#wuh luh wuh

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚖𝚊𝚖𝚊 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which a family was made unconventionally

You were twenty when you had Zion. That number still rings in your head sometimes… twenty. Barely past girlhood, still growing into your own bones, and suddenly responsible for another life. You remember the hospital lights and the coldness of the delivery room floor when you had to walk barefoot across it at four in the morning because your water broke early. You remember the silence of the father when you called, your fingers shaking, asking him to come. And you remember the even deeper silence afterward, when he never did.

You grew up in Hartford, Connecticut. UConn basketball was in your blood long before you knew how to spell “Taurasi.” Your dad used to carry you on his shoulders at Gampel Pavilion games and say things like, “You’re gonna be the next Sue Bird,” even though you were more interested in drawing hearts in the condensation of the arena glass than you were in picking up a ball. But still, you knew greatness when you saw it. You watched Maya Moore’s fade aways with wide eyes. Watched Breanna Stewart play like gravity didn’t apply to her. Watched a baby faced Napheesa Collier step onto that court like she already owned it.

Fast forward three years and some change, and you’re twenty three, living in Dallas, working part time at a local youth sports center and taking freelance graphic design jobs when Zion’s asleep. You’ve got a routine now. Every morning it’s cereal and cartoons. Every afternoon it’s a trip to the park or a store run you probably can’t afford. And every evening, during basketball season, it’s dinner on the couch and a Wings game on the TV.

Zion is three now, with big brown eyes and a mop of curls you haven’t had the heart to cut yet. He has your stubbornness, your sense of humor, and, unfortunately, his father's penchant for climbing furniture like gravity’s a myth. You’ve never told Zion much about his father. Never needed to. You’ve poured every ounce of your love into that boy, and most days it’s enough.

Paige being drafted to the Dallas Wings felt like a cosmic alignment. You watched the draft on your phone while stirring spaghetti sauce, wiping your hands on your sweatpants when her name was called. Zion was on the floor playing with his toy cars when you gasped and laughed and whispered, “No way.”

He looked up. “What happened?”

You picked him up mid-stir, bouncing him gently against your hip. “She’s coming here, baby. Mommy’s favorite player. We’re gonna get to see her play.”

He blinked up at you, like he didn’t fully understand, but smiled because you were smiling. He’s always been like that, your moods, soaking in your joy like it was sunlight.

You scraped and saved for tickets. Not floor seats, but close enough. And when the Wings played the Liberty on a Saturday afternoon in June, you dressed Zion in the tiny navy blue Wings jersey you bought secondhand online and took the train to College Park Center like it was a mission. He held your hand the whole way, bouncing on his toes, repeating her name like a chant, “Paigey, Paigey, Paigey.”

You corrected him once, “Paige, baby, not Paigey,” but then gave up. It was too cute.

Inside the arena, Zion’s eyes went wide. It was his first professional game. The energy, the buzz, the loudness of it all, he clung to your leg at first, unsure, until the Wings hit a three and the crowd erupted and he started clapping with sticky little fingers. You lifted him into your lap. The announcer called her name. “Paige Bueckers with the assist—” and Zion pointed to the court and screamed, “THERE SHE IS!”

You blushed. “Yes, that’s her,” you said, laughing. “That’s Mommy’s girl.”

He turned to you. “Your girl?”

“Favorite player,” you clarified quickly. “That’s what I meant.”

The Wings won by six. Paige had a double-double, ten points, twelve assists, and every time she touched the ball, you swore your heartbeat picked up like a reflex. There was something magic about her. Still that same lightning bolt from UConn, but sharper now. Older, more confident. You watched her as if you didn’t already know every stat. As if you weren’t already hopelessly, irrationally gone for someone who didn’t know you existed.

After the final buzzer, Zion begged to stay.

“I wanna meet her,” he said, tugging your arm.

You didn’t have any VIP pass or meet and greet, but a small crowd gathered by the edge of the court near the player tunnel. Some people held posters. Others wore Bueckers jerseys. You hoisted Zion onto your hip and moved closer, your arms sore but heart full. He leaned against your shoulder, his little arms wrapped around your neck. You stood on your toes, hoping maybe, just maybe, she’d walk by.

And that’s when he wiggled down. Before you could stop him, he ducked beneath the rope and darted past a security guard distracted by someone else. Your voice caught in your throat.

“Zion—ZION!”

But he was already sprinting toward her. His little legs pumped like pistons, jersey flapping, curls bouncing. You were frozen for a second, sheer panic gripping your spine.

Until Paige turned. She saw him. You watched her eyebrows lift in confusion just a second before he reached her. And then, God, she caught him like it wasn’t the first time she’d been tackled by a toddler mid-arena. Like she’d been waiting for him.

You watched her crouch down to his level, listening intently as he pointed around like he was trying to find you. She looked up, eyes scanning the crowd, until her gaze landed on yours.

You will never forget the sight of Paige Bueckers holding your son in her arms, walking toward you, confusion and curiosity softening her features, a crooked smile tugging at her lips.

“Hi,” she said, her voice half-laugh, half-breathless. “I think this one belongs to you?”

Zion grinned at her, proud as anything. “That’s my mommy.”

You flushed, reaching out to take him, but Paige didn’t let go right away.

“He told me he was looking for his mommy,” she said, eyes still on you.

You opened your mouth to say thank you, to apologize, to say literally anything, but Zion beat you to it.

“Are you my mama too?” he asked innocently, blinking up at her.

Paige’s face froze. “Uhm, what?”

He giggled. “Mommy said you were hot. She said you should be my mama.”

You could feel the heat crawl up your neck, all the way to your ears. “Zion,” you hissed, “what the—"

But it was too late. Paige was already pink from the neck up, blinking rapidly, her lips parting like she was trying to find the words.

You cleared your throat, trying to laugh it off. “Okay, that’s… wow. I am so sorry.”

Paige held Zion a little tighter, but she was laughing now, too, genuine and surprised, a hand over her mouth as her eyes crinkled. “That might be the best thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

You shook your head, face still burning. “He’s very… honest.”

Zion beamed, clearly proud of himself. “Mommy watches you all the time. She gets happy when you’re on the TV.”

You stared at the floor. “Okay. Thank you, traitor.”

And Paige looked back at you, eyes bright with something you couldn’t name, like maybe this day wasn’t ending how she expected either.

“I’m Paige,” she said, though you obviously knew that.

“I know,” you replied, smiling nervously. “I’m… Y/N. This little menace is Zion.”

She nodded, shifting him gently into your arms. “Nice to meet you both.”

You thought that would be it. A funny story. A blushing exit. But Paige didn’t walk away. She lingered and you swore the moment stretched a little longer than it had to.

You adjusted Zion on your hip, his arms wrapped loosely around your neck, his body already going slack the way toddlers do when the energy starts to crash after a long, overstimulating day. His little Wings jersey drooped on one shoulder. He blinked slowly, resting his cheek on your collarbone, oblivious to the emotional havoc he’d just unleashed.

Paige hadn’t stopped smiling since the words left his mouth.

She stood there for a second longer than she needed to, like she was still working through what just happened, like she wasn’t quite ready to leave yet. And then she cleared her throat and gently pointed toward the side hallway.

“The players’ lot is that way,” she said. “But if you parked nearby, I can walk you?”

You blinked. “Oh, I took the train. I live like… twenty minutes away.”

Her eyes flicked to Zion, still barely awake. “That’s a long ride with a sleepy three year old.”

You gave a little shrug. “We’ve done worse.”

There was a pause. Paige glanced over her shoulder toward the tunnel where security was trying to guide people out, then back at you. “My car’s in the lot across the street. You can wait with me if you want. Just for a bit. Until it clears out.”

It wasn’t an offer you expected. You looked at her, really looked, at the way she stood, tall but not intimidating, hands shoved in her hoodie pockets, hair tied up, and just a little flushed in the cheeks. And for some reason, you didn’t say no.

So you nodded. “Sure. Yeah. That’d be nice.”

She led the way, and you followed her out a side exit, security letting her pass with a wave. The evening air outside was warm, a sticky kind of Dallas heat that made Zion stir and mumble something in his sleep. Paige reached out instinctively to tuck the jersey back up over his shoulder before you even noticed it was slipping. The gesture made your breath catch.

“He’s cute,” she said, walking a little slower so you didn’t have to rush. “Like, really cute.”

You smiled. “Thanks. He’s… exhausting. But yeah. He’s the best thing I’ve ever done.”

“How old is he?”

“Just turned three.”

She nodded, thoughtful. “So you were… what?”

You nodded back. “twenty, yeah. That was a year. He wasn’t planned. And his dad… didn’t stick around.”

Paige didn’t flinch. Didn’t say sorry, or frown, or try to smooth over the awkwardness. She just nodded again, like she heard you, and you felt something settle in your chest. It had been a while since anyone let the truth just… sit.

“Do you get to watch many games?” she asked as you crossed the street.

“On TV? All of them. He knows your name better than he knows mine.”

Paige laughed, the sound soft and disbelieving. “He called me ‘Paigey.’ That was new.”

“I’ve corrected him, but he insists it’s better.”

You reached the parking lot and found her SUV tucked neatly in the corner. She popped the trunk open, revealing an organized chaos of duffle bags, water bottles, and a shoebox filled with snacks. Zion stirred again, whimpering.

You gently bounced him. “Shh, baby. Almost home.”

Paige moved instinctively again, grabbing an oversized hoodie from the trunk and handing it to you. “It’s cold. He might want something on the ride.”

You hesitated. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” she said. “But I want to.”

Your fingers brushed as you took it, and it sent a weird jolt up your arm. You were too tired to pretend it wasn’t there.

Zion blinked awake for a second, saw Paige, and instantly smiled. “Mama?”

Your cheeks flamed again. “Zion…”

But Paige, to your surprise, smiled back and whispered, “You’ll be home soon, buddy.”

You stared at her, unable to stop the grin that crept onto your face.

He closed his eyes again. You lowered him into the stroller you kept folded by the station—an old, worn store brand that had gotten you through airports and long days at work.

When you looked up, Paige was still watching you.

“So,” she said, rubbing the back of her neck, “you really said I was hot?”

You groaned. “He wasn’t supposed to say that out loud.”

“Is it true?”

You looked at her then, really looked. Sweat damp hair from the game still clung to her temples. Her jaw was sharp, her eyes tired but glowing, and she had that posture athletes get when they finally exhale after a win, like she’d given everything and somehow still had more left.

And yeah. You were tired too. Too tired to lie.

You nodded once. “Yeah. It’s true.”

Her lips quirked. She didn’t look smug. Just a little stunned.

“Well… you’re not so bad yourself.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Flirt with the single mom you just met.”

“I’m not flirting,” she said quickly, and then reconsidered. “Okay, maybe a little. There was another pause. “Can I give you my number?”

You blinked. “What?”

“In case you ever want to come to another game. I could leave passes. Or…” she hesitated, “we could just talk. No pressure.”

You didn’t answer right away. The heat of the moment made your skin buzz. This wasn’t how your nights usually ended. This wasn’t in the plan. And yet…

“Yeah,” you said, digging for your phone one handed. “Okay.”

She typed it in herself, then sent herself a message so you’d have hers. When she handed your phone back, she gave you a look you couldn’t quite name.

“Thanks for coming tonight,” she said.

“You were amazing,” you said softly.

“You kind of stole the show.”

She chuckled. “Zion did. I was just collateral.”

You checked your watch. The train was coming soon.

“I should head out,” you said.

Paige nodded. “Text me when you get home?”

You smiled. “You got it.”

As you walked away, Zion half-asleep again in the stroller, you turned back once to see her still standing there, hands in her pockets, watching you go.

And somehow, you already knew this wouldn’t be the last time.

The first message came three hours after you got home.

You’d barely managed to carry Zion up the stairs without waking him, had just changed into your oldest T-shirt and collapsed on the couch with a bowl of cereal you hadn’t had time to eat before the game. Your feet were throbbing. Your body was sore in ways only single motherhood could explain.

Paige: just checking you got home safe

You stared at the screen for a long second, heart thudding in your chest. The smile came slow and wide.

You: we did. barely made it off the train without him falling asleep on the floor lol

Paige: i’ve been there sometimes my teammates act like toddlers

You laughed quietly, tucking your feet beneath you. For a few minutes, it was just back-and-forth, small jokes, slow unraveling. You told her Zion called every player on the team “Paigey” now and refused to believe you when you corrected him. She told you she hadn’t stopped thinking about what he said, “are you my mama?” and admitted she’d laughed in the locker room until tears rolled down her face.

Paige: i meant it, btw about you and zion coming again if you want

And something in your chest softened, something you didn’t even realize was still tense. You typed slowly.

You: we’d love that. but only if you’re sure it’s okay. i know you’ve got a whole life going on.

Her response came quick, no hesitation.

Paige: you’re not a distraction you’re… a really good part of my day

You didn’t have the energy to analyze what that meant. Not yet. But it stuck with you. Echoed even after you put the phone down and curled up beside Zion in his tiny bed, his warm little fingers tucked into your shirt.

Three days later, she sent a voice memo. Her voice was quiet, almost shy.

“Hey… we’ve got a closed practice Friday morning. No press, no crowd. Just the team and coaches. If you’re free, I could leave your name at the door?”

You listened to it four times before answering.

And that Friday, you found yourself standing courtside at the Wings’ practice facility, Zion in your arms again, clinging to you with wide eyes. He wore a new Paige Bueckers jersey, a real one, not the off-brand secondhand one from before. This one had arrived at your door two days after the game, wrapped in blue tissue paper. There was no note, just a card with a single letter. P.

You didn’t ask how she got your address. You just smiled and thanked her the next time she texted.

Now you stood on polished wood floors while Paige jogged warm up laps with her teammates, glancing your way between drills. Zion pointed every time she passed.

“There she is!” he whisper shouted.

You kissed his temple. “You gonna say ‘hi’ this time, or are you gonna run again?”

He giggled. “I’ll be good.”

Paige peeled off after the next lap, jogging toward you with flushed cheeks and messy hair under a sweatband. She looked impossibly good. Like she belonged in motion.

“Hey, superstar,” she said, ruffling Zion’s curls. “Nice jersey.”

He beamed. “You gave it to me!”

Paige mock-gasped. “How’d you know it was from me?”

He shrugged. “You’re my mama.”

You buried your face in your hand. “Zion…”

Paige just laughed. She crouched beside him, balancing on the balls of her feet. “You know what? I don’t mind if you call me that. Just maybe don’t do it during a live broadcast, okay?”

Zion nodded solemnly. “Okay.”

You looked at her then, your eyes meeting over his head. Something passed between you—an ease, a warmth that had bloomed faster than you expected. You wanted to ask her why she was being so kind. Why she kept showing up. But instead, you asked something else.

“Sure we’re not intruding?”

Paige stood, brushing off her knees. “You’re not intruding. You’re exactly who I hoped would come.”

And the thing is, she meant it. You could tell by the way she lingered just a moment too long before jogging back to the huddle. By the way she looked back, twice, as if to check that you were still there.

Practice ended an hour later. Players walked by with nods and smiles, clearly briefed on who you were, Paige’s people. You weren’t sure how to feel about that, but Zion soaked it up like a sponge. He high fived Arike and DiJonai. Sat on the floor playing with a foam basketball ZaZa had handed him. Ate a granola bar from a bag Maddy shared without asking.

And then Paige was beside you again, towel around her neck, sweat still clinging to her arms. She looked tired but happy.

“You doing anything for lunch?” she asked.

You hesitated. “Uh…”

“I was thinking maybe we grab something lowkey? There’s a taco place down the block with a patio. Zion might like it.”

Zion perked up. “Tacos!”

You looked down at him, then back up at her. Her face was open. Gentle.

So you said yes.

And that’s how you ended up in a quiet corner of a patio restaurant, Zion coloring on a paper placemat while Paige watched him like she couldn’t believe he was real. Like she was seeing a life she’d never thought to imagine, and maybe wanted to learn how.

She asked questions. About your work. About what Zion liked. About what your days looked like. And when you mentioned how tired you always were, she reached across the table and touched your hand, just once, a brush of fingers.

“You’re doing amazing,” she said, and the way she said it made your throat tight.

You didn’t tell her that no one had said that to you in over a year. You just smiled, nodded, and let yourself believe it, for once.

The next meeting started with a casual invite. Or at least, that’s how she said it.

“Nothing fancy,” Paige texted on a Tuesday afternoon. “We’ve got the day off, and I thought… maybe you and Zion could come by. Just hang out. I’ll order in. He can watch cartoons. You can relax. No pressure.”

You stared at the message for longer than you meant to.

It wasn’t a date. She hadn’t called it one. But it felt like a step—a careful step toward something you hadn’t dared hope for.

You texted back a simple yes.

By the time Friday rolled around, Zion was talking about “Paigey’s house” like it was a second home he’d been to a hundred times instead of zero. He insisted on wearing the same jersey again, peanut butter stain and all. You tried to convince him to wear the new hoodie Paige had dropped off the last time you saw her, it was his size, soft as clouds, with her number embroidered on the sleeve, but he was stubborn.

“She likes the jersey.”

You didn’t argue because he wasn’t wrong.

Paige’s apartment was on the north side of town, tucked in a complex that probably had a gate code and a waiting list. When she opened the door, she looked effortlessly casual, soft gray sweatpants, a white tank, hair tied into a messy bun that only made her look more put together.

And the moment Zion saw her, he squealed.

“Mama!”

You cringed. “Zion—”

But Paige just laughed, crouching to scoop him up like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You’re getting bolder, little man.”

He nuzzled into her neck, arms around her like he belonged there. And watching them like that, watching her hold him with ease, one arm under his legs, the other steady at his back, you felt something shift in your chest. Something you weren’t ready to name yet.

She motioned you inside with a tilt of her chin.

“Shoes off,” she said. “You’re in my turf now.”

The apartment smelled like sandalwood and clean linen. There were basketballs stacked neatly against the wall, a basketball net hanging on the corner of the TV, and surprisingly, a bunch of children’s books on the coffee table.

“I grabbed those in case Zion got bored,” Paige explained, following your eyes. “I didn’t know if he liked to read.”

“He does,” you said, setting down your bag. “That was really sweet of you.”

She shrugged like it was nothing. But it wasn’t. You’d never met anyone who prepared for your son’s presence. Most people tolerated him. Paige… considered him.

Cartoons played softly while Zion curled up on her couch, wrapped in a fuzzy throw blanket that matched her home’s calm aesthetic. It wasn’t long before he started to blink slower, heavy lidded. Paige sat beside him, stroking his curls absently, and you sat at the far end of the couch, watching them in quiet awe.

“He’s a good kid,” she murmured, not looking at you.

“He really is.”

She turned her head then, her eyes meeting yours over Zion’s head.

“I mean it,” she said. “You’re doing all of this alone. And he’s… he’s kind. Gentle. That’s all you.”

Your throat went dry. You didn’t know what to do with the way she said it—like you deserved credit, like someone had finally seen the work you poured into every unglamorous day.

“I’ve had help,” you whispered. “A little. My mom, sometimes. And videos for every toddler related disaster.”

Paige smiled. “That is undefeated.” A beat of silence settled. “I’ve never pictured myself as a parent. Not really. Basketball takes so much. It takes… everything.”

You nodded, understanding too well what it meant to be consumed by a dream.

“But if I ever do…” she continued, “I think it’d feel something like this.”

You didn’t know what to say.

Because the way she looked at Zion sleeping in her lap, like he was the first quiet thing in her life that ever made sense, didn’t feel casual. And the way she looked at you a moment later, when he shifted in his sleep and curled deeper into her side… that wasn’t casual either.

You leaned forward, arms on your knees, your voice softer than you meant it to be.

“Why us, Paige?”

She blinked. “What?”

“You’ve got the whole city at your feet. You could be anywhere. With anyone. Why are you here… with me?”

She didn’t answer right away. She looked down at Zion, then up at you.

“I don’t know,” she said, honest. “I just… feel better when I’m around you.” You stared at her. She shrugged a little. “Is that weird?”

“No,” you said quietly. “It’s not weird.”

Paige reached out then, slow, tentative. Her fingers brushed your hand on the couch cushion between you. Not a full hold. Just a touch. An anchor.

Neither of you moved for a long time. Zion snored once, very softly. Paige laughed under her breath, the sound vibrating in her throat.

You didn’t kiss her, but you really wanted to.

Something in the way she looked at you, the ache, the stillness, made you think maybe you didn’t have to. At least not yet. There was no rush. No expectation.

Just a promise, hanging quiet in the space between your hands.

Zion slept like he belonged there.

Curled into Paige’s throw blanket on her couch, cheeks flushed, limbs flung out like he’d never known a day of stress in his life. He hadn’t even stirred when you stood to carry him down the hall to the guest room Paige had quietly prepped, sheets washed, stuffed animals lined along the pillows, nightlight already plugged in.

“He can nap in my room if that’s better,” she’d offered, scratching the back of her neck, voice soft. “Or… here. Whatever feels safest.”

You chose the guest room. But not because you didn’t trust her. Because it mattered that she’d given you the choice.

It was after midnight when you finally stepped into her kitchen. Paige was standing at the counter barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed to her elbows, a mug of something steaming in her hands. She didn’t startle when you walked in. Just glanced over her shoulder, smiled a little, and turned back to the sink.

You leaned against the doorway.

“He’s out,” you said.

“Figured. He ran the gym today.”

You both laughed quietly.

She handed you a mug. Chamomile. You didn’t ask how she knew.

The light above the stove was the only thing on. It cast the room in a golden hush, shadows soft around the edges. You stood there beside her, elbows touching, mugs warm in your hands, neither of you speaking for a minute.

“You scare me a little.”

You turned your head. “What?”

She wasn’t looking at you. Just staring into her cup.

“This… you,” she clarified. “Zion. All of it. It feels too good. And too… possible. I don’t usually let things feel possible.” You didn’t say anything. Let her speak. “I’ve been careful my whole life,” she said. “Careful with my body. My reputation, my name, even my feelings. Because everything I have can disappear with one headline. One injury… one moment.”

Her voice cracked there, just slightly.

“And then you showed up. Out of nowhere. With this kid who calls me his mama and looks at me like I already belong to him. And you—” She finally looked at you. “—you just feel like home.”

It hit like a wave.

Not just her words. But the truth in them. The rawness. The way she said it like she couldn’t help it. Like it had been building in her chest since the first time Zion threw his arms around her neck and called her family.

Your mug clinked softly as you set it down.

“I’m scared too,” you said. “Every day. I wake up wondering if I’m enough. If I can raise him right. If one more thing will go wrong. But with you…” You stepped forward. “…I don’t feel alone.”

The silence stretched. She swallowed, once. Her eyes dropped to your lips.

And then she kissed you.

No warning. Just her mouth brushing yours, tentative at first, as if afraid it would break something, and then firmer, steadier, like she couldn’t bear to stop.

Her hand found your cheek, thumb curling against your jaw. Your fingers wound into the front of her hoodie. You leaned into her like you’d been waiting to breathe again.

It wasn’t a fireworks kiss. It was a homecoming.

And when she pulled back, eyes half-lidded, forehead resting gently against yours, she whispered it, “I don’t want this to be temporary.”

You closed your eyes. “Then don’t let it be.”

She kissed you again, smiling this time, soft and breathless and the next hour melted like sugar between your hands. You didn’t sleep together. You stayed up, curled on the couch, her head in your lap, your fingers carding through her hair while Zion slept one room over and the world stayed quiet for once.

And in the morning, at exactly 7:03am, Zion padded into the kitchen in his socks, rubbing one eye.

He saw Paige at the stove, making pancakes, hair a mess, and stopped in his tracks.

“Are you married now?”

You choked on your coffee.

Paige looked over, wide-eyed, spatula frozen mid-flip.

“What?!”

Zion blinked. “We slept here. You made pancakes. That’s what happens on my cartoons.”

You dropped your forehead onto the table.

Paige just started laughing. Deep and loud, no attempt to hide it.

She turned to him, flipped a perfect pancake, and said, “I think we’re getting there, buddy.”

You groaned into your hands.

And somewhere under your embarrassment… you smiled.

It had been eight months since Zion ran across the court and called her Mama.

Eight months of playdates at Paige’s apartment. Nights where you all fell asleep tangled on the couch, shows playing to no one. Mornings where she’d drop by unannounced with coffee in one hand and a coloring book in the other. Weeks of sharing dinners, messy drawings, quiet hands over yours while Zion dozed between you.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, the three of you stopped feeling like a surprise and started feeling like a rhythm.

You were still “Mommy.”

Zion never confused that. You were the one who cut his grapes, who kissed his scraped knees, who knew how to find his missing sock even when it was stuffed in the freezer for reasons he refused to explain. But Paige… Paige was something different.

Not a replacement, but a balance.

He calls her “Mama” now. The way some kids might say ‘Titi’ or ‘Auntie.’ But with weight behind it.

You hadn’t told him to. She never asked for it. He just… said it one day over a bowl of cereal and didn’t even blink.

“Mama, I can’t find my shoes,” he said while she dug through your hallway closet one early Saturday morning, looking for the basketball he wanted to bring to the park.

Your hand paused on your coffee mug.

Paige froze for a half-second too, then smiled so quietly it almost broke you.

She didn’t correct him. You didn’t either. And neither did he.

The Wings had a home game the next week. Paige offered you tickets, like always. But this time they were front row. Zion’s name was on the list at the gate. The usher handed him a custom lanyard that said MAMA’S MVP in glittery blue letters. You nearly choked on your laughter. Paige had definitely made that.

You wore your best jeans and a Wings hoodie Paige had left in your dresser drawer like it belonged there, which by now, it kind of did. Zion insisted on wearing his jersey and his ‘lucky Paige socks.’ Which were just Wings socks with her number written in Sharpie on the toes.

As the team warmed up, Zion bounced beside you, clutching a sign that said GO MAMA. It was half glitter, half marker. He made it himself.

When she ran out onto the court and saw it, her face cracked into a grin so full and wide it practically lit the arena. She pointed. Put a hand over her heart. Blew him a kiss.

The crowd didn’t get it. Not yet. But you did.

The game was close. Paige played like her sneakers were on fire. Zion sat with a bag of popcorn in his lap, yelling “Let’s go Mama!” so loudly the fans in your section started calling her that too.

“Who’s mama?” a guy behind you chuckled.

Zion spun around, beaming. “Mine!”

You didn’t look back. You just smiled, leaned down, and kissed the top of his head.

When the final buzzer sounded and the Wings had the win, you scooped Zion into your arms and started down the court steps. He was already bouncing, yelling, “Can I go hug her? Can I go hug her?”

Security let you through with a nod.

Paige saw you coming and jogged over, sweaty, glowing, chest still rising and falling. Zion wriggled down and ran the last few feet, crashing into her legs like he always did. She picked him up, spun him once, then settled him on her hip like she’d done it a thousand times.

You caught up a moment later, breathless. “He insisted.”

“I hoped he would.”

She leaned down and kissed your cheek, soft and warm and not at all subtle. A few cameras clicked. You didn’t flinch.

And that’s when the Jumbotron caught you.

It had zoomed in on Paige holding Zion and you standing beside them, your hand brushing her back, his fingers twisted in her jersey. The arena cooed, actually cooed, before the screen flashed with a big, cartoon heart.

Paige blinked up at the screen. You blinked too.

And Zion, half laughing, shouted toward the rafters, “That’s my mama and my mommy!”

You buried your face in your hands. Paige laughed so hard she almost dropped him. The crowd lost it.

And when she looked over at you again, her eyes bright, her smile soft, she leaned in close and whispered against your temple, “Should we tell him we’re not married yet?”

You smiled back. “He already thinks you live with us.”

Paige grinned. “Well… I practically do.”

And you didn’t argue. Because she wasn’t wrong.

She held Zion tighter. You slipped your fingers through hers. And the next time the crowd cheered, it wasn’t for the scoreboard.

It was for the three of you.

The house was too quiet without Zion.

You’d been preparing for this moment for months, buying little velcro shoes and Paw Patrol lunchboxes, writing his name in Sharpie on every tag. You even practiced school drop-off with him, walking around the neighborhood holding hands, pretending to say goodbye at the corner before he’d run back into your arms and shout, “I’m not going yet!”

But now it was real.

First day of pre-K.

He stood in the entryway in light-up sneakers, a tiny backpack slung over one shoulder, and his jersey on underneath his hoodie. A special one Paige had made for him, stitched with ‘LIL Z #5’ on the back and the ‘P Buckets’ logo embroidered on the sleeve.

“He’s gonna make me cry,” Paige whispered from behind you, her voice already thick.

You turned and found her standing barefoot, hoodie half zipped, her hand pressed to her mouth like she didn’t trust it not to tremble.

“He hasn’t even left yet,” you teased.

“But look at him.”

You both looked.

Zion was spinning slowly in a circle in the middle of the living room, mumbling to himself about show and tell and “cool shoes” and “no nap time because I’m a big kid now.” He had no idea how quiet the house would feel without him. How much space he took up just by being happy.

Paige stepped beside you, her hand brushing yours. “Can I drive?”

“You sure?” you asked, arching a brow.

She nodded. “I want to.”

Zion insisted on listening to the Hamilton soundtrack. Paige unbuckled him in the school parking lot, smoothing his curls, checking his backpack twice. You handed him his snack bag. He grabbed it, turned to Paige, and held out his arms without a word.

She hugged him tight.

“Okay, Mama,” he said into her shoulder. “I’m ready.”

She froze and you saw it. Saw the way her breath caught. He’d said it so easily. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She pulled back just enough to look at him. “You’re ready?”

He nodded. “You and Mommy are picking me up, right?”

You stepped in and kissed the side of his head. “Of course we are.”

He looked between you, beaming. “Okay.”

He turned and ran toward the doors with his backpack bouncing, his tiny jersey peeking out from under his jacket. The teacher on duty smiled and took his hand, guiding him inside. He didn’t look back.

You didn’t expect Paige to cry. She didn’t expect it either.

But as the door shut behind him, she wiped under her eyes and whispered, “That’s our kid.”

You wrapped your arm around her waist. “He is.”

She leaned into you. “Even if he never came from me… it feels like he was always mine.”

You nodded. “You feel like that to him, too. That’s all that matters.”

You both stood there for a long moment, just watching the door.

Paige pulled out her phone. “Can we take a picture?”

You blinked. “Of what?”

“Us,” she said. “Like this. First day. So we remember.”

So you took it, just the two of you, in front of the school sign, arms around each other, eyes a little misty but hearts full.

Paige posted it later that afternoon.

[thatwomanlovingpotatofromtwitter]

*undooms your yuri* The games never happened. They go on trips to Thailand and eat samgyupsal with Yong Sik, Geum Ja and Jun Hee because we love happy endings!

[euaphora]

do you have wlw links?🙏🏻

rubbing each other off after a long day of work

bad girls get straps as punishment

i can make you feel better than he ever did

friends share...right?

yummy strap

craving my fingers baby?

make me feel good

fuck the brat out of you

let me show you what your missing

[sapphicscarlett]

I love fucking vocal girls, its like yes let me hear how good I make you feel, let the neighbors hear too

[lard100]

old women yuri?

[planetarydyke]

yk idrc if it's "tacky", or whatever people say, but ill probably always be obsessed with the idea of hickeys and bite marks and scratches and similar...the thought of there being glaring evidence of what we did hidden just under my shirt collar that could slip down at any time? or the thought of like fucking someone so good they have to BITE DOWN ON YOUR SHOULDER to cope??? that'll do it....THAT'LL DO IT. ima wear that shit with pride.

[n1ght0f-nyx]

Starved

Vi x fem!reader

oral fixation, overstimulation, praise kink, Vi begging, multiple orgasms, rough sex, possessiveness, face sitting (implied), primal play, dirty talk, light restraint, consensual desperation

word count- 1216

She slams the door before she even finishes stepping into the room. The echo rattles the windows and the picture frame of the two of you from some street fair hangs crooked on the wall, but Vi doesn’t care.

She’s already stripping.

Boots first, kicked off without grace. Then her gloves, her jacket—shoulders flexing, breath loud in the still night as she peels off the sweat-slick black tank top she’s been wearing for hours too long. Her hair’s a mess, stuck to her neck and forehead. Her knuckles are bruised. She looks feral.

You sit up in bed, the sheets still warm from where you dozed off waiting for her, a concerned smile barely forming before she’s on you.

“I missed you,” she growls, voice already thick with want, like her tongue can barely keep up with the hunger behind her teeth. “Fuck—couldn’t stop thinking about you the whole mission.”

“Vi—” you start, but she cuts you off with a kiss, brutal and deep.

It’s not the kind of kiss meant to be sweet or careful. It’s a collision. Her teeth scrape your bottom lip. Her hand cups the back of your head like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she lets go. Your fingers barely brush her waist before she pushes you flat onto your back and climbs over you, straddling your hips, eyes blazing with that unhinged, desperate heat.

“I swear to the Goddess, if you’re not wet already, I’m gonna make you beg,” she pants, mouth ghosting against your jaw, down your neck. “But I’m kinda hopin’ you are, baby. Been gone so long, and I need to taste you. Need it.”

Your breath hitches. “Vi—slow down—”

“No,” she interrupts again, not unkindly. It’s a growl. A plea. “Please. I can’t. Not tonight.”

And there it is—Vi, begging, in her own wild way. She’s not the type to drop to her knees emotionally very often, but the way she’s clinging to you right now? The way she’s trembling, not from fear but from restraint?

She’s already halfway gone.

Her hands are everywhere, dragging your shirt up your body with greedy fingers, kissing every inch of skin she uncovers. You arch into her instinctively, pulse fluttering. She groans as she bites the underside of your breast and then soothes the sting with her tongue, like she can’t decide between worshiping you and devouring you.

When she finally gets your panties down your thighs, it’s with such force that they tear. You gasp.

“Fuck, sorry—” she mutters, breathless.

But the look in her eyes? She’s not sorry.

“You smell so good,” she whispers as she spreads your thighs, her voice reverent and shaky. She kisses the inside of your knee, then trails higher, biting her way up your skin like it’s the only thing grounding her.

“Vi, I—”

“Shh. Just let me, babe. Let me have you.”

Her lips find your folds like she’s been tracking your scent for miles. She moans when she buries her face there, hot breath making your hips jerk. Her tongue licks one long, slow stripe that makes your stomach twist, then she goes back in, sucking your clit between her lips like she needs it to live.

You choke on a sound that’s somewhere between a gasp and a whimper.

“Oh my god—Vi—”

She hums against you, tongue flicking with purpose, her hands locking down around your thighs so tightly you couldn’t escape if you wanted to.

(Not that you do.)

Every movement of her mouth is filthy, intentional, soaked in desperation. She grinds her hips against the mattress, chasing her own high without ever leaving her spot between your legs, like she’s hoping she can cum just from tasting you.

And the worst—or best—part?

She keeps talking between every flick of her tongue.

“Been dreaming about this,” she groans, her voice muffled. “Wanted to come home to this—fuck, baby, you taste like heaven—gonna make you cum on my tongue, yeah? Gonna give it to me, sweetheart?”

Your hands tangle in her pink hair and pull, hard, but she doesn’t flinch. She growls.

“Ohh, you like it rough tonight?” she rasps, dragging two fingers through your slick. “Then come on, gorgeous—fuck my face. Ride it. I want it. I want everything.”

You don’t even recognize the sound that leaves your throat. You barely recognize yourself—panting, trembling, legs shaking as Vi’s fingers slide inside you like she’s memorized the angle.

She has.

“That's it,” she moans. “That’s my good girl. So tight for me—so fucking good—cum, baby, do it—cum for me, please—”

The sound of her begging, voice cracking while her mouth and fingers keep working you like you’re her whole world—it ruins you.

You shatter.

Your thighs close around her head, and she moans like she’s in heaven, like she’s coming with you. Her fingers don’t stop. Her tongue keeps flicking. She chases your orgasm, milks it, won’t let it end.

“Vi—too much—fuck—wait—”

“No,” she growls, needy and blissed out. “One more. Please. Give me one more.”

You try to wriggle away, but she holds you down, her whole body trembling with sheer need. She’s gone feral—starving—like this is the only thing that can fill her up.

And gods, the praise.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” she groans. “Taking me so good—so wet—fuck, I could do this all night. Gonna keep eating you ‘til you can’t think straight, babe. Just wanna drown in you.”

You do cum again, and then again, in quick, helpless waves. She never lets up. She pushes you through each one with a kind of reckless devotion that leaves your legs twitching and your head spinning.

At some point, you’re crying. You don’t even know when.

Vi pulls back finally, her chin slick, eyes wild but softening just slightly as she looks up at you from between your thighs. She kisses the inside of your leg like an apology.

“You okay, baby?” she pants. “You with me?”

You nod, gasping for air, one arm flung over your eyes. “Jesus. I—I think you broke me.”

She grins, crawling up to lie beside you, pressing kisses all over your damp cheeks, your jaw, your collarbone.

“Didn’t mean to go so hard,” she murmurs, kissing your shoulder. “But fuck, I missed you. Missed this. You have no idea what you do to me.”

Your breath hitches again when she shifts her hips, and you realize—Vi’s soaking through her underwear.

She hasn’t even touched herself.

Your hand trails down to her hip. She groans.

“Vi,” you whisper. “You didn’t…?”

She shakes her head, face flushed and sweaty, hair wild. “Didn’t need to. Just tasting you? Feeling you cum on my face?” She lets out a shaky breath. “That was better than getting off.”

You blink at her, dazed and overwhelmed and so full of love you could cry all over again.

“I can… return the favor,” you whisper, reaching down.

But Vi catches your wrist and brings it to her lips. “Later. Right now? I just wanna hold you. Just—let me come down.”

She pulls you into her arms, chest still heaving, heartbeat racing beneath her ribs. You bury your face into her neck, still trembling with aftershocks.

And in the silence that follows, she presses a final kiss to your temple.

“I fucking love you,” she says, raw and reverent.

You smile weakly, completely wrecked.

“I know.”

[heartsandkissesmwah]

want her to look at my tits practically spilling out of my tiny tops in the summer, want to catch her staring and pretending she wasnt when i catch her, acting like i dont know what she was doing only for my tits to bounce in her face later that day when im riding her ☺️

[ki11ustr4tions]

My black vamp ocs!! (Amaya on the left, Jazzy on the right)

A little lore ⭑.ᐟ

Amaya falls first in the relationsip and before they become gfs, they go through months of agonizing mutual pining :3

[urknightinshiningarmor]

how 8 year old me felt after playing the dad in house so i could be married to the huzz:

[mooniism]

good morning green yuri nation

[cadaveriaa]

oh to have a pretty girl on her knees begging to please me and to use her face to get off, she's such a good girl :(

[clandestinemoments]

that’s my girl • Melissa Schemmenti x F!Reader • Big mouth. Big attitude. Even bigger need. Melissa Schemmenti might boss everyone else around, but behind closed doors? She’s all yours.

18+ MDNI!

She storms through the front door, slamming it behind her. She shrugs off her coat, her hair a little windblown, that signature fire in her eyes as if she just finished chewing out a vendor for overcharging her on printer paper.

Melissa Schemmenti, the immovable force of Abbott Elementary. No one tells her what to do. No one pushes her around. She runs on coffee, spite, and an ungodly amount of moxie.

Except when she’s with you.

You see it right away, underneath all that armor: the first flicker of something softer. She closes the door and leans against it with a sigh she only lets out when she feels safe. Her shoulders sag just enough. Her voice is quieter.

“Rough one, huh? Looks like you just wrestled a bear,” you ask, stepping toward her even though you know the answer.

She huffs, yanking the clip from her hair as if it personally offended her, earrings swaying. “Define ‘long.’ If you mean ‘tried to kill the superintendent with my eyes,’ then yeah.”

You grin. “Sounds productive.”

“Bunch of pencil-pushing numbskulls who wouldn’t last a day in a classroom,” she mutters.

You step closer, taking her coat from her hands. Your fingers brush hers, a jolt like static electricity before a storm. Her hands, usually so steady, are trembling, and it isn’t from nerves; it’s that hum of anticipation you know so well.

“If you wanted my clothes off, you could’ve just asked,” she says, trying for snark but her voice wavers. She almost pulls her hands back, but then lets them rest in yours, a tremor running through them that has nothing to do with the cold.

You smile, hanging her coat neatly. “I am asking.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s the ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “Yeah, yeah.”

You press your palm to her cheek, tilting her face toward you. The fire in her gaze dims just a little, making room for something raw and wanting.

“You done being the boss for today?” you ask softly.

Her breath catches. She hesitates, and for a second she’s all bite again, jaw clenching. “Maybe.”

You just stare at her, letting the silence hang. Melissa knows the drill. Finally, she exhales like she’s been holding her breath for a week, her eyes dropping to your mouth. “Yeah. I’m done.”

“Words, honey,” you murmur, brushing your thumb over her lip. “Tell me.”

She swallows, her throat bobbing. When she speaks, her voice is low and raspy. “I want you to take over.”

God, she’s so damn pretty like this. The attitude is still there, banked like embers waiting for you to coax it out in gasps and moans.

You guide her backward, a firm hand on the small of her back, feeling the sudden rigidity in her spine before it gives way. She practically tumbles onto the mattress, and you’re right there, straddling her hips before she can even think about protesting. She smirks up at you, that challenging glint still in her eyes.

“You gonna keep hoverin’ or are we actually doing something here, wiseass?” Her voice is raspy, but the bite is still there.

You lean down, nose brushing hers, voice dropping to a growl. “Watch it, Schemmenti. Don’t push your luck.”

She snorts, but her chest is already rising and falling faster. “Yes, ma’am.” The words are laced with mock obedience, but her body is humming.

You dip your head, teeth scraping lightly along the curve of her throat, just under her ear. She hisses, a sharp, choked sound, her fingers digging into your thighs so hard you’ll have crescent marks later.

“Fuck,” she breathes, hips twitching under yours. “That all you got, hotshot?”

You grin against her skin. “Not even close.”

You kiss along her jaw and behind her ear, the spot that makes her shudder. She lets out a breathy, frustrated curse, head tilting back to give you more access.

“Say it,” you murmur, brushing her hair back from her temple.

Her eyes flutter, heavy-lidded. “Say what?”

You pinch her thigh hard enough to make her jolt. She gasps, breath catching. “Say you’re giving it up. That you’re mine.”

She glares at you, stubborn fire flaring. But it’s a losing battle. You see the fight drain out of her, leaving her raw. Her voice is just a rasp: “I’m yours. Just… please.”

“Good girl.”

She whines, low and guttural, hips bucking against yours, legs tightening around your waist. Every time she tries for friction, you catch her wrists and pin them to the bed.

“Behave.”

She tests your grip, smirking even as she breathes hard. “Or what?”

You lean in, voice dark as sin. “Or you don’t get to come.”

That shuts her up. Her eyes go wide, the challenge instantly replaced by pure, unadulterated need. She stills under you, swallowing hard.

“Please,” she whispers, voice cracking. “Please don’t stop.”

You reward her with slow, deliberate touches, your mouth dragging fire down her sternum. Your fingers trace her ribs, teasing, denying, then giving just enough to make her squirm. She begs you in gasped curses and breathless pleas, all that fierce attitude stripped away.

You smile against her skin. “That’s it, honey. Keep begging. Let me hear you.”

She tries to glare but it’s all wet lashes and parted lips now. “Fuck. Fuck you. I…oh God”

You press your thumb to her clit hard enough to make her voice break. “Try again.”

She gasps, hips bucking. “Please, please don’t stop, baby. I need it. Need you to…fuck…just make me come. Please.”

“Good girl.” You slide two fingers deep inside her, curling just right. She practically sobs, walls clenching tight. “You’re so wet for me. Is this what you want? To be fucked open until you can’t remember your own name?”

She whines. “Yes. Yes…shit, yes. Fuck me. Don’t stop.”

You laugh softly, low and cruel. “God, you’re so fucking needy. I love watching you fall apart.”

She bucks harder, voice breaking. “Jesus…fuck..harder…please”

“You want it that bad? Use your words. Tell me who you belong to.”

She hesitates, biting her lip, but you grind your thumb against her clit and she breaks. “You! Yours. Fuck! I’m yours. Please.”

You grin, voice thick. “That’s my girl.”

You speed up, fingers pumping mercilessly. She writhes under you, legs spread wide, breath hitching on sobs. She’s cursing between gasps, voice hoarse with need.

“God…oh God…I’m gonna…fuck”

You slow just enough to make her wail. She fights your grip, almost crying. “Please! Please don’t tease. I’m begging you. Baby, please.”

“Shh,” you soothe, kissing her roughly. “Come for me. Now.”

She shatters. The orgasm hits her like a truck, body convulsing, back arching off the bed, mouth open on a strangled moan of your name. She’s gripping your arms so hard you’ll bruise, riding your fingers desperately. You work her through it, relentless but careful, until she’s a shaking, overstimulated mess.

You finally slow, pulling your slick fingers out with a wet sound that makes her whine. She slumps, breathless, hair plastered to her sweaty face.

She pants hard, glaring weakly. “You… are such an… asshole.”

You grin, brushing her hair back from her forehead. “You’re welcome.”

“Fuck you,” she rasps.

“Maybe later.” You bring your fingers to your mouth, licking them clean, making sure she watches. “God, you taste so good.”

She shivers. “You’re disgusting.”

“But you love it.”

She drops her head back, exhausted. “Yeah. Unfortunately.”

You lean down, kissing her slow and deep, letting her taste herself on your tongue. She melts into it despite herself, kissing you back with broken whimpers.

When you finally pull back, she’s half-glazed, voice cracking. “Don’t think this means you’re in charge tomorrow.”

You smirk. “Sure, Schemmenti. Whatever you say.”

She snorts, eyes fluttering shut, breath evening out. “Smartass.”

But she doesn’t fight you when you wrap your arms around her and pull her close, pressing kisses to her temple. Her fingers curl weakly in your shirt like she’d rather die than admit how safe she feels there.

“Boss bitch by day,” you whisper against her hair. “Mine by night.”

She hums, too tired to argue. “Yeah,” she mumbles. “Yours.”

[sapphicstrawcore]

How being a femme and genuinely not giving a single fuck about my body hair and bush feels like

[scherrauthor]

(KPDH spoilers)

Straight people upset that Rumi and Jinu didn’t even kiss may finally understand the sapphic struggle of watching 10+ seasons to see a lesbian or wlw couple hold hands, admit their feelings, and then one of them immediately dies afterwards. 😭