + location crossover)

best friend gets suspicious (emotional complication, adds pressure)

this gives you a birds-eye view of what you’ve set in motion. often you’re stuck because you’ve lost sight of the threads you were pulling, your own story has momentum, you just need to feel it again.

—————————————————————

try “ghost drafting” (aka fake writing) —————————————————————

open a doc. start typing what would happen, if you were writing. super casual. something like:

“okay i think the next scene is maybe them at the train station?? or wait--maybe we need to see the fallout of the argument. i don’t really know what x character wants rn but i think y might be planning something…”

this trick works bc it removes pressure. no fancy prose, no perfect structure. it’s literally you telling yourself what might happen. and weirdly? your brain will often finish the scene for you without asking. (the number of times I’ve ghost drafted myself into 800 usable words… witchcraft.)

——————————————————————————

pin your characters to a corkboard and interrogate them ——————————————————————————

not literally. (unless you're into that. i don’t judge.)

but seriously: when you’re stuck, it’s often because your character has no immediate goal or emotion. pause and ask:

what does this character want right now? like, in this moment?

what are they trying to avoid?

what’s keeping them from getting either?

character-driven scenes are rarely static. even if it’s just an awkward dinner or walking to the store, someone’s always trying to do or hide something. if everyone in the scene is just reacting or waiting, you’ve got fog. bring in the fire.

—————————————————

don’t skip the “boring” stuff--weaponize it —————————————————

sometimes we’re stuck because we think the next scene is dull. like “ugh i guess they just… travel to the manor” or “they regroup at the safe house.” but these slow beats are GOLD if you embed purpose.

try giving the “boring” scene:

a time limit or interruption (they’re hiding but someone knocks)

a secret (someone is lying about something small but important)

a reversal (what they expected is the opposite of what happens)

even if it’s a quiet scene, layer it. conflict isn’t just yelling or action. it’s discomfort. it’s misalignment. tension between what’s said and unsaid.

—————————————————————

when all else fails: write the next emotional beat —————————————————————

strip it back. forget plot. forget pacing. ask yourself:

then write that. a monologue. a journal entry. an outburst. a line of whispered dialogue.

sometimes it’s not that you don’t know what happens next. it’s that your character hasn’t processed what just happened, and until they do, the story can’t move forward.

✨✨✨

the void is normal. getting stuck doesn’t mean you failed or picked the wrong idea or that the muse packed up and left for a better writer’s house. it just means your brain needs space to regroup.

writing isn’t linear. stories aren’t built in perfect lines. they loop. they stall. they circle back. and that’s okay.

if you’re in the middle of nowhere, here’s your sign to sit on the side of the metaphorical road, open your weird little notebook, and write anyway. write wrong. write messy. write ghost drafts. the path shows up when you start walking.

🕳️ you got this, writer.

tag me if you end up crawling out of your stuck scene with a little victory paragraph. i’ll bring snacks for the next one 🧃✨

P.S. I made a free mini eBook about the 5 biggest mistakes writers make in the first 10 pages 👀 you can grab it here for FREE:

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timmydraker · 2 days ago

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Everyone knows that when Damian is angry at you he will tell you without words, either by stealing your gear and making you search for it or by cutting your line.

Recently Tim pissed Damian off by knocking over some of his paint when getting his pen back from the you gets room and so far nothing had happened.

He still had all his gear, he hasn’t had his line cut.

Hell, even Dick got his line cut again and Tim isn’t even sure why. Dick got upset cause he didn’t know either and, as usual, the two talked it out.

But Tim manages to do a second thing to support Damian and he once again faces no backlash. Don’t get him wrong, he’s not going out of his way to annoy the other when they’ve been so civil for so long, but it’s weird.

It’s also throwing everyone off and eventually Bruce talks to Damian privately and comes back with a red eyed Damian an hour later.

Tim is confused and now genuinly concerned, because he’s an over thinker and this surely means he’s done something to upset Damian or hurt him badly. Or maybe even someone else has?

Tim isn’t sure which is worse.

But then Bruce says, “Tim, Damian would like to show you something upstairs.”

A little slow to respond, Tim almost asks for more information before deciding it’s better to just nod and move.

Dick and Cass are watching but say nothing, putting faith in Bruce seen as the older man has gotten a lot better with emotional support and regulation.

Tim follows a quiet, not ninja-quiet but tired-quiet, Damian up into the manner and into his room.

Damian shuffles around for a moment before getting a turned around canvas and standing in front of Tim with more anxiety then he thought was possible in the young fighters frame. Damian is getting taller, even five years younger than Tim he’s the same height and not done with highschool.

Tim, more unsure than when he was at his first gala, takes a seat on the foot of his brothers bed and offers an encouraging nod.

With a heavy inhale the younger turns the canvas around and reveals a beautiful artwork.

A pale hand holds a deep red rose with careful fingers, only one of the thorns cutting into their thumb and no where else.

A darker hand, sun kissed through generations, holds onto the bottom do the stem and is bleeding heavily. The rose is cutting into their skin, the grip too tight and you can even see how the knuckles go white from the effort of the hold.

There is a beam of light, warm and yellow, cutting through the middle and a second roses on the other side, identical to the other.

This time the pale white hand is not really touching the rose at all, but instead pulling out the thorns. One rest in the gap between a forefinger and thumb, a bead of blood dripping where the point stabs inward.

The bronze golden hand has stopped holding on so tight and instead trying to copy the other as it was above, still with a whole grip but the tension is gone and it’s not bleeding as much.

Tim is a detective though he’s not as skilled with deducting artworks, but this one is clear.

The rose is the Robin mantle, Tim knew how to ah foe it in a literal sense, while Damian came in too harsh.

And the other… Tim is learning to take away the things that truely make Robin to hard for them, for Damian and Maps and even those who aren’t Robin anymore, and Damian is…

It could be that he’s trying to learn from Tim but that… that can’t be right.

Tim, feeling an odd little turning in his stomach, looks up to Damian only to find the other staring at him like he does when he feels the need to catalog every little reaction from someone. It’s clear this is important to him, so much so it’s been on his mind for at least a week and talked to Bruce about it, and Tim can’t stand the idea of messing this up.

So, looking at the painting and appreciating how much effort it must have taken him both mentally and time wise, Tim ask in a careful tone, “The rose is Robin?”

Damian nods.

Nodding as well, Tim gives a curious look and holds his hands at his sides to show his openness. “As I understand this, without your input… I knew how to handle Robin when you came here, you did as well but not without pain?”

Another nod, slower and now with less eye contact.

“Okay. And the second one means that, I’m trying to remove some of the things that make it hard? Or painful even?”

A shaky inhale before a more confident nod.

“And… you are getting trying to hold the rose- the mantle- more carefully and… copy… me…?”

Damian huffs a little and looks away before he speaks, “Not copy you, but learn from you. I know how to be Robin and I am good at it, I’ve just got some things that… I want to learn.”

Tim nods and offers a nod to say ‘go on’.

“I don’t need help fighting or with medical training, or with assuring victims even though that was… something I struggled with for a while.”

Tim nods subconsciously, because he did struggle with that for a while, it was own do the reasons he didn’t think Damian should be Robin but then the little brat went and got better at it. He struggles with adults, still thinking they should just be smarter, but the way he helps people who are younger or have more struggle to bare, it’s incredible. His patience and compassion still surprises Tim some days.

Damian goes on once he sees that Tim is going to comment, “It more… the weight. I’m finding it hard to shut out the reminders of when I’ve failed, when I couldn’t save someone or just when I should have done better. I don’t know how to get it to stop but you… you always keep going and you don’t let it consume you. I… help me understand how.”

The smile that comes across Tim’s face is the most genuine one he has ever given Damian, or even had in his presence.

He looks at the painting again, taking in the careful strokes and details and nods, “Okay. Thank you for… for trusting me and for showing me your art.”

Because Damian might have paintings up in the manner but only the generic ones of pets and landscapes, the ones that have a part of him in them stay hidden.

Damian relaxes greatly at this and Tim presses a hand to his heart before extending it out, “We’ll only do what you’re comfortable with and at your pace. You want my first bit of advice though?”

Damian nods.

“Don’t shut it out. My thumb is still bleeding from the second rose, because it will still hurt. You just have to be willing to let it in.”

Tim leaves and finds the painting up in the library the next day.

#batfam #dc comics #tim drake #bat family #dc universe #batfamily #dc #tim drake is red robin #damian wayne #damian wayne centric #tim drake centric #tim and damian #damian wayne is robin #Damian Wayne is trying and we love him for it #Tim and Damian bonding #good brothers tim and damian #Damian does art #artist Damian #Tim Drake tries

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bucketsorbueckers · 2 days ago

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Wishing you the best (in the worst way) 9

Paige X Azzi

Warning: langauge

a/n: you little angels are so wonderful. here's two in one day. Music: ceilings by lizzie mcalpine to start then switch to party 4 u when Azzi gets to the party <3 if theres mistakes, my editing brain turned off like two hours ago sry

👀 @whatthewnba | 9:12PM 🟣 Spotted: Azzi Fudd stepping out in that floor-length lilac silk dress — alone, no security, hair up, looking like the main event.

No one knows where she was headed (gallery opening? dinner date? dramatic solo walk?), but the internet is spiraling because, yes — purple just so happens to be Paige Bueckers’ favorite color. 👀💅

We’re not saying it’s a message… but we’re also not not saying that. 🫣

@/freeazzi99 not the revenge dress. NOT THE REVENGE DRESS.

@/postupandpray can’t lie... Paige bout to see this and spiral HARD

@/pazzitruthersunited tell me you’re not over her without telling me you’re not over her 😭😭😭

@/wnbagirliesunite ok but Paige was seen at a rooftop party on 5th—literally blocks from where Azzi was spotted in the purple dress. No confirmation they crossed paths… but y’all. Come on.

Azzi’s POV

Azzi doesn’t remember when running became her first instinct. Only that at some point, it stopped being a decision and started being the air she breathed. Not because she didn’t care but because she cared too much. Because staying meant being seen, and being seen meant being known, and being known had never ended well.

It was easier—safer—to keep moving. To leave before the good parts spoiled. Before anyone had the chance to ask her to stay and mean it.

But when she woke, just as the first light filtered through Paige’s blinds and painted the room in a kind of hush that felt too tender to break, running wasn’t the first thing on her mind.

It was Paige.

Fast asleep beside her, one hand splayed across Azzi’s hip like her body hadn’t learned how to let go. Like some part of her, even in sleep, still reached.

Paige’s face was turned toward her, peaceful in a way Azzi hadn’t seen in years—maybe since before everything got complicated. The kind of peace that only came after exhaustion had stripped everything else away. Azzi let herself look. Let herself have it. Just for a breath. Just long enough to memorize her.

She is so beautiful it hurts, Azzi thought—not just because of how she looked in the soft light, but because of what she meant. What she had meant. What she might still.

The worst part was how easily it all came back. How natural it felt, lying there. Like her body remembered what her brain had been trying so hard to forget. Like they’d paused something mid-sentence and this was just the next word.

She stayed still. Held her breath. Tried not to want it.

Because the truth was, she didn’t leave because she didn’t feel enough.

She left because she felt too much.

Because Paige was the one person she couldn’t lie to—not well, not for long. And Azzi wasn’t sure she could survive being loved like that, then losing it again. Not after last time. Not after how it ended.

Eventually, the clock started ticking louder. Her heartbeat, too. That old pull, quiet but insistent, began to rise in her chest. A voice she knew too well.

Go, it said. Go before she wakes up and looks at you like that again. Go before you say something stupid. Before she makes you believe this could be easy.

And so she did what she always did.

Not because she wanted to hurt Paige. But because she wasn’t sure she could live with what it might do to her if she stayed.

She slipped out of bed slow, careful not to wake Paige. She peeled her body away from that hand like it might burn her if she lingered too long. Her breath caught when Paige’s fingers twitched, like even asleep, she noticed the loss.

Azzi stood there for a second. Watching. Wanting. And then she left. Shoes in hand, door soft behind her. The kind of quiet exit that still managed to echo.

She didn’t really run. But she didn’t stay either.

And now, she was here. In a small hotel room in New York City.

She should be getting ready for dinner. Or unpacking her suitcase. Or doing any of the hundred things that came with being a professional, with being Azzi Fudd, the athlete, the brand. But instead, she was sitting on the edge of a stiff hotel bed in a borrowed city, still wearing the sweatshirt Paige threw back like a curse.

She hadn’t planned to put it on. But when she’d reached into her bag post nap—half-awake, half-sick with whatever this was—her hand landed on the fabric and she didn’t pull away. She slid it over her head like muscle memory. Like maybe wearing it would let her take some of it back.

It didn’t.

The sleeves still smelled like Paige’s detergent. The kind that always lingered on her clothes longer than it should’ve. Azzi pulled the cuff over her hand and pressed it to her mouth.

Outside, traffic hummed. The city wide awake. But the room felt still, like it hadn’t caught up yet.

She thought about the way Paige looked at her yesterday—blank, tired, a little mean. Not cruel. Just hollow in that way Azzi had come to recognize. Like something had been scraped out.

She’d done that. Caused that. And maybe that was the part that stuck the most. Not the words. Not even the way Paige handed her the sweatshirt in front of everyone, voice steady and sharp. But the look. That absence. Like she’d finally stopped hoping Azzi would do something different.

And the worst part was, Azzi understood. Knew she’d earned that look.

Because some part of her had always believed she would lose Paige eventually. That someone brighter, braver—less afraid—would come along and make Paige realize she’d been settling.

So Azzi made it easier. Left first. Spared them both the moment Paige looked at her and saw a mistake.

The truth was, Paige had always felt slightly out of reach. Even when they were young. Even when they were close.

She’d spent years watching Paige from the edges. Before they were teammates, before they were anything. When Paige was the name people couldn’t stop saying and Azzi was the one trying to be good enough to stand near her.

And when Paige had noticed her—really noticed her—it had felt like winning something she didn’t remember entering. Like sunlight through a crack she didn’t know was there.

Azzi had been seventeen. Careful. Quiet. Good at giving people exactly what they wanted and better at never asking for anything back.

Paige had already been her own category.

So Azzi did what she always did when something mattered too much: she studied it. Studied her. Learned what made Paige laugh. When to lean in. When to give space. She told herself it was smart. That if she didn’t ask for too much, she couldn’t lose what she had.

But it had never been even. Not in Azzi’s mind.

Even when Paige kissed her like she meant it. Even when they were pressed shoulder to shoulder in hotel beds, laughing over something dumb on TV. Even when it was good—so good—Azzi still felt the imbalance. Like Paige was the sun and she was the one orbiting.

And maybe that was why she always ran.

Not because she didn’t love Paige.

But because deep down, some part of her still believed she’d ruin it just by staying. That if she let herself want too much—if she reached too far—Paige would look back and realize Azzi was never the right choice to begin with.

So she left first. Every time. To save herself the moment Paige decided it for her.

She sighed and reached for her phone. Called the only person she knew would answer. For the hundredth time.

“Honey? Is everything okay?”

Her mom’s voice came through the line like a breath of fresh air. Familiar. Grounding. Like stepping into a room that hadn’t changed since childhood.

“Does something have to be wrong for me to call my own mother?”

Katie laughed, soft and knowing. “No. But given it’s All-Star weekend, I just figured you’d be busy. You know—being famous. Signing shoes. Pretending you don’t need your mom.”

Azzi let out a quiet breath that almost passed for a laugh. “I’m not famous.”

“You are to me.”

She didn’t respond to that. Just leaned back against the headboard, the phone pressed to her cheek, eyes fixed on a mark on the ceiling.

There was a pause. Not heavy. Just long enough for her mom to wait her out.

“I saw the photo,” Katie said gently. “The one at the clinic.”

Azzi closed her eyes. “It wasn’t what it looked like.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

Another silence. This one a little heavier.

“I’m proud of you, you know,” Katie said. “Even when you make a mess of things. Maybe especially then.”

Azzi swallowed. Her throat felt tight. “You don’t even know what I did.”

“I don’t have to,” her mom said. “I know you.”

Azzi worked her lip between her teeth. “I think I really messed up this time,” she whispered.

There was a pause. Not the kind that begged to be filled, just the kind her mom was good at. The kind that left space. That told Azzi she didn’t have to rush.

Eventually, her mom’s voice came through, soft and steady. “Okay. Start from wherever it hurts.”

Azzi looked down at the sweatshirt bunched in her lap. “I stayed at Paige’s.”

Another pause. A breath. Then: “Okay.”

“And then I left before she woke up.”

This time, her mom didn’t say anything.

“I didn’t mean to,” Azzi added, too quickly. “She was asleep, and her hand was on my hip, and it felt like… like we never broke,” Azzi said, the words catching. “And that scared me. Because I knew the second she opened her eyes, I’d lose it. I’d say something too honest, or not honest enough. And it would be over all over again.”

She rubbed her thumb against the worn stitching at the cuff. “So, I left.”

Katie exhaled, slow. “Oh, honey.”

“I know.”

“I mean, what? You two have been in love since you were teenagers?” Katie continued, voice warm but not pulling punches. “She was always there. Her shoes by the door. Her name in your mouth like it was stitched to your tongue.”

“Yeah,” Azzi said sadly. “She was part of our family.”

Katie’s voice softened. “You know what broke my heart the most?”

Azzi didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear it.

“That first Christmas after she left UConn,” her mom said. “She showed up three days before you got in, said she was just dropping something off. It was snowing hard—you remember that storm? And she stood on the porch like she didn’t know if she should knock.”

Azzi closed her eyes.

“She had a gift for you,” Katie went on. “Said it was dumb. Just a candle. But it was your favorite scent—the one you used to burn in your dorm when you couldn’t sleep. Lavender something.”

Azzi remembered. She still had that candle. Never lit it. It reminded her of the one Paige always bought her.

“She didn’t ask if you’d be home,” Katie said. “Didn’t ask anything, really. Just helped me untangle the lights for the tree. Stayed almost two hours. We drank cider. Watched half of It’s a Wonderful Life. She didn’t even take her coat off.”

“She did? You didn’t tell me that.”

Katie sighed, the sound quiet and full of things she hadn’t said. “You were already hurting so much, Az. And you asked me not to bring her up. I—I was just trying to be fair. To both of you.”

Azzi didn’t respond. Didn’t trust herself to. Because she remembered that Christmas. How empty the house had felt even when it was full of people. How her mom had pulled her in for a hug that lasted too long, and how she’d pulled away too fast.

She didn’t know what hurt more—hearing that Paige had come back, or realizing that even then, Azzi had already started building walls she didn’t know how to tear down.

“I’ve been awful to her,” Azzi said quietly. The words sat heavy in her mouth, like they’d been waiting a long time to be spoken aloud.

Her mom didn’t jump to correct her. Didn’t rush in with comfort she hadn’t earned. She just let it hang there for a beat, then said, gently:

“And she’s made mistakes too, Az.”

Another pause. Softer this time.

“But it’s always been you and Paige. Since the beginning. You two have been tangled up in each other for so long I don’t think any of us ever pictured a version of you apart.”

Azzi’s fingers curled tighter into the cuff of her sleeve.

It had always been them. On the same team. On the court, off the court, in every way that counted. They’d won together. Lost together. Slept in cramped hotel beds and held each other after injuries and whispered things at 2 a.m. that no one else would ever understand. And now, it felt like someone had split her in half and kept the part that could breathe.

“I think we all kept waiting for one of you to stop running,” Katie continued. “We just didn’t know which one it would be.”

“I don’t know how to fix it,” Azzi said, voice barely holding steady. “I don’t even know where to start.”

Katie didn’t hesitate. “It’s Paige, Azzi.”

Azzi blinked, like the simplicity of it caught her off guard.

“That’s what you’ve always been best at,” Katie said. “Her. You’ve always known how to find your way back to her.”

Azzi let out a shaky breath. “What if she doesn’t want me back?”

Katie’s voice was quiet but sure. “Then you’ll know. But if you don’t try, if you keep doing what you’ve been doing, you’ll lose her either way. And I think you’d regret that more.”

“I’m scared,” Azzi admitted. The words cracked as they came out. “That I’m not enough for her. That I never was. That she figured it out and I’m the last one still pretending I don’t know.”

“You’re not pretending,” her mom said. “You’re protecting yourself. And I get it. But sometimes love means risking the worst version of the story, just to see if it turns out better.”

Her mom cleared her throat.

“And Azzi?” she said softly, “You've always been enough for Paige. Your dad and I—we saw it. Long before you even admitted anything was there. The way that girl looked at you…”

She trailed off and Azzi could hear her sad smile through the phone.

“She looked at you like you were it. Not a maybe. Not a possibility. The answer. Like her world had narrowed and you were the whole damn center of it. And baby, you never even noticed.”

Azzi sat there for a moment in silence. The kind that wasn’t empty—just full of everything she hadn’t figured out how to say.

“Now, you’re in New York City,” Katie said softly. “The same city as Paige. A rare opportunity, if you want to make it one.”

Azzi bit down on her lip, the pressure grounding her for a second.

“I don’t even know what I’d say.”

“You don’t have to say everything,” Katie replied. “You just have to show up.”

Azzi let out a shaky breath. “What if she slams the door in my face?”

“Then at least you’ll know you tried,” Katie said. “But Paige? She’s never been the slam-the-door type. She’s always been the stand-there-and-wait-for-you-to-turn-around type. You know that.”

Azzi didn’t answer. Just pressed her forehead into her hand and nodded, even though her mom couldn’t see it.

Because she did know that. She just wasn’t sure she deserved it.

After she hung up, Azzi didn’t hesitate.

She moved on instinct. Peeled herself off the bed and crossed the room like if she slowed down, she might lose her nerve. She opened her suitcase and didn’t reach for comfort.

She reached for intent.

A dress—deep violet, cut just right, the kind that didn’t ask for attention so much as dared you to look away. Paige’s favorite color. She’d worn something like it once to a charity event in college, and Paige hadn’t taken her eyes off her the entire night. Had leaned in after and said something low and stupid and hot, like you’re gonna ruin me in that.

Azzi had pretended to laugh, but she’d worn the dress again the next week.

Now, she slid on the new dress slowly. Smoothed it down over her hips with fingers that didn’t shake as much as they had earlier. She twisted her hair up. Did her makeup like she wasn’t just trying—like she was sure.

Because maybe it was a little cheap. Maybe it was desperate.

But it was also honest.

She was in New York. Paige was in New York. And if Azzi was going to show up—really show up—she wasn’t going to do it in a hoodie and guilt.

She was going to do it like she used to. Like she knew exactly who she was. Like maybe Paige hadn’t been wrong to stop waiting.

Dressed, ready, nowhere to go—Azzi stared down at her phone, thumb hovering over Paige’s name like it might burn her.

She called anyway.

One ring. Two. Straight to voicemail.

She hung up. Waited a beat. Called again.

Still nothing.

It wasn’t surprising, but it still made her stomach twist. Still made her feel sixteen again, waiting for Paige to notice her in a room full of louder people.

This was stupid. She hadn’t thought this through. You couldn’t just show up for someone you’d spent a year walking away from.

Still, she opened her contacts. Scrolled to Nika. Hit call.

The line picked up before the first ring finished.

“Well,” Nika said, dry and amused. “This feels dramatic.”

Azzi didn’t bother pretending it wasn’t. “Where is she?”

There was a pause, like Nika was taking her time deciding whether to play nice.

“She with you?” Azzi asked.

Another beat.

“She is,” Nika said finally.

Azzi’s chest tightened. “I just need—look, I don’t want to make a scene. I just want to talk to her.”

“She’s at the Nike afterparty. Not the official one. The one with the rooftop and the neon ice sculptures. You know the place.”

Azzi closed her eyes. “Yeah.”

“She looks good tonight,” Nika added, like she wasn’t twisting the knife. “You should probably know that.”

Azzi exhaled through her nose. “So do I.”

That earned her a soft laugh. “God, I’ve missed this disaster of a love story.”

There was a silence between them, not hostile, just full of old understanding.

“Do I have a shot?” Azzi asked, quieter now.

On the other end, Nika didn’t answer right away. When she did, her voice had softened.

“If you show up the way she deserves? Yeah. But don’t go if you’re going to make her beg for something she already gave you.”

Azzi nodded, even though Nika couldn’t see it. “I’m not.”

“You sure?”

“I’m done running,” Azzi said. “I’m just hoping she hasn’t started.”

And that was it. She hung up before she could overthink it. Slipped her phone into her bag, smoothed a hand down the front of her dress, and walked out the door. Because she didn’t know what would happen.

But this time, she was going to find out.

—-

Azzi had barely stepped off the elevator before she regretted everything.

The rooftop was loud—music pulsing low in her ribs, laughter sharp at the edges, glasses clinking like tiny bells. It was beautiful, the kind of curated cool that made her feel like an extra in someone else’s life. String lights twisted overhead, soft gold against the violet sky, and the city glittered around them like it was trying too hard.

She should’ve worn black.

Instead, she was in that violet dress—Paige’s favorite color—and now it felt like a costume. Like something she’d picked out hoping it might say what she couldn’t.

Look at me. I remember. I never forgot.

She wove through the crowd with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, nodding at familiar faces. Everyone here was someone—an agent, a brand rep, a starter, a star. She was all of those things too, technically. But right now, she felt like a girl pretending.

And then she saw her.

Paige.

Still as gravity. Backlit by skyline and string lights, leaning one elbow on the railing in a slate-gray suit and white sneakers. Drink in hand, hair slicked back like it didn’t even try to be perfect—it just was. Her chain glinted at the hollow of her throat, the place Azzi used to kiss like it was her own private secret.

Azzi stopped. Mid-step. Mid-thought. And stared.

Paige was all sharp angles and soft restraint, radiating something Azzi couldn’t name but had always known how to want. The kind of beauty that didn’t beg.

Her mouth was dry. Her palms were damp. Her heart had taken off at a sprint, even though her feet hadn’t moved. This wasn’t nerves. This was something older. A deeper muscle memory. The kind of fear that belonged to eighteen, to late-night bus rides, to the first time she realized Paige Bueckers could break her and wouldn’t even have to try.

Paige hadn’t seen her yet. Or if she had, she wasn’t looking. She stood beside Nika, head tilted slightly, eyes on the skyline like it might offer her something better than the party did. She said something—low, effortless—and Nika laughed. The sound didn’t reach Azzi. Nothing did, really, except the flicker of Paige’s hand, the slope of her shoulders, the unbearable ease of her in this space.

Like she belonged to it. To the city, the party, the version of the night where nothing hurt.

And Azzi? She felt like a question no one had asked.

She hadn’t even made it three steps in and already her dress felt too loud, her skin too tight, her thoughts impossible to quiet. This had been a mistake. Or maybe not. Maybe it was just what regret felt like on the way to courage.

She didn’t know what she was going to say. Didn’t know if Paige would let her say anything at all.

But she hadn’t come here to watch from across the room.

Not again.

Azzi moved through the party like someone walking toward the edge of a cliff, knowing full well there might be nothing waiting on the other side.

Paige still hadn’t seen her.

She was laughing now. Shoulders relaxed, mouth tilted up in that way that made her look softer, younger. Less like the version Azzi had ruined. Nika had drifted somewhere else, and now a girl Azzi didn’t recognize had taken her place. Tall. Glossy. The kind of pretty that got invited to things without needing to ask. She leaned in as she spoke to Paige, one hand brushing her arm, just enough to register.

Azzi’s stomach twisted. She kept walking. Slow. Like maybe if she took her time, the moment wouldn’t hurt as much.

The girl said something. Paige smiled—small, closed-lipped, amused.

And then Paige dipped her head. Close enough to whisper something back, her lips brushing just beneath the girl’s ear, hand still resting lightly on her wrist.

Azzi’s lungs stuttered.

And that’s when it happened. Mid-whisper. Half-smile. Paige’s eyes shifted. And landed on her.

Still bent close to the girl. Still wearing that expression—the one Azzi used to adore. But her gaze caught on Azzi like a thread snagged in fabric. Just a flicker. And then everything stilled.

Paige didn’t straighten. Didn’t speak. Just looked. Eyes sharp and unreadable, lips still inches from someone else’s skin.

Azzi felt it like a jolt.

Like she’d walked straight into a memory neither of them had agreed to share.

Paige’s POV

Paige was drunk.

Not blackout, not sloppy—just buzzed enough that things felt a little looser around the edges. Sharp thoughts dulled. Feelings kept their distance.

Lately, it was the only way anything made sense. The only time she could think straight was when her brain wasn’t trying so hard to be fine.

She stood near the edge of the rooftop, cup in hand, the city stretching wide and indifferent beneath her. She was wearing a suit that fit too well to be casual but not well enough to make her feel entirely like herself.

The air smelled like gin and rooftop heaters and someone else’s cologne. She wasn’t really listening to the people around her—Nika talking to someone behind her, a few younger players laughing too loudly at something that probably wasn’t that funny. It was all noise.

She tilted her head back. The sky was that weird shade of purple that always showed up right after sunset in this city. And because the universe had a twisted sense of humor, it made her think of her.

Azzi.

Paige exhaled through her nose. Took another sip. The drink was terrible. She didn’t care.

She’d called earlier. Twice.

Paige had seen the name light up her screen and hadn’t moved. She couldn’t. Not with the way her stomach dropped. Not with the way her hands suddenly forgot what to do.

Nika drifted over, holding two drinks like she’d been sent by the universe to interrupt whatever spiral Paige was working on.

“You’re quiet,” Nika said, offering her the better drink without asking.

Paige took it. “You’re observant.”

“You look good.”

Paige didn’t answer.

Nika leaned on the railing beside her. “You gonna talk about it?”

Paige didn’t look over. “Talk about what?”

Nika gave her a look. “Don’t do that.”

Paige stared out at the skyline. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“You saw her.”

“Yep.”

“She saw you.”

Paige took a slow sip of her drink. “It’s All-Star. That tends to happen.”

Nika nodded, eyes on the skyline. “She called you.”

Paige didn’t flinch. “Not sure how that’s any of your business.”

“And you didn’t answer,” Nika said, ignoring her completely.

“Also not sure how that involves you either.”

Nika smirked and took a sip of her drink and let the silence do what it always did—stretch, settle, press.

Paige leaned her elbows against the railing. Her voice was quieter when she said, “I don’t know what she wants.”

Nika glanced over. “Maybe she doesn’t either.”

Paige let that settle.

The music behind them was too loud. Someone laughed too hard a few feet away. The night felt longer than it should’ve.

“She used to call me when she couldn’t sleep,” Paige said.

Nika looked at her. “And now?”

Paige’s grip tightened slightly around the glass. “Now she doesn’t call at all. Except when she’s in the same city and probably halfway to this rooftop.”

She didn’t say it with bitterness. Just fact. Like she was stating the score of a game she didn’t finish playing.

Nika bumped her shoulder lightly. “You want her to show up?”

Paige looked out over the edge. Shrugged.

“Wanting has never been the problem," Paige muttered.

Nika lingered only for a second longer, always knowing when to give space that was necessary. Paige was thankful for that.

At first, Paige didn't even notice the girl crossing the patio towards her.

Tall. Confident. The kind of face that didn’t flinch under attention. Perfect skin, glossy lips, a dress that clung in all the right places. The kind of beautiful that was easy to admire and easier to forget.

Paige didn’t move. Just sipped her drink and watched her come closer, arching a brow.

The girl stopped beside her, smile already in place. “You look bored.”

“I’m not,” Paige said, dry. “But I like that you assumed that.”

The girl grinned. “You’ve got the face for it. Kind of tragic and glamorous.”

“I’ve heard worse.”

“I bet you have.” Her tone was playful, easy. “You’re Paige, right?”

“Too pretty to ask questions you know the answer too.”

There was a pause. Not uncomfortable, just full of implication. The girl stepped a little closer, eyes scanning Paige’s face like she was studying something she might want. “Relax. I’m not trying to make this a thing.”

“Relief.”

Her smile curled. “I am trying to distract you, though.”

Paige raised an eyebrow. “From what?”

“Whatever you’re pretending not to think about.”

That stopped her, for a half-second. Just long enough to register it. The flicker behind her ribs.

But she recovered fast—she always did. “Bold of you to assume I think.”

The girl stepped closer, her voice dropping. “Bold of you to pretend you don’t.”

Paige gave a small, tight smile. “You’re good at this.”

“I’m excellent at this,” she said, leaning in. “But you’re kind of hard to read.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I say that like it’s a challenge,” She grinned. “I’m Quinn.”

Paige leaned in.

Not because she cared. Not because the girl had said anything that mattered. But because it was easier than thinking. Easier than feeling. Easier than acknowledging the part of her that had been scanning the room all night, waiting for something she hadn’t let herself name.

She was halfway through some line—light, flirty, forgettable—when her eyes lifted.

And there she was.

Azzi.

Just behind the edge of the crowd, like she hadn’t decided whether to stay. Hair pulled back, eyes wide, posture too still to be casual. Like she hadn’t meant to be seen but had been watching all along.

And the dress. It was violet.

Her color. The one Paige always swore looked better on Azzi than anyone else. The same shade she wore to that charity event in their sophomore year—soft satin, low back, bare shoulders. Paige had spent the whole night trying to act normal. Trying not to look at her like she wanted to crawl inside her skin.

She’d failed. Miserably. Had spent half the night behind Azzi, hand at the small of her back, whispering things that didn’t sound as casual as they were supposed to.

Azzi wasn’t moving. She looked like she hadn’t meant to be caught. Especially not like this—Paige bent toward someone else, mid-flirt, mouth curled into a smile that didn’t belong to her.

And Paige stopped breathing.

The music kept going. People kept moving. The girl beside her laughed at something that hadn’t finished being said.

But Paige was gone.

Every part of her had locked onto Azzi, and the air shifted. The moment cracked open. She was still leaned close to Quinn. Still holding her drink. Still playing the part she’d perfected years ago. But something in her face gave her away. Just slightly. A flicker in her eyes. A breath caught behind her ribs.

Because Azzi was here.

And she looked like a heartbreak Paige hadn’t finished having. Like a choice she wanted to unmake and remake all at once. Like she’d walked in wearing the version of the past that still hurt the most.

For a second, neither of them moved. Paige didn’t straighten. Azzi didn’t blink.

It was just them, across a too-crowded rooftop, pretending like the world hadn’t already fallen out from under them once. And might be about to again.

“Paige?” Quin’s voice cut in, gentle, unsure. Her hand wrapped around Paige’s wrist.

Paige tugged it free without thinking. Without looking. She straightened. Lifted her chin like it hadn’t been trembling.

“Sorry,” she said, steady as she could manage. “Thought I saw someone I knew.”

She didn’t have to look again to know she hadn’t been wrong.

Azzi was still there. Paige could feel her. Like a shift in pressure. Like thunderheads rolling in.

Paige didn’t move. Not toward her, not away. Just stood there, glass in hand, pretending the sky held her interest. Pretending she wasn’t vibrating with the effort of holding still.

Beside her, Quinn was talking. Something about the after-party. Or the rooftop playlist. Paige wasn’t really listening. She gave a nod here, a soft “mhmm” there. The kind of responses that let a conversation keep going without needing her in it.

Paige took a sip of her drink, slow and deliberate, letting the glass linger near her lips like it might steady her. She’d learned her lesson a long time ago, chasing Azzi only got her hurt.

If Azzi wanted this—wanted anything—she’d have to come get it.

“Hey,” Quinn said gently, nudging her elbow. “You good?”

Paige didn’t answer right away. Just set her drink down. Let the question hang.

She felt it before she looked up. The shift in the air, the soft hush of approaching steps. And when she finally glanced over, there it was.

Azzi. Closing the distance.

Paige didn’t move. Didn’t blink. She just stood there and let it happen, let the moment crash over her like a wave she refused to brace for. Let Azzi come to her like gravity had finally worn her down.

She walked slowly.

Not hesitant, exactly. Just careful. Like she understood what it cost to get this close. Like each step might crack something open inside her and she hadn’t decided yet whether to stop it or let it bleed.

Paige watched her. Let herself really look. The violet dress caught the rooftop lights just right—soft, gleaming, too much like that night in Storrs. Too much like a memory she’d tried to bury and never quite could.

She remembered Azzi breathless in a corner, laughing into Paige’s mouth like it was the only way she knew how to want something that much.

She looked different now. Older. Sharper. But her eyes were the same—wide, dark, and full of everything she hadn’t said.

But still damingly beautiful all the same.

Paige didn’t look away.

She held her gaze, steady and unreadable. The kind of look that dared Azzi to keep walking. The kind that said: I’m not going to make this easy.

Azzi didn’t flinch.

Paige tilted her head just slightly, raised her glass, took a slow sip. Each movement deliberate, a silent performance of indifference. I’m fine. I’m fine without you.

But her eyes never left Azzi’s.

She kept her there, suspended in the space between then and now. In the silence full of unsaid things. In the scar tissue of that morning Azzi left without a word.

She let it show, just enough. The hurt. The history. The challenge.

Quinn said something—maybe a joke, maybe a question—but Paige didn’t hear it. Didn’t answer. The world had narrowed to the sound of her own heartbeat and the shape of Azzi’s mouth as she crossed the last few feet.

So close now. Too close. And still not touching.

Azzi stopped just short, eyes locked on hers like she didn’t trust herself to look anywhere else. Paige could see the way her chest rose and fell—sharp, uneven. The way her fingers curled into fists like she needed to ground herself in her own skin.

She smelled like something warm and expensive and infuriatingly familiar. Paige hated that she noticed. Hated more that it made her stomach twist. Like she was still desperate. Like longing.

“Hi,” Azzi said, finally. Barely a whisper. Like it scraped its way out.

Paige didn’t answer.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe, maybe. Just stood there, glass slack in her hand, and stared.

Because of course it would be that color dress. Of course it would be her. Of course it would be tonight—when Paige had finally told herself she was over it. That she didn’t care. That she could look at Azzi and feel nothing but a faint ache.

But then Azzi went and breathed hi like it was a question, a plea, a knife and Paige felt every lie unravel at once.

The rooftop fell away. The noise, the city, the people—Quinn beside her, suddenly even more irrelevant. Everything faded but the space between them.

Paige wanted to be cruel. She wanted to reach for her. She wanted to scream. She wanted to say you don’t get to do this to me again.

But all she did was stare. Like if she looked long enough, she might rewrite it. All of it.

Azzi didn’t move. Paige didn’t either.

They stood there, caught in that impossible space between memory and aftermath. Two people with the same old wounds, still finding new ways to press on the bruises. Still reaching, even if all they ever touched were the sharpest parts.

And Paige said nothing.

Because everything she’d ever said had either ruined it or not saved it. Because every version of I miss you had already been wrung dry. Because love, for them, had always sounded like almost. Like not yet. Like too late.

But still… she didn’t look away. And maybe that meant something. Maybe it always had.

#pazzi fics #azzi x paige #paige x azzi #pazzi fic

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