PB

"On it," you murmured. Your voice sounded a little distant, even to your own ears, but you forced a reassuring nod and grabbed an IV kit.

Inside Bed 6, you prepped the tourniquet and tore open the alcohol wipe. Your hands were usually rock solid, it was why Jack always asked for you on difficult sticks. But as you brought the needle down toward the patient's arm, your fingers violently jerked.

The needle slipped from your hand. Panic, cold and sharp, spiked through your chest.

You gripped your right wrist with your left hand, trying to steady it, but an involuntary spasm rippled through your forearm. Your muscles tightened up, rigid and uncooperative.

No, no, no. Not right now.

You knew the signs. You lived with this reality every day. The entire shift knew it, too. But the velocity with which your blood sugar was crashing caught you entirely off guard.

"Sarah," you choked out, catching the eye of another nurse who was checking the monitor. Your voice was barely a whisper. "Can you... can you take over? I c-can't... I can't get the angle."

Sarah looked at you, confused. "Yeah, sure. I got it."

You stumbled backward out of the cubicle, your right arm tight against your chest as another spasm wracked the muscles.

You needed glucose. Now. Urgently.

You had a strange sensation, a tingling, in your legs, although you could still walk to the break room only because of muscle memory.

From across the floor, Jack catched you exit Bed 6. He frowned. It wasn't like you to hand off a procedure, especially not an urgent one. He stepped away from the central desk, his eyes tracking your swaying stride as you turned the corner into the staff breakroom.

"Hey," Jack called out softly, following you in and closing the door behind him. "Are you alright? Did you—"

You turned to face him, intending to tell him you just needed a fast acting carb, but your body betrayed you. Your neck stiffened slightly, and a small tic appeared, convulsing into a series of uncontrollable muscle spasms. You tried to reach for the cupboards, but your hand was shaking too much.

Jack froze, his medical instincts kicking in instantly.

He knew your diagnosis. He knew what a rapid drop looked like.

"Jesus, baby," he breathed, lunging forward just as your knees buckled.

He caught you before you hit the floor, guiding your trembling body down until you were sitting in one of the breakroom chairs.

"Hey," Jack commanded, cupping your face with his hands. "Look at me, doll."

You were awake. Your eyes were wide open, your gaze still fixed on him, your tics still twitching, but you weren't there. Your gaze was completely lost, glassy and unfocused. An involuntary whimper escaping your lips as another spasm gripped your hand.

"Hey, stay with me. Keep your eyes open," Jack pleaded, his fingers gripping your jaw firmly. He reached into his pocket, grabbing a tube of oral glucose gel he kept strictly for you.

"I'm going to put this in your mouth, okay? Don't swallow. Don't waste energy. Just let it absorb," he muttered, his hands shaking slightly, a rarity for Dr. Abbot. He gently parted your lips and squeezed the gel into your mouth, his eyes locked on yours, desperately searching for a flicker of recognition.

Your eyes remained swimming in an unfocused void, your head still twitching rhythmically against his hand.

The oral glucose gel was in, but your body wasn't responding. Jack knew the gel would take too long to turn this around.

He couldn't risk waiting.

"I need help in here!" Jack shouted toward the door, his voice cracking with urgency. Within seconds, the door burst open. Sarah and a resident rushed in, pausing for a fraction of a second in shock at the sight of the lead attending holding you tightly.

"She's crashing. Severe hypoglycemia, early seizure activity," Jack ordered. "Get a gurney. I need an IV kit and a bag of D50, now!""

The team moved fast. They wheeled a gurney right to the breakroom door, and Jack insisted on lifting you himself, his arms straining as he carefully laid you onto the mattress. They rushed you into an empty trauma bay, pulling the curtains shut to give you whatever dignity they could save.

"Starting IV," Sarah said, her fingers flying as she prepped your arm.

Jack didn't step back. "Baby, can you hear me?" he muttered, holding your head so you wouldn't hurt yourself. He didn't care about who listened to him calling you nicknames in a moment like this. "Are you with me?"

As Sarah successfully flashed the vein and pushed the concentrated dextrose into your IV, the violent twitching in your muscles finally began to subside. Your jaw relaxed and your eyelids grew incredibly heavy.

Your eyes closed completely. Your head rolled slightly to the side against the pillow.

"Hey, hey, no. Stay awake," Jack said sharply. He tapped your cheek, his pulse skyrocketing. "Goddammit, doll."

Jack felt nervous but he felt your breathing deep and even, your body completely limp.

"Fuck, her blood sugar is going to take a few minutes to register a rise in her brain. She’s just exhausted," Jack said gently, he didint know if he was trying to ground Sarah or himself. A patient losing consciousness after a neurological event was never just sleeping. His mind raced through every worst-case scenario: prolonged cerebral hypoglycemia, a postictal coma, a secondary head injury he hadn't seen.

"Get a fingerstick. Check her glucose levels," Jack demanded. He grabbed a penlight from his pocket, peeling back your eyelid to check your pupils. They were reactive, but you didn't even stir from the light. "Come on. Wake up. You can't sleep right now."

Seeing you completely unresponsive was tearing him apart.

"Don't do this," he whispered. "Please, wake up."

Long minutes later, the first thing that roused you from your deep sleep was the sound of the door closing. Your head felt as if it were being pressed tightly between two hands; you felt a great pressure on your temple.

"Hey..." a rough voice made you open your eyes, but the harsh lights of the trauma bay made your vision blur. Before you could even formulate a word, a violent wave of nausea surged from the pit of your stomach.

You gagged, instinctively trying to sit up.

Jack moved fast, grabbing an emesis basin from the bedside table and sliding his arm behind your back to support your weight as you threw up. He held you firmly, his hand rubbing your back as you retched, your body trembling from the sheer exhaustion of it all.

"I've got you," Jack murmured. "Breathe through it."

When it finally stopped, you sank heavily back against the pillows, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

You felt entirely disconnected from your own body.

Jack quickly set the basin aside, grabbed a damp washcloth, and gently wiped your mouth. Then, he picked up his blood glucose meter from the bedside. "I need to check your sugar again, okay?"

You nodded as he pricked your finger, and a moment later, the machine beeped. Jack sighed, a mix of relief and frustration washing over his face. "Two hundred and eighty four. It's high. The D50 overcorrected you, but we can manage that. We'll give you a small correction dose of insulin in a bit."

You blinked at him, the numbers not quite registering. Your brain felt like it was swimming in confussion. You looked around the trauma bay, the familiar sights of The Pitt looking completely foreign to you.

"Jack?" your voice was barely audible.

"Mh? I'm right here," he said, taking your hand and squeezing it tightly. "How do you feel?"

"Tired..." You said, sighing. "Did... did I miss my shift? What time is it? Do I need to clock in?"

Jack’s brow furrowed. He leaned closer. "Doll, you were already working. You collapsed in the breakroom."

You shook your head slightly, confusion hitting your chest. "No… no, it's… it's Thursday. We had the day off yesterday and had a date. I need to clock in."

Jack froze, his eyes scanning yours. Postictal disorientation was common after a severe hypoglycemic episode, but hearing you sound so lost cut right through him.

"It's not Thursday," Jack said softly, his voice was tending as he tried to reason with you. He raised his hand to gently cup your cheek. "It's Friday, love. Well, technically Saturday morning now. It's 5 AM."

"Saturday?" you whispered, your eyes filling with sudden tears as you realized just how blank your memory was. "I don't... I don't remember."

"Hey, it's okay," Jack rushed to soothe you. "It's completely normal to be confused right now. Your brain just went through a war. We're gonna run some studies to check your brain."

After your blood sugar began to stabilize, he ordered a full workup. He personally walked your labs down to the desk, demanded a priority read on your chem panel, and stood over the monitor while you were monitored for any residual cardiac ectopy.

Two hours later, the results were back.

"Good news," Jack said. He sat on the edge of your mattress, taking your hand back into his, intertwining her fingers with yours. "Physically, you’re completely cleared. Your body handled the crash beautifully, all things considered."

You looked down at your lap. "I still can't remember it, Jack. I remember walking into Bed 4 with an IV kit, and then... nothing. Just waking up and throwing up on you."

"You didn't throw up on me," he corrected gently, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "And the amnesia is normal. The neurologist on call confirmed it’s just localized retrograde amnesia from the seizure activity. It happens when the brain is deprived of glucose so quickly. It might come back in pieces, or it might not. But you are okay. That’s all that matters."

You let out a sigh, leaning your head forward until it rested against his shoulder. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in your hair, holding you with protective tightness that spoke volumes about how terrified he had actually been.

"You scared the hell out of me, you know?" he whispered into your hair, his voice cracking slightly. "Don't do that to me again."

"I'll try not to, baby," you murmured against his shoulder. "Thanks for catching me."

"Always," Jack said, pressing a warm kiss to the side of your head. "You're my favorite, I always be there to catch you."

-

Jack entered the room later as the distant sounds of the early morning shift change began to filter through the curtains.

"Alright," he said, his voice was in authoritative tone. "I’m pulling you off the schedule for the rest of the weekend, and you are going home to sleep."

You groaned slightly. "You know I have a double scheduled for Sunday. The floor is already short handed."

"I don't care if the entire hospital is short handed," he countered. "I'm the attending here, and I'm putting my best nurse, my girl, on mandatory medical leave. Arguments denied."

You couldn't help the smile that tugged at your lips. "You're very bossy when you're worried, Jack."

"I am your supervisor, and your soon to be boyfriend. It’s my job to be bossy," he murmured as you blushed.

He reached over, placing a small paper bag carefully in your hands.

"Here. Open it."

You frowned, peering into the bag. You pulled out a brand new glucose monitor sensor box, along with a pack of pink patches meant to secure it.

You blinked, memory suddenly sparking. "Wait... my old sensor..."

"When we were cutting your sleeve to line you, the shears caught your sensor," Jack explained. He rubbed the back of his neck. "It completely ripped it off. I had pharmacy pull a replacement from the emergency stash immediately, and I grabbed these extra-strength overlays from the supply closet so it doesn't budge during your next shift."

You looked from the box up to him, your heart swelling. Even in the middle of an emergency, he was anticipating exactly what you would need to recover.

"Thank you," you whispered, running a finger over the smooth box. "Though I'm pretty sure using hospital supply overlays for personal use is a protocol violation, Abbot."

"Consider it an attending-approved override for an exceptional nurse," Jack smoothly replied, a smirk playing on his lips. "Once we are officially off, I am taking you to my house. I'll help you with the new sensor, and then you are going to rest. I'll even cuddle you to sleep. Deal?"

You looked at him, the perfect blend of your demanding mentor and your devoted partner, and nodded. "Deal. But only if you promise not to critique my sensor placement technique."

Jack chuckled softly, leaning down to give you a warm kiss on yur cheek. "I'm not promising anything. I know you're not exactly… delicate with that."

"Shut up, Abbot, and discharge me."

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

Slowly, he pushes himself up, crawling up the length of the mattress until he is hovering over you.

He looks completely wrecked in the best possible way. His lips are slick and slightly swollen, his green eyes dark and blown wide. He drops down onto the mattress beside you, flopping heavily onto his back and letting out a long, exhausted groan.

He doesn’t give you any space. He immediately rolls onto his side, throwing one heavy arm across your stomach and pulling you flush against his warm, sweat-slicked chest. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder, tasting you on his own lips.

“Jesus,” Dean murmurs into the quiet room. “You taste so fucking good, Y/N.”

“You are …” you start, but your voice comes out as a weak, raspy croak. You clear your throat, trying to summon a shred of your usual dignity. “You are very enthusiastic.”

Dean chuckles, the sound vibrating against your ribcage. “Enthusiastic. That’s one word for it. I was going for ’life-changing,’ but I’ll take it.”

You let your eyes slip shut, resting your head against the pillow and enjoying the heavy, comforting weight of his body against yours. The room is quiet, the only sounds the faint hum of the heating vent and the synchronized rhythm of your breathing. It is peaceful. It is perfect.

Which is exactly why your instincts tell you to ruin it.

Ilya’s voice echoes in the back of your mind. Men like that, they get attached. They get possessive. You shift slightly, trying to put an inch of space between you so you can clear your head, but Dean’s arm immediately tightens like a vise around your waist, locking you in place.

“Don’t move,” Dean says quietly. The playful, post-coital banter is suddenly gone from his voice. It is replaced by a low, serious tone that makes your heart give a hard, erratic thump.

“I am sweating,” you complain, though you make no further effort to move. “Your body heat is excessive.”

“Tough. You’re staying right here.” Dean props himself up on one elbow, looking down at you. The dim light from the bedside lamp casts sharp shadows across his face, highlighting the firm, resolute set of his jaw. “We need to talk.”

Your stomach drops. You hate talking. Talking leads to feelings, and feelings lead to a loss of control.

“If this is about your performance on the ice yesterday,” you deflect smoothly, keeping your expression perfectly blank, “I already told you that your gap control was acceptable. Not great, but acceptable.”

“It’s not about hockey, Y/N,” Dean says, refusing to take the bait. He reaches up, brushing a damp strand of hair off your forehead. His touch is incredibly gentle, completely at odds with the intense, unwavering look in his eyes. “It’s about us.”

“There is no us, Di Laurentis,” you remind him, clinging to the rules you established on day one. “This is an arrangement. It is mutually beneficial. It is casual.”

“Right. Casual,” Dean repeats. He lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “I have a toothbrush in your bathroom. I know your coffee order by heart. You know my stats better than my head coach does. And I just spent the last twenty minutes making you scream my name in two different languages.”

He leans down, his face inches from yours. “Tell me again how casual this is.”

You swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. “Those are just details.”

“Bullshit,” Dean fires back. He isn’t angry, but he is completely uncompromising. “It’s not casual for me. Not anymore. I’m not doing this halfway, Y/N. I want you.”

“You have me,” you point out, gesturing vaguely to your naked body trapped beneath his.

“You know what I mean,” Dean says, his voice dropping an octave, turning raw and gravelly. “I want all of you. I don’t want you going on dates with other guys. I don’t want you looking at anyone else. Hell, I barely want you looking at my teammates.”

“You are being ridiculous.” You push against his chest, finally managing to sit up slightly, though Dean simply shifts his weight to keep you pinned to the mattress. You pull the sheet up to cover your breasts, suddenly feeling incredibly exposed. “I do not go on dates with other men. I do not have the time or the patience.”

“But you could,” Dean presses, his green eyes locking onto yours. “You could walk out of here tomorrow and hook up with some finance bro from Harvard, and I wouldn’t have the right to say a damn thing about it.”

“And you could hook up with a sorority girl,” you counter, lifting your chin. “That is the point of being casual. We are both free to do as we please.”

“I haven’t even looked at another girl since the night you insulted my backhand,” Dean admits bluntly. The raw honesty in his voice actually makes you flinch. He doesn’t hide behind a smirk. He just lays his cards on the table, completely vulnerable. “I don’t want anyone else. I just want you. I want to be your boyfriend.”

The word hangs in the air between you, heavy and terrifying.

You stare at him, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You came to America to escape the suffocating control of the men in your family. You promised yourself you wouldn’t get tied down. You promised yourself you would always hold all the cards.

“Dean,” you say, your voice tight, your Russian accent slipping out heavily. “You do not want this. I am difficult. I am demanding. My brother is a literal psychopath who will probably put you in the hospital when he finds out.”

“I don’t give a fuck about Ilya,” Dean says instantly. “Let him try. I’ll take a beating if it means I get to keep you.”

“It is not just him,” you argue, shaking your head. Your chest aches. You hate how much you want to say yes. “We are entirely different. You are … you are Dean Di Laurentis. You are the party guy. You do not do commitment.”

“I do now,” Dean says simply.

“People do not change that fast.”

“Watch me.”

“I cannot do this,” you say, a genuine edge of panic creeping into your voice. You try to scramble backward against the headboard, desperate to put physical distance between you so you can think straight.

But Dean is faster.

He shifts forward, following you up the bed. Before you can retreat, his hands come up, gripping your wrists firmly but gently, pulling them away from the sheet you are clutching like a shield. He pins your hands flat against the mattress on either side of your head.

“Don’t run away from me,” Dean murmurs, his face hovering just above yours.

“I am not running,” you lie, your breathing turning shallow. “I am simply concluding this conversation.”

“The conversation isn’t over.”

Dean leans down, and instead of kissing your lips, he presses his open mouth against the pulse point just below your jaw.

You let out a sharp, involuntary gasp.

“Dean,” you warn him, though your voice lacks any real authority.

He ignores you. He traces the line of your jaw with his tongue, his breath hot against your skin. “You talk too much when you’re scared, Y/N.”

“I am not scared.”

“Yes, you are,” he whispers against your skin. He trails a line of soft, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, lingering on the sensitive spot right at the base of your throat. “You’re terrified. You like being in control, and right now, you realize you don’t have it. Because you want me just as much as I want you.”

“Arrogant,” you breathe, your eyes fluttering shut as his teeth lightly scrape against your collarbone. A violent shudder rips through your body.

“Honest,” he corrects.

He shifts his weight, sliding his knee securely between your thighs, forcing your legs apart. You are completely pinned beneath him, completely at his mercy, and the terrifying truth is that you don’t want to be anywhere else.

Dean releases one of your wrists, using his newly freed hand to slowly, deliberately trace a path down your stomach. His rough calluses drag against your soft skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He dips his fingers just below your navel, pressing lightly against your lower abdomen.

You arch your back instinctively, a soft moan escaping your lips. You are still so incredibly sensitive from your earlier climax, and his proximity is short-circuiting your brain.

“Tell me this is casual,” Dean challenges, his voice dark and raspy. He moves his mouth to the swell of your breast, his tongue swirling around the tight peak.

“Dean,” you gasp, your fingers curling into the sheets. “Stop playing fair.”

“I’m playing to win,” he mumbles against your skin, lightly sucking the sensitive flesh into his mouth.

You cry out, your hips bucking up against his thigh. Your defenses are crumbling. They are completely, utterly disintegrating under the sheer, focused intensity of his attention. He knows your body perfectly. He knows exactly how to dismantle you.

He slides his hand lower, his long fingers finding your wet, aching center. He doesn’t enter you. He just traces the slick folds, pressing firmly against your clit with his thumb.

“Look at me,” Dean commands softly.

You force your eyes open. The cocky, easygoing college boy is gone. The man hovering over you is lethal, focused, and entirely devoted to you. His green eyes are burning into yours, completely stripping away every wall you have ever built.

“Be mine,” Dean whispers, his thumb slowly, agonizingly circling your most sensitive spot. “Just mine, Y/N. Say yes.”

“If I say yes,” you grit out, your accent thick, your body trembling under his touch, “you are going to regret it. I will ruin your life.”

Dean smiles. It is a devastating, triumphant smile.

“Ruin it, then,” he says. “But you’re doing it as my girlfriend.”

He presses his thumb down harder, and you shatter.

“Fine!” You gasp out, the word tearing from your throat as pleasure spikes sharply in your core. “Fine, yes. I am yours. We are exclusive.”

Dean stops moving his hand. He freezes, staring down at you, his chest heaving. The triumph in his eyes is so bright it’s almost blinding.

“Say it again,” he breathes.

“Do not push your luck, Di Laurentis,” you groan, turning your head against the pillow to hide the flush creeping up your cheeks.

Dean laughs, a sound of pure joy. He releases your other wrist, using both hands to cup your face, forcing you to look at him. He kisses you — hard, deep, and impossibly sweet. It isn’t a demanding kiss. It is a promise. It tastes like victory and relief.

“My girl,” Dean murmurs against your lips. “God, I love the sound of that.”

“Do not get used to it,” you warn him weakly, though you kiss him back, your hands tangling in his thick blond hair. “If you do anything to annoy me, I am breaking up with you.”

“You can try,” Dean grins, pulling back slightly to look down at you. His eyes darken, the playful energy suddenly shifting back into something entirely carnal. He looks at your flushed skin, your bruised lips, your dark hair spread wildly across his pillows.

“And now,” Dean says, his voice dropping into a rough, gravelly purr that makes your stomach clench. “For being such a good girl and finally admitting the truth, I think you deserve a reward.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying to summon your haughty persona, but it’s completely ruined by the way your chest is heaving. “A reward? You think you are training a dog?”

“I think,” Dean says, sliding his hand down your stomach to grip your hip firmly, “I’m going to fuck you so hard you forget how to speak entirely.”

Your breath hitches.

Dean doesn’t hesitate. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing a foil packet. He rips it open with his teeth, his eyes never leaving yours, and rolls it on with quick, practiced efficiency.

When he settles back over you, the air in the room feels thick enough to cut with a knife. He hooks his hands under your knees, dragging your legs up high and hooking them over his broad shoulders. The position completely opens you up to him, leaving you entirely exposed and deeply vulnerable.

“Dean,” you whisper, your eyes widening slightly at the intense, predatory look on his face.

“I’ve got you,” he promises softly.

He aligns his hips with yours, the thick, blunt head of his length resting against your slick opening. He doesn’t thrust right away. He just lets you feel the size of him, the heavy, pulsing heat waiting at your entrance.

“Tell me who you belong to,” Dean demands, his voice a low, rough rumble.

“I belong to myself,” you fire back stubbornly, even as your hips instinctively tilt up, silently begging him to enter you.

Dean chuckles darkly. He pushes forward just an inch, stretching your tight entrance, and then pulls back.

You let out a frustrated whine, your hands gripping the sheets. “Dean. Please.”

“Say it,” he insists, repeating the agonizingly slow, teasing motion. “Who are you exclusive with, Y/N?”

“You,” you gasp, your resistance completely snapping. “You. Just you.”

“That’s right.”

Dean grips your hips tight enough to leave bruises and drives forward in one long, brutal thrust, burying himself inside you to the hilt.

You scream, your head throwing back against the mattress. The feeling of him filling you completely, stretching you so deeply, is overwhelming. It is painful and pleasurable and incredibly intense. You are so wet from his mouth earlier that he glides in smoothly, but the sheer size of him makes you completely breathless.

Dean groans, his jaw clenching as he forces himself to hold still for a second, letting your body adjust. His chest is heaving, a sheen of sweat coating his skin.

“Fuck,” he grates out, his eyes squeezed shut. “You are so perfect. So tight.”

“Do not stop,” you beg, your accent thick and heavy. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling his chest down flush against yours. You need the friction. You need him.

Dean opens his eyes, looking down at you with a gaze that is pure, unfiltered fire. “I’m not stopping until the sun comes up.”

He starts to move.

The first few thrusts are slow and incredibly deep. He pulls almost all the way out, letting the sensitive head drag against your entrance, before slamming his hips forward and burying himself inside you again. The skin-on-skin slap of his body meeting yours echoes loudly in the quiet room.

You sob out a breath, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Dean … oh my god.”

“Look at me,” he commands, his voice tight with his own strain.

You open your eyes, meeting his intense green gaze. He wants you to see this. He wants you to see exactly what he is doing to you, exactly who is making you feel like this.

He speeds up, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, and more punishing. The angle is devastating. With your legs hooked over his shoulders, every single stroke hits deep, striking that bundle of nerves that sends blinding sparks behind your eyelids.

The room spins. The only things anchoring you to reality are the heavy weight of Dean’s body, the burning heat inside you, and the relentless, driving rhythm of his hips.

“Are you mine?” Dean asks, his voice harsh as he pounds into you.

“Yes,” you gasp, entirely broken down.

“Just mine?” He thrusts harder, the head of the bed frame banging rhythmically against the wall.

“Yes!” You cry out.

“Good.” Dean shifts his grip, sliding one hand under your lower back to angle your hips even higher. The penetration becomes impossibly deeper. “Because I am completely fucking obsessed with you.”

The dirty, possessive words act like a match to a powder keg.

Your entire body goes rigid. The pleasure spikes so sharply it steals your vision. You feel the climax building in the pit of your stomach, tightening like a coiled spring, hot and frantic.

“Dean,” you sob, the syllables fracturing. You try to push back against him, chasing the friction, completely desperate.

“I know,” he rasps, reading your body perfectly. He leans down, capturing your lips in a messy, bruising kiss, swallowing your moans as he increases his pace to a frantic, relentless sprint.

He is relentless. He doesn’t give you a single second to catch your breath. He just keeps driving into you, deep and hard, pushing you higher and higher until you are completely teetering on the edge.

“Pozhaluysta,” you beg wildly against his mouth.

“Come for me, Y/N,” Dean growls, tearing his mouth away to look at your face. “Let it go.”

You shatter.

Your climax rips through you with violent force, a massive, overwhelming wave of pure ecstasy. You scream his name into the quiet room, your inner walls clamping down hard and fast around his thick length.

Dean shouts, a raw, guttural sound of triumph. He drives his hips forward two more times, impossibly deep, and completely falls apart with you. He empties himself inside the condom with heavy, shuddering groans, his entire body trembling as he collapses against you.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his weight crushing you into the mattress. His chest heaves against yours, his heart hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm directly over your own.

For a very long time, neither of you moves. The only sound in the room is the ragged, desperate panting of two people completely wrecked by each other.

Slowly, the adrenaline begins to fade, replaced by a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion.

Dean stirs first. He pulls out of you with a soft sound, disposing of the condom before crawling right back into bed beside you. He doesn’t give you a chance to retreat to your side of the mattress. He wraps his arms around you, pulling your back flush against his chest, and tangles his legs with yours.

He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the back of your neck.

“Mine,” Dean whispers into the dark room, his voice completely satisfied.

You let out a soft sigh, too tired to argue, too happy to care. You close your eyes, letting the warmth of his body envelop you. You know you are going to have to deal with Ilya eventually. You know your perfectly controlled life is completely off the rails.

But as Dean’s hand rests heavily over your heart, keeping you grounded, you smile into the darkness.

Let the game begin.

***

The arena is absolutely deafening on a Friday night in early December.

You are sitting in your usual spot in the lower bowl, your heavy winter coat unzipped, the collar of your dark sweater pulled up against the chill of the rink. The air smells exactly the same as it always does — cold ice, stale popcorn, and the sharp, metallic tang of sweat and adrenaline.

Down on the ice, game is tied 2-2 in the middle of the second period against a viciously aggressive opponent. The play is fast, sloppy, and heavily physical.

“I still don’t understand icing,” Morgan says loudly, leaning close to your ear to be heard over the roar of the student section behind you. She is clutching a massive pretzel and shivering, despite wearing three layers. “Like, why can’t they just hit it to the other side?”

“Because it slows down the pace of the game and rewards lazy defensive zone breakouts,” you explain automatically, your eyes tracking the puck as it cycles behind the Briar net. “It forces the team to skate the puck over the red line before dumping it.”

“Right. Obviously.” Morgan takes a bite of her pretzel. “Are you going to Dean’s house after this?”

You don’t look away from the ice. “Maybe.”

“That means yes,” Morgan singsongs. “You guys are, like, practically married now. It’s actually kind of gross how obsessed he is with you.”

You finally tear your gaze away from the game, shooting your roommate a flat, unimpressed look. “We are not married. We have been exclusive for exactly one month. And he is not obsessed.”

“He literally brought you a coffee in the middle of a blizzard on Wednesday just because you texted him that the dining hall espresso machine was broken,” Morgan points out dryly. “He treats you like a queen.”

“I am a queen,” you say smoothly, turning back to the game. “He is simply acting accordingly.”

Before Morgan can argue, a sudden, massive shadow falls over your row.

The overhead arena lights are blocked out. The people sitting in the row behind you suddenly go dead silent. You feel a distinct, heavy shift in the air, followed by the undeniable scent of expensive Tom Ford cologne and a hint of winter frost.

“Move over,” a deep, booming voice commands in heavily accented English.

Morgan jumps, her eyes going completely wide. She scrambles to the left, practically throwing herself into the empty seat beside her to clear the space.

You turn your head slowly.

Dropping down into the newly vacated plastic seat next to you, completely unannounced and looking like a mob boss, is your older brother.

Ilya stretches his long, powerful legs out, resting his forearms on his knees as he peers down at the ice. He is wearing a dark, tailored wool peacoat over a black turtleneck, a dark beanie pulled low over his forehead. He looks entirely out of place in the sea of drunk college students wearing cheap synthetic jerseys, and yet, he looks like he owns the entire building.

“Ilya?” You ask, your voice dropping perfectly into Russian. “What are you doing here?”

“The Bruins have a home stand,” Ilya replies in Russian, not taking his eyes off the ice. “We played last night. We play again on Sunday. I was bored. And you were not answering your texts.”

“I am watching a hockey game.”

“You are watching boys chase a piece of rubber like blind dogs,” Ilya corrects, gesturing vaguely toward the ice as the opposing team fumbles a pass. “Look at this. The neutral zone is completely wide open. It is a tragedy.”

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “You cannot just show up to my university unannounced, Ilya. You are going to cause a riot.”

It’s true. Whispers are already breaking out in the surrounding rows. People are pointing. The Briar student section is heavily populated by hockey fans, and the Boston Bruins’ star center sitting casually in Section 104 is not going unnoticed.

“Let them riot,” Ilya says dismissively, switching back to English for Morgan’s benefit, shooting her a devastating, perfectly charming smile that makes her blush furiously. “Hello, Morgan. Are you learning about hockey?”

“H-hi, Ilya,” Morgan stammers, completely starstruck. “Yes. I mean, Y/N is trying to teach me.”

“Good luck,” Ilya snorts. He leans forward, resting his chin on his fist. His eyes narrow as he begins to analyze the play with ruthless, surgical precision. “Look at this power play. It is pathetic. The umbrella formation is too flat. The center is not moving his feet.”

You cross your arms, sinking slightly lower in your seat. “They are college students, Ilya. Not professionals.”

“They are pretending to be hockey players,” Ilya grumbles. “Ah, look. Number … sixty-six.”

Your breath hitches slightly.

Down on the ice, Dean receives a pass at the point. He looks incredibly sharp tonight, his skating fluid and effortless. He drags the puck along the blue line, walking it away from a diving defender, and snaps a crisp, perfect pass right into the slot for a waiting forward.

“Number sixty-six,” Ilya repeats, his eyes tracking Dean’s movement. “He is fast. I will give him that. Good edge work. But he is arrogant.”

“You are calling someone arrogant?” You ask dryly. “That is rich.”

“I am arrogant because I am the best,” Ilya states, entirely serious. “This boy, he plays with a chip on his shoulder. Look at his gap control. It is … acceptable.”

Coming from Ilya, the word ‘acceptable’ is essentially a glowing endorsement. It takes everything in your power not to smile.

“He is the leading scoring defenseman in the conference,” you point out casually, playing devil’s advocate.

“Because he plays against children,” Ilya counters immediately. “But he has good hands. And he hits hard.”

As if on cue, an opposing forward tries to enter the Briar zone with his head down. Dean steps up, dropping his shoulder, and delivers a clean, crushing open-ice hit that sends the forward flying into the boards.

The crowd erupts into cheers. You offer a small, proud clap.

Ilya nods slowly, a grudging look of respect crossing his face. “Okay. That was not terrible. He has decent timing.”

You turn your head to hide your smirk. Ilya is literally analyzing your boyfriend, completely unaware that the “acceptable” defenseman currently dominating the ice is the exact same boy who has been leaving bruises on your hips for the last month.

For the rest of the game, Ilya provides a running, highly critical commentary. He complains about the coaching. He complains about the referees. He loudly predicts every single play before it happens, much to the awe of the frat boys sitting three rows back who are currently taking notes.

When the final buzzer sounds, securing a 4-2 victory for Briar, the arena explodes with noise.

“Finally,” Ilya sighs, standing up and stretching his massive frame. “I was beginning to lose brain cells.”

“You only have three left to lose,” you tease, grabbing your purse. You look up at him. “So, are you taking me to dinner? Or did you just come here to complain?”

“I am taking you to dinner,” Ilya confirms, wrapping a heavy arm around your shoulders and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “But first, I want to see the locker room. I want to see where these boys pretend to be athletes.”

Your stomach drops. “You want to go to the locker room?”

“Why not?” Ilya smirks, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. “I am Ilya Rozanov. I go where I want.”

You look at Morgan, who gives you a wide-eyed, terrified look. You promised to wait for Dean outside the locker room after the game. It’s part of your routine. Dean comes out, fresh from the shower, pulls you into a dark corner, kisses you senseless, and then drags you to his car.

Now, you are going to be waiting outside the locker room with the most overprotective, terrifying player in the NHL.

The game is officially up.

“Fine,” you say, your voice perfectly calm despite the frantic hammering of your heart. “Let us go.”

***

The hallway outside the locker room is usually heavily guarded, restricted to team personnel and family. But when a six-foot-four Russian tank with a multi-million dollar NHL contract walks down the corridor, the security guards practically stumble over themselves to hold the doors open.

You stand with your back against the cinderblock wall, arms crossed, trying to look completely unbothered. Ilya stands next to you, taking up half the hallway, looking around with a deeply unimpressed expression.

“It smells like wet dog,” Ilya observes loudly.

“It is a hockey locker room, Ilya,” you remind him.

The heavy double doors swing open.

The first person to walk out is Garrett. The Briar captain is dressed in a sharp suit, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, chatting over his shoulder to Logan.

Garrett steps out into the hallway, turns his head, and freezes.

He stops so abruptly that Logan literally crashes into his back.

“What the hell, G?” Logan complains, rubbing his shoulder. “Keep walking-”

Logan looks up. He sees you. Then, his eyes track to the right, and he sees the massive, brooding figure standing next to you.

Logan’s mouth drops open.

Garrett looks like he is going to faint. He is staring at Ilya with the wide, terrified, awestruck expression of a man who has just met God.

“Holy shit,” Garrett whispers.

Ilya raises an eyebrow. He looks Garrett up and down, his gaze heavily calculating. “You are the captain. Graham. Yes?”

“Y-yes,” Garrett stammers. His voice actually cracks. The captain of the Briar hockey team, the guy who fights defensemen twice his size on the ice without blinking, is currently sweating through his suit jacket. “Yes, sir. Garrett Graham.”

“I have seen your tapes,” Ilya says casually, though his tone is terrifyingly flat. “Your face-off percentage is acceptable. But you rely too much on your wingers to dig the puck out of the corners. You need to use your body more.”

“I will,” Garrett says immediately, nodding so fast he looks like a bobblehead. “I’ll do that. Thank you, Mr. Rozanov. Sir.”

“Do not call me sir,” Ilya grunts. “You make me sound old.”

Tucker walks out next, stops dead in his tracks, and slowly backs away until he is pressed against the opposite wall, trying to make himself entirely invisible.

And then, the doors swing open one last time.

Dean steps out into the hallway.

His blonde hair is damp from the shower, pushed back in a messy, effortless style. He is wearing a tailored grey suit jacket with the collar open, no tie, looking entirely too cocky for his own good. He is laughing at something one of the assistant coaches said inside.

He turns the corner, his green eyes scanning the hallway. They find you instantly.

A massive, devastatingly handsome smile breaks across his face. He takes a step toward you, his entire body language softening, lighting up with that intense, focused devotion he saves entirely for you.

“Hey, beautiful,” Dean says, closing the distance. “Sorry I took so long, I had to-”

Dean stops.

He is exactly three feet away from you. He finally realizes that the massive, dark-coated wall of muscle standing right next to you is not a security guard.

Dean’s eyes slowly travel up from the expensive black combat boots, over the tailored peacoat, and finally lock onto the dark, lethal face of Ilya Rozanov.

The silence in the hallway is absolute.

Garrett is holding his breath. Logan is slowly inching toward the exit, ready to call an ambulance. Tucker has closed his eyes, preparing for the gore.

You stand perfectly still. You look at Dean, and then you look at your brother.

“Ilya,” you say, your voice ringing clearly in the dead-silent corridor. “This is Dean Di Laurentis. Dean, this is my brother, Ilya.”

Ilya slowly turns his head to look at Dean. The casual, slightly bored older-brother aura completely vanishes. His posture straightens, his shoulders expanding, taking up every inch of available space. He looks down at Dean with eyes so dark and cold they could freeze the Charles River.

“Ah,” Ilya says softly. The Russian accent is suddenly much, much thicker. “Number sixty-six.”

Dean swallows. You can literally see the Adam’s apple bob in his throat. But to his absolute credit, he doesn’t take a step back.

He squares his own shoulders. He pulls himself up to his full height, refusing to cower. He meets Ilya’s terrifying gaze head-on, the cocky, playful college boy completely melting away, replaced by the stubborn, unyielding defenseman who refuses to give up his blue line.

“It’s an honor to meet you,” Dean says, his voice steady, offering his hand.

Ilya looks at Dean’s outstretched hand for a long, agonizing five seconds. He does not take it.

Dean slowly lowers his hand, entirely unbothered, tucking it into the pocket of his slacks. He holds Ilya’s stare.

“You are dating my sister,” Ilya states. It is not a question. It is an accusation, heavy with the promise of violence.

“Yes,” Dean says simply. “I am.”

“She is nineteen years old,” Ilya says, taking a single, slow step closer to Dean. He is invading his space, using his size to intimidate. “She is brilliant. She is perfect. And she is the only family I have that matters.”

“I know,” Dean replies, his jaw tightening slightly. “She talks about you all the time.”

“Then she has told you what I do to people who cross me,” Ilya murmurs, his voice dropping so low it’s almost a growl. “She has told you that I do not play games, Di Laurentis. I end them.”

“She mentioned it,” Dean agrees, his green eyes flashing with a sudden, dark challenge.

“Let me make this very clear,” Ilya says, leaning down slightly so he is perfectly eye-level with Dean. “If you make her cry, you will not have to worry about a career in the NHL. Because they will not find enough of you to bury in a matchbox. Do you understand me?”

Garrett actually whimpers.

You cross your arms tighter, watching Dean closely. Most men would apologize. Most men would stammer, back away, and promise to be perfect.

Dean just stares right back into the eyes of the most dangerous man in hockey.

“If I make her cry,” Dean says, his voice low, steady, and vibrating with absolute certainty, “you can have a free shot. You can break both my legs. But it won’t happen.”

Ilya’s eyes narrow to slits.

“Because I’m not going to hurt her,” Dean continues, leaning in a fraction of an inch himself, refusing to back down. “I’m keeping her.”

The tension is so thick you could carve it with a steak knife. The two men stare at each other, neither blinking, neither giving an inch. It is an absolute standoff of alpha male ego and fierce, unyielding protectiveness.

And then, suddenly, the ice breaks.

Ilya lets out a sharp, barking laugh.

He lifts his massive hand and claps Dean on the shoulder. The force of the hit is so hard it actually makes Dean stumble half a step, but Ilya grips his shoulder tightly, hauling him back up.

“I like this one!” Ilya booms, turning to look at you, his eyes sparkling with genuine amusement. “He has spine! He is stupid, but he has spine!”

The collective exhale from Garrett, Logan, and Tucker sounds like a punctured tire.

Dean blinks, totally caught off guard by the sudden shift in energy, but a slow, cocky smirk immediately begins to form on his lips. “I prefer the term confident, but I’ll take stupid if it means you aren’t going to murder me.”

“Oh, I might still murder you,” Ilya says cheerfully, releasing Dean’s shoulder. “We will see how the season goes. Your backhand is still weak.”

“It’s getting better,” Dean fires back effortlessly, leaning casually against the wall. The fear is completely gone, replaced by his usual, charming swagger. “Y/N runs drills with me. She’s a brutal coach.”

“She learned from me,” Ilya points out, puffing out his chest slightly. “The Russian system is superior.”

“I don’t know,” Dean argues playfully, crossing his arms. “The North American system focuses more on creativity. Let the players make plays.”

“Creativity is an excuse for a lack of discipline,” Ilya scoffs, waving a hand dismissively.

“Discipline doesn’t score the game-winner in overtime.”

“I scored the game-winner in overtime last night!”

As you watch them argue, a strange, creeping realization begins to settle over the hallway.

You watch Dean lean against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other, a completely arrogant, completely self-assured smirk on his face. He is talking with his hands, completely relaxed, verbally sparring just for the fun of it.

Then, you look at Ilya. He is leaning against the opposite wall, one ankle crossed over the other, wearing the exact same arrogant, self-assured smirk. He is talking with his hands, arguing just to hear his own voice, completely thriving on the friction.

They have the exact same posture.

They have the exact same cocky, infuriating grin.

They radiate the exact same possessive, fiercely loyal energy hidden beneath layers of playboy swagger and ego.

You look over at Garrett, Logan, and Tucker.

The three Briar players are staring at Dean and Ilya with wide, horrified eyes. Logan slowly turns his head, making eye contact with you.

“Do you see this?” Logan whispers, his voice trembling slightly. He points a shaking finger between the two men. “They are … they are the exact same person.”

“It’s like looking at a multiverse variant,” Tucker mutters, completely disturbed. “Same font, different languages.”

“She’s dating the American version of her brother,” Garrett says, looking like he might actually throw up. “This is a psychological nightmare. Freud would have a field day with this.”

“Shut up, Garrett,” you hiss, your cheeks flushing violently.

But as you look back at them, you can’t deny it. Dean laughs at something Ilya says, throwing his head back in that rich, booming way that echoes down the hall. Ilya claps him on the shoulder again, offering a sharp, sarcastic insult that Dean immediately deflects with a perfectly timed chirp.

They are getting along flawlessly. They are practically speaking their own language — a language built entirely on hockey stats, trash talk, and massive egos.

And the scariest part? Neither of them seems to realize it.

“So,” Ilya says, pulling a sleek black card case out of his coat pocket. “You boys are hungry? I am buying dinner. The steaks in this town are acceptable. Come, Di Laurentis. You will sit next to me and explain why your power play is so predictable.”

“It’s not predictable,” Dean argues, pushing off the wall and falling into step beside Ilya as they start walking down the hall. “We run a one-three-one. It’s designed to open up the half-wall.”

“It is designed for lazy wingers,” Ilya corrects loudly.

They walk down the corridor together, completely ignoring the rest of you, deeply engrossed in an argument about special teams tactics.

You stand in the hallway, watching them go.

“Well,” you sigh, rubbing your temples again. “That went better than expected.”

Garrett slowly walks up next to you, his eyes still glued to Ilya’s retreating back. “Y/N.”

“Yes, Garrett?”

“Can you ask your brother to sign my chest at dinner?”

You close your eyes. “I am going to pretend you did not just ask me that.”

“Please,” Garrett begs, sounding entirely pathetic. “I have a sharpie in my bag.”

“We are leaving,” you announce, grabbing Garrett by the sleeve of his expensive suit and dragging him down the hall after Dean and Ilya. Logan and Tucker follow silently behind, both looking like they are still trying to process the sheer psychological horror of what they just witnessed.

As you catch up to them, Dean glances over his shoulder. He spots you, stops walking for a second, and waits for you to reach his side.

When you do, he doesn’t say a word. He just reaches out, sliding his large, warm hand around your waist and pulling you flush against his side. He presses a soft kiss to your temple, right in front of your brother.

Ilya stops talking. He looks at Dean’s arm around your waist. He looks at the way you lean into Dean’s side, completely relaxed.

For a second, the dangerous, protective older brother flares up in Ilya’s eyes.

But then, he looks at Dean’s face. He sees the absolute devotion there. He sees the way Dean looks at you like you are the only thing in the entire arena that matters.

Ilya huffs a soft breath, shaking his head. He turns around, shoving his hands into the pockets of his peacoat.

“Come on, children,” Ilya calls out, a rare, genuine smile touching his lips. “Dinner is on me. And Di Laurentis?”

“Yeah?” Dean asks.

“If you order your steak well-done,” Ilya warns over his shoulder, “I will revoke my approval.”

Dean laughs, pulling you a little tighter against his side.

“Don’t worry, old man,” Dean calls back playfully. “I like it raw.”

You let out a long, exasperated sigh, hiding a smile against Dean’s shoulder as you all walk out into the freezing Boston night.

One arrogant, hockey-obsessed idiot was hard enough to manage. Now, you officially have two of them.

You really are going to need more deadbolts.

***

The Ottawa winter is absolutely brutal, the kind of biting, deep-freeze cold that makes your lungs ache the second you step outside.

“I don’t understand how people survive here,” Dean complains, his teeth actually chattering as he parks his sleek SUV in the sprawling, snow-covered driveway of the massive luxury estate. “It’s negative twelve degrees, Y/N. Negative twelve. The air hurts my face.”

“You play a sport that takes place entirely on a sheet of frozen water,” you point out dryly, unbuckling your seatbelt. “You should be used to the cold.”

“Arena cold is different from Canadian tundra cold,” Dean argues. He kills the engine and turns to look at you.

The dashboard lights cast a soft glow across his face. He is older now, his jawline sharper, his shoulders broader from years of NHL conditioning. He has a tiny, faded scar above his left eyebrow from a high stick three seasons ago, but he is still, undeniably, the most devastatingly handsome man you have ever seen. And the heavy platinum band resting on his left ring finger — matching the diamond currently sparkling on your own — is still the best decision you have ever made.

“Besides,” Dean says, reaching across the center console to cup your face, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “Your brother chose to sign with Ottawa just to punish me. I know it. He wants me to freeze to death during the holidays.”

“Ilya did not sign a massive, eight-year contract with the Senators to punish you,” you laugh, leaning into his touch. “He signed it to be closer to Shane.”

Dean smiles, a soft, incredibly fond expression that he saves entirely for you. “Yeah, yeah. The greatest love story in the NHL. Come on, Mrs. Di Laurentis. Let’s go freeze.”

You brave the frigid air together, jogging up the salted stone steps to the massive mahogany front door. Before Dean can even ring the bell, the door swings open.

Shane stands in the entryway, wearing a soft grey cashmere sweater and looking every bit the golden boy of the NHL. He holds a can of ginger ale in one hand, his wedding band flashing in the warm foyer light.

“Y/N! Dean! Get in here before you let all the heat out,” Shane laughs, stepping back to let you both inside.

“Shane,” you smile, stepping into the sprawling, gorgeously decorated house and pulling him into a warm hug. “It is good to see you. Smells incredible in here.”

“Ilya’s making my mother’s brisket,” Shane says, rolling his eyes fondly as he claps Dean on the shoulder. “Good to see you, man. Rough game against Tampa on Thursday.”

“Don’t remind me,” Dean groans, shrugging out of his heavy wool coat. “Our penalty kill is a disaster right now.”

“Whose penalty kill is a disaster?” A booming, heavy Russian accent echoes from down the hall.

A second later, Ilya rounds the corner. He is wearing a dark apron over a black t-shirt, a wooden spoon in one hand, and a massive grin on his face. Years of professional hockey have only made him wider and more intimidating, but the sheer joy on his face when he looks at Shane, and then at you, softens his entire demeanor.

“Little bird!” Ilya drops the wooden spoon on a side table and crosses the foyer in three massive strides, scooping you up into a bone-crushing hug. He spins you around once before setting you back on your feet, kissing the top of your head. “You look beautiful. Marriage is treating you well.”

“I am managing,” you reply in Russian, smiling up at him.

Ilya turns his attention to Dean. He looks his brother-in-law up and down, his eyes narrowing in that familiar, hyper-critical way.

“Di Laurentis,” Ilya greets, his voice dropping into a flat, unimpressed drawl. “Your plus-minus this month is embarrassing. You are pinching too high in the offensive zone. Have you forgotten everything I taught you?”

“I play top-pairing minutes for a Cup-contending team, old man,” Dean fires back without missing a beat, a cocky smirk instantly appearing on his face as he shakes Ilya’s hand. “I can afford to take risks. Some of us actually have a reliable defensive partner to cover for us. Not all of us are busy staring at our own husbands across the ice.”

Ilya lets out a sharp, barking laugh, pulling Dean into a rough, one-armed hug. “You are an idiot. Come into the kitchen. The team is here. They want to meet the American liability.”

You follow the boys down the wide hallway, the sound of loud, overlapping voices and clinking glasses growing louder. Ilya and Shane’s house is an architectural masterpiece, completely open-concept, and right now, the massive kitchen and attached living room are overflowing with professional hockey players.

Half the Ottawa Senators roster seems to be lounging around the kitchen island, drinking beers and eating appetizers. When you and Dean walk in, the conversation stutters to a halt.

“Boys,” Ilya announces loudly, gesturing with his wine glass. “This is my little sister, Y/N. And her husband, Dean Di Laurentis. If any of you hit him on the ice next month when we play them, I will buy you a Rolex.”

A chorus of laughter breaks out. You recognize a few of the younger players staring at Dean with wide eyes.

Dean isn’t just a college player anymore. He is a bona fide NHL star, known for his lethal backhand, his punishing hits, and his absolute refusal to back down from a fight. To the young Ottawa players, seeing Dean standing casually in their captain’s kitchen is a surreal experience.

“Nice to meet you guys,” Dean says, leaning against the marble counter and effortlessly sliding into his charismatic, playboy-turned-superstar persona. “Don’t listen to Ilya. If you hit me, he’ll actually cry. He loves me.”

“I tolerate you because my sister likes your face,” Ilya corrects loudly, handing you a glass of white wine.

“Sure you do,” Shane murmurs, stepping up behind Ilya and wrapping his arms casually around his husband’s waist. Ilya immediately leans back against Shane’s chest, the massive, terrifying Russian practically melting into the Canadian. It’s a sight that the hockey world is finally used to — the league’s first openly queer, married power couple — but it still warms your heart every time you see it.

“So, Di Laurentis,” LaPointe asks nervously, holding a beer. “Is it true you guys run a completely fluid neutral zone trap in Boston? Because our coach showed us tape of your game against Florida, and your transition speed is insane.”

Dean’s eyes light up. Hockey is his second favorite topic in the world, right after you.

“It’s not entirely fluid,” Dean says, gesturing with his hands as he launches into a highly technical breakdown of his team’s defensive systems.

You stand back, sipping your wine, and watch the room.

Ilya naturally jumps into the conversation, loudly arguing with Dean about the merits of aggressive forechecking versus positional defense. They are standing mirroring each other — both holding their drinks in their left hands, both gesturing wildly with their right, both wearing identical, arrogant, infuriatingly handsome smirks.

“They are exactly the same,” a voice whispers next to you.

You turn your head to see Haas, the young forward, watching Ilya and Dean with a look of absolute awe and mild terror. He doesn’t realize he spoke out loud until you raise an eyebrow at him.

“Sorry! I mean, ma’am—Y/N—sorry,” Haas stammers, his face flushing bright red. “It’s just they’re both so … intense.”

“You can say cocky, Luca,” Shane laughs, joining you on the outskirts of the hockey debate. “We all know they’re cocky.”

“They’re assholes,” Boodram chimes in from the other side of the counter, keeping his voice low so his captain doesn’t hear. “But, like, in a good way? Like, they know they’re the best players in the room, and they want everyone else to know it too. It’s crazy.”

“It is a carefully cultivated brand,” you say dryly, taking another sip of wine.

“You disagree?” Ilya suddenly calls out, spinning around to point an accusing finger at Dean. “You think a drop pass on the power play entry is a good idea? It is a coward’s move! It slows the momentum!”

“It creates space, Ilya!” Dean argues back, his competitive streak fully ignited. He starts pacing back and forth in front of the island. “If you drop the puck to the trailer, you force the defense to step up, which opens the wings! It’s basic geometry!”

“It is basic stupidity!” Ilya roars, throwing his hands in the air. He turns to the Ottawa rookies. “Do you hear this? This is why the American system is flawed. They rely on tricks instead of brute force.”

The Ottawa players look terrified to be brought into the crossfire.

Shane sighs, setting his empty wine glass on the counter. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t yell. He simply looks at his massive, raging husband and says, very calmly, “Babe. Inside voice. And pass the salad.”

The transformation is instantaneous.

Ilya stops shouting mid-sentence. His chest heaves once, his eyes completely dial back from murderous enforcer to devoted husband.

“Yes, malysh,” Ilya murmurs softly. He picks up the salad bowl and hands it to Shane, the argument completely forgotten.

Across the kitchen, Dean is still pacing, completely fired up. “I’m telling you, the drop pass is statistically proven to increase zone entries by forty percent! It’s not a trick, it’s-”

“Dean,” you say.

Your voice isn’t loud, but it cuts through the noise of the kitchen with absolute, undeniable authority.

Dean stops pacing instantly. His head snaps toward you, his green eyes wide and completely focused on you.

“Yes, sweetheart?” He asks, his entire posture softening.

“Stop waving your hands around,” you tell him smoothly. “You are making me dizzy. Come here and eat your protein.”

You slide a small plate of sliced brisket across the marble island.

Dean doesn’t hesitate for a single second. The superstar defenseman, the cocky, arrogant NHL playboy, obediently walks over to you, wraps an arm around your waist, presses a kiss to your temple, and spears a piece of meat.

“Sorry, Y/N,” Dean murmurs against your hair. “Got carried away.”

“You always do,” you reply fondly, running a hand through his blond hair.

You look across the island.

LaPointe and Haas are staring at you, and then at Shane, and then back to the two massive, highly dangerous hockey players happily eating their respective bread and carrots.

LaPointe leans over to Haaa, his voice a barely audible whisper of pure disbelief.

“They walk them like dogs,” LaPointe breathes. “It’s insane.”

“Terrifying,” Haas agrees in a hushed, reverent tone. “I want a marriage exactly like that.”

You catch Shane’s eye across the kitchen. The Canadian raises his ginger ale toward you in a silent, perfectly synchronized toast. You raise your wine glass back. The rookies are right, of course, but neither you nor Shane would ever admit it out loud.

***

Dinner is a loud, chaotic, incredibly warm affair.

Ilya’s brisket is perfect, the wine flows freely, and the dining room echoes with laughter, old hockey stories, and ruthless chirping. Dean fits in flawlessly with the Ottawa players, trading insults with Ilya that sound vicious to an outsider but are actually layered with deep mutual respect.

It wasn’t always easy. Those first few years after college were a brutal adjustment. Dean getting signed, the long-distance strains, Ilya’s terrifying protective streak flaring up every time Dean’s name was in the tabloids. But Dean proved him wrong. Every single time, Dean proved that his devotion to you wasn’t just a college phase, it was the defining anchor of his life.

By the time the Ottawa players finally clear out around midnight, retreating into the freezing snow to head home, the massive house is finally quiet.

You, Dean, Ilya, and Shane migrate to the sprawling living room. A fire is cracking in the massive stone fireplace, casting a warm, flickering glow over the leather furniture.

Shane is curled up on the sofa, his head resting in Ilya’s lap. Ilya is absently running his large, calloused fingers through Shane’s hair, looking completely at peace.

You are sitting on the oversized loveseat, your legs draped across Dean’s lap. He is gently massaging your calves through the fabric of your jeans, his thumb pressing into the muscles with practiced ease.

“Good dinner, old man,” Dean says quietly, staring into the flames.

“Yuna’s recipe,” Ilya replies softly, his eyes closed. “It is foolproof. Even you could not ruin it.”

Dean chuckles. He leans his head back against the sofa, his green eyes catching the firelight. For a moment, he is quiet, a rare, reflective look crossing his face.

“You know,” Dean says, his voice losing all its usual sarcastic armor. “Dykstra was asking me earlier about how I got signed m. About how I climbed the undrafted free agent projections.”

Ilya opens one eye, looking at Dean across the room. “You fixed your gap control.”

“Yeah. I did.” Dean’s hand rests heavily on your knee, his thumb stroking your skin. He looks at Ilya, the tension between them completely replaced by a deep, unspoken brotherhood. “But that’s not what got me there. I told him the truth.”

“Which is?” Shane asks gently.

“I wouldn’t be playing in this league if it wasn’t for you guys,” Dean says. He looks down at you, his eyes incredibly soft, and then back to Ilya. “If Y/N hadn’t torn my game apart that night in the lobby … if Ilya hadn’t spent that entire summer in Boston physically beating my ass on the ice … I would have coasted. I would have been a good college player, and then maybe played beer league.”

You feel a tight, warm ache in your chest. You reach out, lacing your fingers through Dean’s.

“You did the work, Dean,” you tell him softly. “We just pointed out your flaws.”

“You pointed them out very aggressively,” Dean grins, though the emotion in his eyes is entirely genuine. He looks at Ilya. “Seriously. Thank you. Both of you. For not letting me settle.”

“You are a good man, Di Laurentis,” Ilya says, his voice thick and sincere. “You are arrogant, and you talk too much, but you take care of my sister. And you are a hell of a defenseman. You earned your spot.”

Dean swallows hard, his jaw tightening as he nods. Coming from Ilya Rozanov, there is no higher praise on earth.

“But don’t think this means I’m not going to put you in the boards next month,” Ilya adds quickly, the gruffness returning to his voice. “If you try that drop pass in my zone, I will end your career.”

“I look forward to seeing you try, grandpa,” Dean fires back instantly, the cocky grin returning in full force.

Shane laughs, sitting up and stretching. “Alright, that’s my cue. If you two start drawing up plays on napkins, I’m going to bed. Goodnight, kids.”

“Goodnight, Shane,” you smile as Ilya stands up, pulling his husband to his feet.

“Sleep well, little bird,” Ilya says, pressing a final kiss to your forehead. He points two fingers at Dean, pointing them back at his own eyes in an I’m watching you gesture, before following Shane down the hallway toward the master suite.

The living room falls quiet again, save for the crackle of the fire.

Dean turns his attention entirely to you. He slides his hands up your thighs, gripping your hips, and pulls you effortlessly across the sofa until you are straddling his lap.

“Hi,” Dean murmurs, his hands resting warmly on the small of your back.

“Hi,” you reply, resting your forearms on his broad shoulders. “You are feeling very sentimental tonight.”

“Can you blame me?” Dean asks, his eyes tracing the line of your jaw, down your neck, and back up to your eyes. “I’m sitting in a mansion in Ottawa, playing in the NHL, holding the most incredible, terrifying, beautiful woman in the world. I’m a lucky guy.”

“You are,” you agree, completely unabashed. “But you earned it.”

Dean smiles, that devastating, million-dollar smile that still makes your heart skip a beat all these years later. He leans in, capturing your lips in a slow, incredibly deep kiss. It tastes like expensive wine, woodsmoke, and years of absolute devotion.

You kiss him back just as fiercely, your fingers tangling in his thick blonde hair. The heat between you flares instantly, burning just as bright and desperate as it did in that tiny college bedroom years ago.

Dean breaks the kiss, pressing his forehead against yours, his breathing slightly elevated.

“You know,” Dean whispers, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs. “The guest room is all the way on the other side of the house. Soundproof walls, too. I checked.”

You raise an eyebrow, your old, haughty confidence returning in full force. “You checked the acoustics of my brother’s guest room?”

“A good player always scouts the arena before the game,” Dean murmurs, his voice dropping into that rough, gravelly register that completely short-circuits your brain. He kisses the sensitive skin just below your ear. “What do you say, Mrs. Di Laurentis? Ready for puck drop?”

You let out a soft, helpless laugh, leaning your head back as his lips trail down your neck.

Some things never change. He is still arrogant, he is still incredibly demanding, and he is still, without a doubt, exactly the game you want to play for the rest of your life.

“Take me upstairs, Di Laurentis,” you whisper into the quiet room.

Dean doesn’t hesitate. He stands up effortlessly, carrying you in his arms as he walks toward the hallway, a triumphant, wicked smirk on his face.

You rest your head against his shoulder, entirely safe, entirely loved, and completely in control.

A - Aftercare and adrenaline: Dean might come across as the ultimate cocky fuckboy who’d roll over and smirk after wrecking you but he’s surprisingly attentive once the high fades. He pulls your trembling body flush against his sweaty chest, big hockey-player arms wrapping around you like he never wants to let go. His voice is low and rough as he murmurs against your hair, “You good, baby? Fuck, you took my cock so deep…such a perfect girl for me.” 

Post-game adrenaline turns him feral, after a win he’ll still be buzzing, scooping you up in his suit jacket or half-dressed, carrying you straight to the shower where he fucks you slow and deep against the tiles, water cascading over your bodies while he praises how hot you looked screaming his name from the stands.

B - Bondage and teasing: Dean loves restraining you with his hockey tape or expensive silk ties, stretching your arms above your head and tying you to the headboard so you’re completely at his mercy. He steps back, slowly stroking his thick cock while his eyes devour every squirming inch of you. “Look at you, all tied up and dripping for me. So fucking pretty when you’re desperate.” 

He teases you mercilessly with his fingers and tongue, circling your clit and dipping inside your soaked pussy without giving you what you need until you’re begging with tears pricking your eyes. Only then does he finally sink into you, groaning at how tightly you clench around him as he fucks you hard and deep, using your bound body exactly how he wants.

C - Creampies and breeding kink: Dean is absolutely addicted to filling you up. He loves pounding you until he’s buried to the hilt, then holding himself deep as he cums hard, thick ropes of hot cum flooding your pussy while he growls filthy breeding talk right against your ear.

“Gonna knock you up, baby. Want this tight cunt full of me until it takes.” He’s obsessed with watching his cum leak out of your stretched hole, pushing it back in with two thick fingers while kissing you messily. The thought of you swollen with his kid makes him feral, he’ll fuck you for hours, spilling multiple loads deep inside, keeping you plugged with his cock afterward so nothing escapes.

D - Dirty talk: That smooth, cocky voice gets low and filthy the second your clothes come off. “Fuck, listen to how wet this greedy pussy is for me,” he groans while thrusting deep, the wet sounds of your bodies echoing. “This tight little hole was made to take my cock, wasn’t it? My perfect dirty girl.” He mixes praise and degradation effortlessly, calling you his good girl when you’re clenching around him and his filthy little cumslut when you’re begging. He keeps eye contact the whole time, watching your face as he tells you exactly how good you feel squeezing his dick and how he’s going to ruin you for anyone else.

E - Edging and overstimulation: With his insane hockey stamina, Dean can edge you for hours. He’ll work your clit with his tongue in slow, teasing circles, bringing you right to the edge before pulling away with a wicked smirk. “Not yet, baby. I want to hear you fucking beg for it.” 

When he finally lets you cum, he doesn’t stop, he fucks you through it with deep, punishing strokes, then keeps going until you’re shaking, oversensitive and sobbing his name. He loves the way your thighs tremble around his head and how your pussy flutters desperately around his cock as he wrings every last orgasm out of you.

F - Frat house / Fast and rough: Dean thrives on risky, spontaneous fucks around the hockey house. When the team’s out, he’ll bend you over the kitchen counter or the couch, yanking your panties aside and slamming into you from behind without warning. If they’re home, one big hand covers your mouth to muffle your screams while the other grips your hip hard enough to bruise. “Shhh, baby. Don’t want the boys hearing how loud you moan for my cock.” He fucks you fast and rough, the thrill of possibly getting caught making him even harder as he fills you up and leaves you dripping.

G - Goon and guided sex: Dean loves when you ride him but he’s still very much in control from below. He grips your hips with strong hands, guiding you up and down his thick length while watching your tits bounce. “That’s it, just like that…fuck yourself on my cock, baby. Look at you using me so well.” He thrusts up hard to meet you, turning it into a sweaty, filthy battle. When you start getting tired he takes over completely, flipping you onto your back and driving into you with powerful strokes until you’re creaming all over him.

H - Hickeys and hair pulling: He marks you up like he owns you, with dark and possessive hickeys on your neck, breasts and inner thighs that he traces with his tongue the next morning. He loves when you pull his hair while he’s devouring your pussy and he returns the favor by fisting your hair tightly, guiding your mouth down on his cock until your nose presses against his pelvis. “Fuck yes…Choke on it, baby,” he groans, hips twitching as saliva drips down your chin.

I - Impromptu and intense: Spontaneous sex is Dean’s addiction. In the locker room after practice, in a bathroom at a party or in the back of his luxury car with tinted windows, he takes you whenever the mood strikes. He’ll push you against the nearest surface, drop to his knees to eat you out like a starving man, then stand up and fuck you senseless, whispering how he couldn’t wait another second to be inside you.

J - Jealousy and possessiveness: Dean pretends he’s chill but seeing someone flirt with you makes him snap. He drags you to the nearest private spot, bathroom, alley or empty room and pins you against the wall and fucks you hard and claiming. “You’re mine,” he growls between deep thrusts, biting your shoulder. “This pussy belongs to me. Say it while I fuck you stupid.” The sex is rough, apologetic and intense, ending with him filling you while murmuring how sorry he is for losing control.

K - Kinky games: Everything becomes a game with Dean. Strip poker that ends with you on your knees sucking him off or betting how many orgasms he can pull from you before the movie ends. Loser gets spanked with his big, rough hands, leaving perfect sore prints on your ass while he laughs and teases you for being so easy to beat.

L - Lingerie and lap dances: Dean goes feral when you wear expensive lingerie just for him. He leans back on the couch, legs spread, palming his hard cock through his pants while you give him a slow, teasing lap dance. “C’mere, baby. Let me feel how soaked that pretty set is.” He eventually pushes the lace aside, burying his face between your thighs and eating you out until your legs shake before pulling you down onto his cock.

M - Manhandling and mirror sex: Those strong defenseman arms make manhandling effortless. He flips and lifts you like you weigh nothing, fucking you against walls or tossing you onto the bed. His favorite is mirror sex, bending you over in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom so you both watch as his thick cock stretches your pussy. “Eyes on the mirror, baby. Watch how well you take every inch of me.”

N - Nipple play and neck kisses: He’s obsessed with your tits, sucking, biting and pinching your nipples while he fucks you slow and deep. His mouth on your neck leaves dark marks as he grinds against you, whispering filthy praise that makes you clench around him.

O - Oral (giving and receiving): Dean eats pussy like it’s his favorite meal. He throws your legs over his broad shoulders and devours you, moaning against your clit and tongue-fucking you until you’re grinding on his face. When you suck him off, he’s loud and filthy, groaning your name, praising how good your throat feels and gently fucking your mouth while his hand tangles in your hair.

P - Praise and public teasing: “Such a good girl taking my cock,” and “Fuck, you’re so perfect for me.” He’s generous with praise but loves teasing you in public by sliding his hand up your thigh under the table at team dinners and whispering exactly what he’s going to do to you later until you’re squirming and soaked.

Q - Quickies and quality: Even his quickies are intense. A hard, fast fuck in the stairwell or his car where he still makes sure you cum hard, often twice before pumping you full. He makes every minute count.

R - Rough sex: When the mood hits, Dean fucks like he plays, hard, fast and relentless. He pins your wrists above your head, delivers deep powerful thrusts and lightly chokes you while feeling your pulse race, and growls filthy things in your ear. He always checks in afterward, making sure you’re okay before going for round two.

S - Stamina and sweaty sex: Hockey conditioning means he can fuck for hours. Expect sweaty, loud, bed-breaking sex where the sheets end up soaked. He loves the slide of your slick bodies, the way your skin sticks to his as he drives into you over and over, both of you panting and moaning.

T - Toys and teasing: Dean’s adventurous with toys. He loves using a remote vibrator on you during team events, controlling the intensity from across the room while watching you try to stay composed. He’ll edge you with dildos and plugs before finally giving you his cock.

U - Uniform kink: The hockey gear is a huge turn-on. He’ll fuck you with his jersey still on (on your or him), pads half-off in the locker room, the scent of sweat and ice on his skin driving you crazy. You love riding him while he’s still in parts of his uniform, gripping the fabric as you cum.

V - Voyeurism and risk: Dean loves the thrill of almost getting caught. Balcony sex, fingering you under the table or fucking you against the floor-to-ceiling windows of his apartment where anyone could see. The risk makes him fuck you harder and deeper, hoping to make it worth the potential trouble.

W - Worship: He worships your body like a trophy by kissing, licking and praising every inch while buried inside you. You return it just as eagerly, tracing his abs, scars and cock with your tongue until he’s groaning your name like a prayer.

X - eXhibitionist tendencies: He’s shameless. He’ll let you ride him in the hot tub at a party or record you sucking his cock so he can rewatch it later and get hard again. The danger of being seen only turns him on more.

Y - Yearning and make-up sex: After away games or fights, the reunion sex is desperate and intense. He pins you against the door the second he’s home, tearing clothes off and fucking you deeply. “Missed this tight pussy so fucking much,” he growls, pounding into you like he’ll never get enough.

Z - Zoned out and cockdrunk: Dean lives for fucking you into a blissed-out, cockdrunk mess. He keeps a relentless, grinding rhythm with deep strokes that hit your G-spot perfectly, watching with dark eyes as your eyes roll back, drool slips from your parted lips and you can only whimper and tremble. “That’s my girl. Look at you, all fucked stupid on my cock. So fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, hips still moving as he keeps you floating in that mindless pleasure for as long as he wants.

The sight of your vacant expression only fuels his aggression. He grips your hips with bruising force, fingers digging into your skin to anchor you as he drives himself deeper. Every thrust is a violent, calculated strike, his thick cock slamming against your cervix with a wet, slapping sound that echoes through the room.

He shifts his weight, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder to open you up completely. The change in angle allows him to bury himself to the hilt, balls slapping hard against your soaking wet pussy. He focuses on that one specific spot, grinding his pelvis in a circular, punishing motion that sends electric shocks through your entire nervous system.

"You're not even here anymore, are you?" Dean growls, his voice a low, possessive rumble. He leans down, biting hard into the sensitive skin of your shoulder, marking you as his while he continues to pump into you.

You try to form a word, a plea or a moan but all that comes out is a broken, airy whimper. Your head thrashes against the pillow, eyes fluttering, seeing nothing but white light and the blurred image of his dark, hungry gaze. You are completely undone, your mind stripped away by the sheer intensity of the friction.

Dean watches the drool leak from the corner of your mouth, a smirk playing on his lips. He loves this, the total erasure of your will, the way you become nothing more than a vessel for his pleasure. He increases the pace, his breaths coming in harsh, jagged gasps. The sound of his cock sliding in and out of your drenched pussy becomes a rhythmic, frantic drumming.

"Take it all," he commands, voice dripping with dominance. "Take every fucking inch of me until you can't remember your own name."

He feels your internal muscles begin to spasm, the first waves of a massive orgasm beginning to ripple through you. Instead of letting you peak and crash, he slows his pace to a torturous, agonizing crawl. He pulls out until only the head of his cock remains inside you, then plunges back in with a sudden, savage force that makes your back arch off the bed.

The sensation is too much. You scream, a raw, guttural sound, as your orgasm rips through you. Your pussy clamps down on him in tight, rhythmic pulses, milking him desperately. Dean lets out a low groan, his own control finally snapping. He hammers into you one last time, hips locking against yours as he fills you deep, his hot cum erupting in thick pulses against your G-spot.

He stays buried inside you long after the shaking stops, heavy chest heaving against yours as he leans in, licking the stray tear from your cheek, eyes dark and satisfied.

"That’s my good girl," he whispers, his voice possessive and cold. "Now stay right there. I'm not done with you yet."

The Captain’s in love with a Dr! ✨

The Captain takes care of his Dr ✨‼️

The Captain includes his Dr’s friends! ✨

The Captain and the Dr feel so High School✨

SMAU

The Captain learns about a Code Hula Hoop✨‼️ - coming soon!

His hands callous over your knees. You look around the room, trying to listen if there’s any movement from outside.

“Matt…you’re being too loud. It’s gonna be so embarrassing if I have to look your brothers in the eyes if they know what we’re doing right now…”

He lets out some sort of disgruntled whine. The sound vibrates straight to your core, the feeling of built pleasure now starting to fade.

Your body moves before your mind can catch up. You miss what you were feeling just a second ago—the way he kept nudging against that spot—the way you were riding him like you needed it to breathe…because that’s honestly what it felt like.

“God,” he groans.

You immediately let your head fall back, letting out a frustrated sigh. “Shut up, Matt. Please. We need to be quiet and I…I need m-more so…bad…”

With your eyes now squinted shut, you focus on that sensation staggering in your lower tummy. It’s intoxicating. The build of euphoria seems to triple whatever it was before, making you let out small muffled whimpers behind closed lips.

“Oh yeah, look so pretty like this, honey. Shittttt…”

Shut. Up.

It’s what you’re thinking, but you don’t say it.

You can’t say it.

Not when you know the second you open your mouth the most heinous noises will probably seep through. And that will definitely let his brothers know exactly what you’re doing. You’d rather die than experience that sort of embarrassment.

Especially knowing Chris would be the type to joke about it too.

Oh hell no. That can’t happen.

“C’mon…get out of your head, baby. Just let it feel good.”

Matt props himself up by the elbows, his abdomen flexing as he brushes some of the hair out of your face. The new adjustment makes you lean forward just the slightest—causing your puffy clit to grind hard against his pubic bone.

“Oh! Ohhh—“ you nearly lose balance as you try to bite your own hand.

Matt’s not having it. This position…obvious isn’t working.

Plus he’s already been edged by you stopping the first time. Not that it was purposeful, but still—his balls are starting to ache from how badly he needs to cum and this just…isn’t cutting it.

The next noise that hums inside your mouth is utterly sinful. Matt thrusts up into you, clawing possessively on your hips as he rocks himself over and over and over—

“Holy fuckin shit, you’re—squeezing—so tight—argh—“

He’s struggling. The words aren’t the same volume as before, but they’re still too loud. You try to peel his hands off, take control of the situation.

Matt’s not having it.

Not at all.

He takes your hands under his own, plowing himself into you from beneath—hitting that spot so hard that you swear you’re seeing heaven right now, but absolutely nothing about this is holy.

In fact, you go to stretch your palm against his chest, only to fall face first onto him. He doesn’t seem bothered at all, no—just keeps fucking himself up into you like an animal.

“Oh my—fuck! You—close? Ohmygod, sweetheart, I’m so close, need you to—“

“M-Matt, sh-shhh-hhh—“

“Fuck!”

Matt’s head is thrown back. He barely registers the feeling of one of your hands squirming out of his grip as his thrusts become sloppier—sharper but only with the instinct of his hips.

“FUC—“ Matt starts to shout, but his words are then muffled by your palm over his mouth.

And god, it does something to you.

You can feel his breath against your finger, his panting that’s echoed by the slightest touch of his tongue prodding from the corner of his mouth.

You can picture exactly what he looks like as your eyes stay squinted shut from such overwhelming sensations.

And that’s when you fail to be quiet.

“Oh Matt!”

Your entire body convulses. The feeling of your orgasm ripples through you like a hurricane. A flash of binding white light shocks through your entire world as you drool onto his chest.

You hear him muffle something, but your ears were ringing too much to pick up any actual words.

Moments later, you feel what he was trying to say—warm bursts of cum filling up your sore hole as your body rides the after effects of such intense whiplash of pleasure.

You both lay there against each other, utterly exhausted.

Panting turns into even breaths eventually. You feel his heartbeat calm to a normal pattern as you laugh against him.

All that stress and you’re still not even sure if his brothers might’ve heard because…well because you kinda blacked out at some point.

“Hey!” you yelp, pulling your hand away from his mouth as he chews gently on your fingers.

“I’d just like to point out something…” he trails off, pulling you off of him and into his side.

You feel the sticky cum pool and drip slightly out of your pussy, but he knows these moments are important to you. Cleaning the mess can wait.

“I wasn’t actually the loud one towards the end. Someone else…” he gives you a pointed glare,”-was moaning like a pornstar though.”

“Like a pornstar? You idiot, that’s a bit of a stretch,” you laugh.

“Is it? I mean ‘oh my—oh my god, Matt!’”

Your jaw drops as he mocks you. You playfully smack his chest, giggling in chorus with his vibrating chest.

“No but…do you think they heard us though…” you sigh, rolling over on your back and shielding your face with your hands.

Matt leans over. He peels your fingers from your face, planting a kiss on your lips. “I actually don’t, but—if they did, I’ll say we were just watching porn or something.”

“How is that better?!”

“Well what else am I supposed to say?!”

Matt nuzzles you in his arms, kissing all over your face sweetly. You giggle as he blows a raspberry on the side of your neck.

“If they say anything, I’ll make them regret it, don’t worry. They’re just jealous they don’t have their own personal pornstar, baby.”

You scoff. “You’re an idiot.”

“An idiot with a hot ass girlfriend.”

“Shut up before I cover your mouth again.”

“Please do.”

.

.

.

NAV.

Paige's Notes: I just wrote two fics....and now another one? What is going on lol! This was inspired by this post, shoutout to @underthe1nfluencee ! I love gaining inspo from the community 🙈

"You're so fucking beautiful," Paige murmurs as she watches Azzi walk through her bedroom door.

Azzi stepped closer, her hands sliding up Paige's arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake. "Stop talking and touch me."

That was all the permission Paige needed. She pulled Azzi against her, kissing her deeply as her hands found the hem of Azzi's top. She broke the kiss just long enough to pull it over Azzi's head, tossing it somewhere behind them. Azzi was wearing a white lace bra underneath, and Paige's breath caught in her throat.

"Fuck," she breathed, her hands tracing the delicate lace, feeling Azzi's warmth through the thin fabric. "You wore this for me?"

"I wore it hoping you'd take it off me," Azzi said, her voice low and teasing, but there was a vulnerability in her eyes that made Paige's heart skip a beat.

Paige groaned, her fingers finding the clasp at the back. "You're gonna be the death of me, Az, I swear to god." Her hands were shaking slightly as she worked the clasp, most definitely not from inexperience, but from the pure adrenaline coursing through her veins at the thought of making Azzi come undone. 

She unhooked the bralette and let it fall, and then her hands were on Azzi's bare caramel skin, cupping her breasts, thumbs brushing over her nipples. Azzi's head fell back with a soft moan, and Paige took advantage, pressing kisses down her throat, across her collarbone, lower and lower. She could feel Azzi's pulse racing under her lips, could taste the salt of her skin with a slight sweetness from her lotion.

"Paige," Azzi breathed, her hands tangling in Paige's hair, holding her close.

Paige walked them backward toward the bed, her mouth never leaving Azzi's skin. When the back of Azzi's knees hit the mattress, Paige gently pushed her down, following her onto the bed. She settled between Azzi's thighs, her hands sliding up Azzi's sides as she kissed her way down her sternum, between her breasts, across her stomach. Every inch of skin she was re-discovered felt like it was the first time all over again. She’d never get tired of this. Of her. 

"You taste so good," Paige murmured against Azzi's skin, her lips trailing lower. "I could do this all night."

"Please don't," Azzi said, her hips lifting slightly, seeking friction. "I need you now."

Paige smiled against Azzi's stomach, pressing a kiss just above the waistband of her jeans and just below her silver naval piercing. "Patience, baby. Remember?" She was trying to sound confident, in control, but inside she was trembling. 

"I hate you," Azzi said, but there was no heat in it, just desperate need.

"No you don't," Paige said, popping the button on Azzi's pants. She pulled down the zipper slowly, torturously, watching Azzi's face the whole time, memorizing every expression. "You love this. You love it when I make you wait."

Azzi's breath hitched. "Paige."

"Tell me what you want," Paige said, hooking her fingers in the waistband of Azzi's pants and underwear. "Use your words." She needed to hear it, needed to know that Azzi wanted this as much as she did.

"I want you to fuck me," Azzi said, her voice shaking slightly. "I want your mouth on me. I want your fingers inside me. I want, fuck, Paige, please."

Paige pulled the pants and underwear down together in one smooth motion, tossing them on the floor below. She took a moment just to look at Azzi, spread out on her bed, completely bare, looking at her with such trust and desire that it made Paige's chest tight. 

"You're perfect," Paige said softly, and she meant it in every possible way.

Azzi reached for her. "Come here."

Paige went, kissing Azzi deeply as she settled between her thighs again. Azzi's hands found the hem of Paige's shirt, tugging at it impatiently.

"Off," Azzi said against Paige's lips. "I want to feel you. All of you. Close to me."

Paige sat back just long enough to pull her shirt over her head, pulling off her sports bra and adding it to the makeshift laundry pile below. When she settled back down, the feeling of their bare skin pressed together made them both gasp. It was electric. 

"God," Azzi breathed, her hands sliding down Paige's back, nails dragging lightly. "You feel so good."

Paige kissed her again, deep and slow, pouring everything she was feeling into it. Her hand slid down Azzi's body, tracing the curve of her hip, the inside of her thigh. When her fingers finally made contact, Azzi broke the kiss with a sharp intake of breath.

"Fuck, I love how wet you get for me," Paige murmured, her fingers sliding through Azzi's wetness. "All for me, right baby?"

"Yeah, P, fuck" Azzi whimpered, her hips rolling against Paige's hand.

Paige teased Azzi's clit slowly, the way she’s learned to do the last few weeks.

"Inside," Azzi breathed. "Please, Paige."

Paige slid two fingers inside her, and Azzi's back arched off the bed, a low moan escaping her lips. Paige started moving slowly, curling her fingers up towards Azzi’s cervix. Azzi had now moved her own hand to her clit, which usually Paige would take offense to but the sight was so beautiful she didn’t care. She could feel Azzi's walls clenching around her fingers, could feel how close she already was to releasing. 

"Like this?" Paige asked, her voice low, though she already knew the answer from the way Azzi was responding.

"Yes," Azzi gasped. "Yes, just like that. Don't stop. Please don't stop."

If nothing else, Paige had learned she loved listening to Azzi and thus, she had absolutely no intention of stopping. Azzi’s free hand clutched at Paige’s sheets as she let her moans tumble out of her. 

"Fuck, baby," Azzi moaned, her voice cracking. "God damnit, Paige, I'm—"

"I know, baby," Paige murmured against her skin. "You gonna cum on my fingers, Princess? I can feel it. You're so close. Let go for me baby."

She increased the pressure slightly, her fingers moving faster, and Azzi shattered. Her whole body tensed, her back arching, her thighs trembling as she came hard around Paige's fingers. 

Paige worked her through it, and Azzi could feel the blonde’s smirk between her legs as she came down.

"Holy shit," Azzi breathed when she could speak again, her chest still heaving. "That was–"

"We're not done," Paige said, that wicked smile on her face. Azzi was still trembling, but she wanted more. And Paige wanted to give Azzi everything.

She looked up at Azzi, meeting her eyes, asking permission one more time even though she already had it.

"Can I?" Paige asked, her voice soft.

"Please," Azzi said, her voice already breathless again. "Please, Paige."

Paige lowered her head, her tongue making first contact, and Azzi's hands immediately flew to Paige's hair. Paige was already addicted to the taste of her, to the sounds she made, to the way her thighs trembled and squeezed against her temples. 

"Fuck," Azzi breathed, her fingers tightening in Paige's hair. "Your mouth, P. God, your mouth is so–.”

Paige hummed against her, the slight vibration making Azzi's hips buck into the blonde’s face. She slid her fingers back inside, her tongue lapping at Azzi's clit, and Azzi was already close again, her thighs trembling on either side of Paige's head.

"Don't fucking stop," Azzi gasped. "You’re gonna make me cum again, fuck."

Paige didn't stop. Although this time as her fingers curled inside Azzi, the pleasure crested into something different, something Azzi (and Paige) hadn't experienced before. Azzi’s legs shook around Paige’s head as her body tensed. In an instant, the tension snapped with Paige’s name on her lips and a flood of sensation left her. She squirted against Paige's mouth and hand, crying out, completely overwhelmed by the intensity of it. Paige didn't pull back, though, despite the slight surprise. Instead she was moaning against Azzi’s core and her hands had dug into meat on Azzi’s thighs keeping her steady so she could have every drop of the dancer’s juices. Azzi felt like she was flying and shattering all at once.

When Azzi's breathing had slowed slightly, Paige crawled back up her body, kissing her softly as she made her way to the brunette’s lips.

"Oh my god," Azzi whispered against Paige's wet mouth, suddenly going rigid. "I'm so sorry, I—that's never happened before and I'm so embarrassed—"

Paige pulled back just enough to look at her, her eyes dark and serious. "Azzi. Holy fuck. That was… That was the hottest thing I've ever seen in my entire life. Don’t fucking apologize."

Azzi's eyes went wide. "Really?"

"Really," Paige said, moving to kiss her forehead, her cheeks, her lips. "You have no idea. That was so fucking hot. The fact that I made you feel that good?" She shook her head, still visibly affected. "Thank you God," she looked up to the sky jokingly which got a laugh out of Azzi. 

"I'm still embarrassed," Azzi admitted softly, but she was smiling now.

"Don't be," Paige said firmly, kissing her again deeply. "That was incredible. You're incredible. And now I'm gonna spend the rest of my life trying to make that happen again."

Azzi laughed, a real laugh this time, the tension breaking, but then her expression turned serious again, her eyes darkening. "Your turn."

"Lord, I am so blessed," Paige whispered as Azzi rolled her onto her back. 

"I've been thinking about this all night. About getting my mouth on you. About making you feel as good as you just made me feel."

Paige's breath caught. "Az,"

"Shh," Azzi said, straddling Paige's hips. She leaned down, kissing Paige deeply as her hands slid down to the button of Paige's jeans. "Let me take care of you."

She made quick work of Paige's pants and boxers Then she was kissing her way down Paige's body, taking her time, her mouth hot against Paige's skin. 

"You're so sexy, P," Azzi murmured, her hands sliding up Paige's thighs. "I love your body. I love the way you make me feel. I love," She paused, and Paige's heart skipped. "I love this. Us."

"Azzi," Paige breathed, her hips lifting slightly. "Please."

Azzi smiled against Paige's hip bone. "I love when you beg."

Then her mouth was on Paige, and Paige's whole world narrowed to the feeling of Azzi's tongue, Azzi's lips, Azzi's fingers. She was good at this, so fucking good, and Paige was already embarrassingly close.

"Fuck," Paige gasped, her hands finding Azzi's curls. "Baby, that's—mmm God—"

Azzi hummed against her, the vibration sending shockwaves through Paige's body. She slid one finger inside, curling it up into her core and getting Paige's back to arch off the bed.

"Right there," Paige moaned. "Fuck me just like that, baby."

Paige’s orgasm hit before she could even announce it. 

"Hi," Azzi said, smiling as she got out from between the blonde’s legs. 

"God damn," Paige breathed. 

Paige’s hand, trembling, reached for Azzi’ cheek. She pulled the brunette down for another kiss, deep and slow. "You are incredible."

They lay there for a while, just kissing, hands wandering lazily over each other's bodies. Eventually, Azzi rolled onto her side, propping her head up on her hand.

"So," she said, her fingers tracing patterns on Paige's stomach. "That happened."

Paige laughed. "Mhm. Are you complaining?"

"Absolutely not," Azzi said. She leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to Paige's shoulder. "That was... really good, Paige."

"Just really good?" Paige teased.

Azzi rolled her eyes. "Fine. That was mind-blowing, earth-shattering, life-changing, top tier lesbian sex. Better?"

"Much," Paige said, pulling Azzi closer. "And for the record, I agree. That was... yeah. That was something else."

They were quiet for a moment, just holding each other. Paige felt different somehow, like something fundamental had shifted. She'd had sex before, obviously, but this was different. This was Azzi. This mattered way more than any of her previous hookups.

Then Azzi spoke, her voice soft. "Can I ask you something?"

"Anything," Paige said, meaning it.

"What are we doing?" Azzi asked. "Like, I know we're... whatever this is. But what does that mean? What do you want it to be?"

Paige was quiet for a moment, choosing her words carefully. "I want this to be real," she said finally. "I want to see where it goes. I want to take you on dates and hold your hand and kiss you whenever I want. I want…" She paused, her heart racing. "I want you, Azzi."

Azzi's eyes were shining. "I want that too," she said softly. "I want all of that."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Azzi confirmed. She leaned in, kissing Paige softly. "I really like you, Paige. Like, a lot. And this," She gestured between them. "This feels kinda different."

"It does," Paige agreed. "I've never felt like this about anyone before."

"Me neither," Azzi admitted. She snuggled closer, her head on Paige's chest. "This is kind of scary."

"Yeah," Paige said, pressing a kiss to the top of Azzi's head. "But it's a good kind of scary, right?"

"The best kind," Azzi murmured.

________________________

Paige woke up to the smell of coffee and the sound of someone moving around in her kitchen. She stretched, wincing slightly at the pleasant soreness in her muscles, which she couldn’t identify as basketball soreness or lesbian soreness. Before limping to the kitchen she grabbed an old UConn t-shirt from her dresser. 

Azzi was standing at the counter, wearing one of Paige's hoodies and nothing else, her curls piled on top of her head in a messy bun. She was humming Kehlani softly to herself as she poured coffee into two mugs.

"Morning," Paige said, leaning against the doorframe, just taking in the sight of her.

Azzi turned, her face lighting up. "Morning. Hope you don't mind… I kinda raided your closet."

"I definitely don't mind," Paige said, crossing the kitchen to wrap her arms around Azzi from behind. "You look better in my clothes than I do."

Azzi laughed, leaning back against her. "You said it, not me."

Paige laughed and pressed a kiss to Azzi's neck. "Coffee smells good."

"I figured we could both use some caffeine after last night," Azzi said, turning in Paige's arms. "You wore me out."

"Pretty sure it was mutual," Paige said, grinning.

Azzi handed her a mug, and they moved to the couch, settling in together. Paige pulled a blanket over them, and Azzi curled into her side.

"I have rehearsal later," Azzi said. "For the Thanksgiving show."

"Right," Paige said. "That’a crazy you’re in prep for something a over a month away."

"P, it’s Beyoncé. I’d be crashing out if we weren’t already preparing. I need to be locked. I'm so nervous. What if I mess up? What if I am the worst dancer that has ever shared the stage with Queen Bey? What if.."

"Slow down, Az,” Paige placed her hand on Azzi’s arms. “You won't mess up," she said. "You're an incredible dancer, Az. You're gonna kill it."

Azzi exhaled and let a small smile show before pressing a kiss to Paige's jaw. "Thanks, baby."

The pet name made Paige's heart skip. "Say that again."

"What, baby?" Azzi asked, grinning. "You like that?"

"Maybe," Paige admitted, her pale cheeks now blushing.

"Good," Azzi said. "Because I plan on saying it a lot."

They spent the morning on the couch, laughing and talking and kissing and enjoying each other's company. Eventually, Azzi had to leave for rehearsal, but not before making Paige promise to text her later.

"I will," Paige said, kissing her at the door. "Have a good practice."

Azzi giggled at Paige’s refusal to call it rehearsal. "I'll try," she said. She kissed Paige one more time, slow and sweet. "Last night was really special, Paige. Thank you."

"Thank you," Paige said softly. "For trusting me. For being here."

Azzi smiled, her eyes soft. "Nowhere else I'd rather be."

After Azzi left, Paige floated through the rest of her day. Their game against the Sky was the last one at home, but the Wings still had a road trip to New York and Connecticut to close out the season. Going back to where she went to college was quite literally the only thing pulling her through the slog of the season. Well, that and the cheerleader she’d get to come home to afterwards. 

As she walked into the practice facility for rehab, Arike immediately noticed something was different.

"You're glowing, PSki," Arike said, narrowing her eyes as they trudged towards the training room. "What happened?"

"Nothing," Paige said, trying and failing to suppress her smile.

"Bullshit," Arike said. "You and Miss Azzi had a fun night, huh?"

Paige's face heated. "Maybe."

"Oh my god," Arike said, her eyes widening. "My Rook is all grown up,” she jokingly placed her hand on her heart.

"Bruh you gotta chill," Paige said, laughing. "For real tho, this girl is one of one,” she almost whispered.

Arike reached her hand out and placed it on the blonde’s shoulder. “Imma be honest, that’s the same simp shit I was on when I started talkin’ to Lala. So… don’t fumble."

"Shut up, Rik, I'm not gonna fumble. " Paige said, but she was smiling.

"So are y’all like together now or what?" Arike asked.

"I dunno," Paige admitted. "We talked about wanting to see where this goes, but we didn't put a label on it or anything like that."

"Why not?" Arike asked.

Paige shrugged. "I guess I didn't want to rush it. Don’t wanna freak her out. Wanna do it right, you know?"

"I get that," Arike said. "But P, you're clearly crazy about her. And from what I saw in the tunnel last night, she's crazy bout you too. Don't overthink it."

Paige dropped her head in her hands to hide the blush creeping up her cheeks. 

"Look, all I'm sayin is when you know, you know. And it seems like you know, bro."

Paige was quiet for a moment, which was quite unusual for her. "Yeah," she said softly. "I think I do know."

"Then don't wait too long to tell her that," Arike said. "Life's too short."

"Since when are you like Gay Yoda, bruh" Paige jokes.

"That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, PSki." Arike smiled wide. “I’ve been sayin’ philosophical shit tho,” she flipped her hair dramatically. "You just never listened before."

"Whatever, bro,” Paige smiled as she bumped Arike’s shoulder and made her way to the cold tubs. 

___________________________

Later that week… 

Azzi (7:23 AM): good morninggg i’m heading out

Azzi (7:45 AM): just got to rehearsal and i'm already exhausted

Azzi (7:46 AM): kelcey said we're running the opening sequence like 50 times today fml

Azzi (8:12 AM): update my legs are gonna fall off

Azzi (8:13 AM): but in a good way?

Azzi (8:13 AM): is there a good way for your legs to fall off

Azzi (8:14 AM): i'm delirious ignore me

Azzi (8:15 AM): actually don't ignore me

Paige (8:17 AM): only been like 9 hours az

Azzi (8:18 AM): 9 hours too long

Azzi (8:18 AM): is that clingy? that feels clingy

Paige (8:18 AM): nah baby that's perfect

Paige (8:18 AM): i miss you too

Paige (8:19 AM): even tho you're being dramatic as hell rn

Azzi (8:19 AM): wow ok rude

Azzi (8:19 AM): i keep thinking about yesterday

Azzi (8:19 AM): before you so rudely had to leave to “pack”

Paige (8:20 AM): i’m sorryyyy i have a Nike thing so needed to get all the stuff Brittany sent

Azzi (8:20 AM): ok Miss Big Time Nike 

Paige (8:20 AM): Nike money pays for our little dates sooo don’t complain

Azzi (8:20 AM): ugh. you’re right  

Paige (8:20 AM): so what are you thinking about… 

Azzi (8:21 AM): how you looked at me

Azzi (8:21 AM): how you touched me

Azzi (8:22 AM): how you made me feel

Paige (8:23 AM): my teammates gonna clown me for blushing on this plane 

Azzi (8:24 AM): good

Azzi (8:24 AM): i like knowing i affect you like that

Paige (8:25 AM): you affect me in every way possible az

Azzi (8:26 AM): 😉

Azzi (8:26 AM): that's so sweet

Azzi (8:27 AM): okay i have to get back but i'm thinking about you

Paige (8:28 AM): think about me during the hard parts

Paige (8:28 AM): might make them easier

Azzi (8:29 AM): or harder

Azzi (8:29 AM): in a different way

Paige (8:30 AM): 😌

Azzi (8:31 AM): okay bye before i say something that makes me act up

Paige (8:31 AM): text me later?

Azzi (8:32 AM): always 

Azzi (9:34 AM): break time 

Azzi (9:35 AM): i miss your face

Azzi (9:35 AM): and your hands

Azzi (9:36 AM): and other things but i'm trying to be wholesome

Paige (9:37 AM): you can be unwholesome with me

Paige (9:37 AM): i don't mind 🙈

Azzi (9:38 AM): paige bueckers you're gonna get me in trouble

Azzi (9:38 AM): i'm supposed to be focusing on choreography

Paige (9:39 AM): then focus

Paige (9:39 AM): but know that i'm thinking about you

Paige (9:40 AM): thinking about how soft your skin is

Paige (9:40 AM): how you sound when i touch you

Azzi (9:41 AM): PAIGE

Azzi (9:41 AM): i'm literally in the middle of the studio

Azzi (9:42 AM): everyone can see me 

Paige (9:43 AM): good

Paige (9:43 AM): let em know you're mine

Azzi (9:44 AM): 😳😳😳

Azzi (9:45 AM): oh! it’s like that huh

Azzi (9:45 AM): we need to talk about this possessive thing you have going on

Paige (9:46 AM): we can talk ab it when i get back

Paige (9:46 AM): for now just know i mean it

Azzi (9:47 AM): i like it

Azzi (9:47 AM): more than i probably should

Azzi (9:48 AM): okay reece is yelling at me but thank you for the distraction

Azzi (9:49 AM): and the butterflies

Paige (9:50 AM): anytime baby

Azzi (11:46 AM): lunch break finally

Azzi (11:47 AM): this choreo is INSANE

Azzi (11:47 AM): like i knew it would be hard but holy shit

Azzi (11:48 AM): how's new york? flight ok?

Paige (11:55 AM): cold as hell ngl

Paige (11:55 AM): flight was good tho except Rik was lowkey snoring 

Azzi (11:56 AM): you should be nice to her p last time I checked she was the one that said i’m ur good luck charm… 

Paige (11:57 AM): ughhh you’re right 

Azzi (11:57 AM): better not be any courtside baddies there for you at Barclays

Paige (11:58 AM): azzi fudd are you.. jealous? 👀

Azzi (11:59 AM): i plead the fifth

Azzi (12:00 PM): ok i gotta get back to rehearsal but we get released at 6 so just in time to watch the game

Azzi (12:00 PM): text me after? i wanna hear all about it

Paige (12:00 PM): of course

Paige (12:00 PM): keep killin it az

Azzi (12:01 PM): i'll try

Paige (12:01 PM): i’ll miss my fav cheerleader tn

Azzi (12:01 PM): you’ll hear me cheering from dallas

Dallas ended up losing by 7 to the Liberty. In all honesty, the game went better than anybody had predicted. Paige ended with a 29 point double-double, but it wasn’t enough to combat Stewie and Sabrina. 

Paige (9:47 PM): hi 

Paige (9:47 PM): heading to hotel now 

Paige (9:47 PM): don’t rly wanna talk ab the game but just know i missed you for sure

Paige (9:48 PM): is that weird?

Azzi (9:52 PM): not weird at all

Azzi (9:52 PM): i won’t push but just know i’m proud of you

Azzi (9:52 PM): in bed and can’t stop thinking about you 

Azzi (9:53 PM): rehearsal kicked my ass today

Azzi (9:53 PM): i can barely move

Paige (9:54 PM): wish i was there to give you a massage

Azzi (9:55 PM): is that what we're calling it now?

Paige (9:55 PM): i mean i'd actually give you a massage

Paige (9:56 PM): but if it led to other things i wouldn't complain

Azzi (9:57 PM): when do you get back?

Paige (10:00 PM): we play in connecticut tomorrow night then fly back thurs morning

Azzi (10:01 PM): that's so far away

Paige (10:02 PM): it's literally two days baby

Azzi (10:02 PM): TOO LONG

Azzi (10:03 PM): i'm being dramatic again aren't i

Paige (10:03 PM): yeah but it's cute

Paige (10:04 PM): i like that you miss me

Azzi (10:05 PM): well get used to it because i'm gonna miss you a lot

Azzi (10:05 PM): wait that sounded less intense in my head

Paige (10:06 PM): nah i love it

Paige (10:06 PM): i'm gonna miss you a lot too

Paige (10:06 PM): can i call you? just got to room

Almost immediately after hitting send her phone started vibrating. Paige and Azzi stayed up another two hours (accidentally), with Azzi talking about the choreography, about how nervous she was, about how Beyoncé had actually spoken to her directly today and how she would’ve passed out and thrown up if Ariel hadn’t held her up. Eventually, Paige opened up more and told her about the game, which she usually didn’t like to do after a loss. 

"God, I wish you were here," Paige said softly, lying in her hotel bed in the dark. "Me too," Azzi replied, her voice noticeably sleepy. "What would we do if I was there?" "Honestly? Prolly just this. Talking. Maybe order room service. Watch a movie." "That sounds perfect." "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I don't need to do anything fancy with you, P. I just like being around you."

Paige's chest tightened. "I like being around you too, Az. Like, a lot."

"Good," Azzi murmured. "Because you're stuck with me now."

"I can think of worse things to be stuck with."

Azzi laughed softly. "Wow, so romantic."

"Shut up, you know what I mean."

"Yeah I do," Azzi said, and Paige could hear the smile in her voice.

They talked until it was abundantly clear Azzi fell asleep, and even then Paige stayed on the line for a few more minutes, just listening to her breathe. She’d always thought it was cringe and weird when people did that, but that was before she met her. Now she fully understood. 

Azzi (10:23 AM): good luck tonight baby

Azzi (10:23 AM): homecomingggg

Paige (10:45 AM): thanks az 💙

Paige (10:46 AM): gonna be weird playing at mohegan

Paige (10:46 AM): so close to uconn but not actually there

Azzi (10:47 AM): you miss it?

Paige (10:48 AM): yeah

Paige (10:48 AM): but also like, i'm exactly where i'm supposed to be rn you know?

Azzi (10:49 AM): i get that

Azzi (10:50 AM): i feel the same way about dallas

Azzi (10:50 AM): like i miss arlington and baton rouge sometimes but this feels right

Paige (10:51 AM): yeah exactly

Paige (10:52 AM): plus dallas has you so

Azzi (10:53 AM): ok rizz

Paige (10:53 AM): just being honest 

Azzi (10:55 AM): ok i gotta go, we're running full out today

Azzi (10:55 AM): wish me luck

Paige (10:56 AM): you don't need luck baby you're incredible                                              

Paige (10:56 AM): but break a leg (don’t actually tho)

The Connecticut air was just different. Paige joked with her teammates at shootaround in New York that she already felt it in her bones, but damn she actually backed it up after dropping 32 and ending the season on a (rare) Wings win. Some of her old UConn coaches and her younger teammates had come to watch, and it was times like these that made her really miss how things used to be.But even surrounded by friends and by her past, Paige found herself checking her phone constantly, waiting for Azzi to text.

Azzi (11:34 PM): literally just got home

Azzi (11:34 PM): i'm dead

Azzi (11:35 PM): like actually deceased cannot move 

Azzi (11:35 PM): how was the game?

Paige (11:36 PM): it was good. saw coach and some of the girls 

Paige (11:36 PM): you okay? prob exhausted

Azzi (11:37 PM): i am but in a good way

Azzi (11:38 PM): we ran the full performance three times today

Azzi (11:38 PM): and beyoncé gave me notes directly

Azzi (11:39 PM): BEYONCÉ GAVE ME NOTES PAIGE

Paige (11:39 PM): that's amazing baby!!!

Paige (11:40 PM): what did she say?

Azzi (11:41 PM): she said i have “beautiful lines” and my energy is “infectious”

Azzi (11:41 PM): i literally almost cried

Azzi (11:42 PM): actually i did cry a little bit in the bathroom after

Paige (11:43 PM): az let’s fucking GO that is so sick 

Paige (11:43 PM): i'm so proud of you

Azzi (11:44 PM): thanks baby

Azzi (11:45 PM): wish you were here to celebrate with me

Paige (11:46 PM): i'll be home tmr morning

Paige (11:46 PM): i'll take you out to celebrate properly

Azzi (11:47 PM): you don't have to do that

Paige (11:47 PM): i want to

Paige (11:48 PM): lemme take you on a proper fancy date

Azzi (11:49 PM): okay

Azzi (11:49 PM): i'd like that

Paige (11:50 PM): good

Paige (11:50 PM): now get some sleep baby

Paige (11:52 PM): we can talk tomorrow

Paige (11:52 PM): i promise

Azzi (11:53 PM): okay

Azzi (11:53 PM): goodnight paige

Azzi (11:54 PM): sweet dreams

Paige (11:54 PM): goodnight az

Paige (11:55 PM): dream about me!

Azzi (11:55 PM): so humble 

Paige got back to Dallas Thursday morning, exhausted but buzzing with anticipation. She'd barely dropped her bags at her apartment before she was texting Azzi.

Paige (10:35 AM): just landed

Paige (10:35 AM): when can i see you?

Azzi (10:36 AM): desperate much?

Paige (10:36 AM): for you? lowkey down bad… 

Azzi (10:37 AM): i have rehearsal until 5

Azzi (10:37 AM): but i'm free after?

Paige (10:38 AM): perfect

Paige (10:38 AM): pick you up at 7?

Azzi (10:39 AM): it's a date

Paige spent the entire afternoon trying not to be nervous, which was stupid because not only had she already slept with Azzi multiple times, but before the roadtrip they literally had a conversation about the fact both wanted this to be real. 

She changed outfits three times before settling on black pants and a crochet cream-colored button-up, leaving the top button undone. Definitely on the casual side but still put-together. She checked her hair in the mirror approximately thirteen times before just surrendering to the masc lesbian slick back low bun. 

When she pulled up to Azzi's apartment at 7 PM sharp, Azzi was waiting outside, and Paige's breath caught. She was wearing a burgundy dress that hugged her curves perfectly, her curls loose and wild around her shoulders. She looked absolutely fucking stunning.

"Hi," Azzi said, sliding into the passenger seat with a smile that made Paige's heart race.

"Hey," Paige barely choked the word out. "God, I missed you."

"I could say the same" Azzi said, her eyes trailing over Paige appreciatively.

They went to a nice Italian restaurant in downtown Dallas. They had somehow perfected their banter to include just the right amount of ragebaiting and shameless flirting. 

"So tell me more about the Beyoncé thing," Paige said between bites of pasts. "I wanna hear everything."

Azzi's face lit up. "It's insane, P. Like, if I told twelve year old me that I was sharing the stage with fucking Beyoncé… I would’ve died. Kelcey and Reece are basically on heart attack watch between breaks now.” She shook her head. "She's just on another level. The vocals, the look, the aura… God she is just everything I've ever wanted to be as a dancer."

"You're already incredible," Paige said softly.

"Thanks, baby," Azzi said, reaching across the table to take Paige's hand. "But this is like... this is the dream, you know? Dancing with Beyoncé Knowles on Thanksgiving at a Cowboys game? I never thought I'd actually get to do something like this."

"You deserve it," Paige said firmly. "You're one of the most talented dancers I've ever seen."

"You've seen like three dancers in your life," Azzi teased.

"Doesn't matter. You're still the best."

Azzi squeezed her hand. "You're sweet."

Eventually, they ended up back at Paige's apartment, curled up on the couch with a movie playing that neither of them was really watching.

"I missed this," Azzi murmured, her head on Paige's shoulder. "Just being with you."

"Me too," Paige said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Four days felt like forever." "Right?" Azzi tilted her head up to look at Paige. "Is that crazy?" "If it is, guess they gotta lock both of us up," Paige said, leaning down to kiss her softly.

The kiss deepened quickly, and soon Azzi was straddling Paige's lap, her hands in Paige's hair, both of them breathing hard.

"Bedroom?" Azzi breathed against Paige's lips.

"I thought you’d never ask," Paige whispered, standing up with Azzi's legs wrapped around her waist.

Late October brought cooler weather and a shift in their relationship that Paige couldn't quite name with a label but could definitely feel. They were together constantly now, Paige chatting it up with the DCC girls at the practice facility after rehearsals, 24-hour (very lesbian) dates on Azzi’s off days, the whole nine. 

They had made plans to spend a Tuesday night watching some movie adaptation of a book Azzi read. 

Over the past few months, Paige had developed some sort of Pavlovian response every time she heard a knock at her door. She would scamper down the hall (like a dog, really) and try to open her door before Azzi even finished her third knock. This time, Paige opened it to find Azzi standing there with a bouquet of mixed asters, looking nervous and beautiful and perfect.

"Hi," Azzi said softly.

"Hi," Paige replied, staring at the flowers. "Are those... for me?"

"Yeah," Azzi said, holding them out. "Reece had to go to the florist to film something for her TikTok this week, and then I saw them and thought of you. They’re white and purple and I know you love purple so," She trailed off, blushing. "I dunno, I’ve been such a mess with all this rehearsal stuff and Reece told me to get them so I did"

Paige took the flowers with shaking hands, her eyes suddenly welling up. "No one's ever brought me flowers before," she said quietly.

Azzi's eyes widened. "Really?"

"Really," Paige confirmed, looking down at the bouquet. "I've brought flowers for other people, but no one's ever ya know,." She looked back up at Azzi, a tear sliding down her cheek. "Thank you."

"Baby," Azzi said, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. She cupped Paige's face, wiping away the tear with her thumb. "Don't cry."

"I'm not crying, bro" Paige said, even as more tears fell. "This is really sweet, Az."

"You deserve flowers," Azzi said firmly. "You deserve all the flowers and all the rom-com stuff, P. You deserve everything."

Paige set the flowers down on the kitchen table and pulled Azzi into a tight hug, burying her face in her neck. "How are you so perfect?" she mumbled.

"I'm not perfect," Azzi said, her arms wrapping around Paige. 

"Perfect for me,” Paige whispered. 

"Come on," Azzi said, taking Paige's hand. "Let's put these in water and then I want to show you how much I missed you today."

Paige let Azzi lead her to the kitchen, but unfortunately a pint glass was the closest thing she had to a vase at her disposal. Azzi made a mental note to get vase recommendations from Reece, but that was a later problem. Right now all she could think about was being with Paige. 

Their movie night plans were a wash the second Azzi stepped through the door, so instead they spent the majority of the night in Paige’s bed (shoutout Tempur-Pedic). Azzi was gentle and attentive as always, her hands and mouth worshipping every inch of Paige's skin. And when Paige returned the favor, she poured everything she was feeling into it. She always gets clowned for saying she’s in a state of gratitude, but that’s exactly how she felt. Grateful. Terrified about the fact that she was certainly falling in love with Azzi, but grateful. 

"Thank you for the flowers," Paige said softly, her fingers tracing up Azzi's stomach after they had finished. "Really. That meant a lot."

"You don’t have to thank me,” Azzi said, pressing a kiss to Paige's collarbone. "I want to do things like that for you. I want to make you feel special."

"You do," Paige assured her. "Just by being here, you do."

They were quiet for a moment, and then Azzi spoke again, her voice soft and a little uncertain. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course, baby."

"What are your plans for Thanksgiving?"

Paige thought about it. "Honestly? I don't really have any. Season’s over by then and I think my Dad and Drew have some boys’ trip planned, so I was just planning to watch the Cowboys. Maybe attempt to cook a turkey, though that would probably end in disaster."

Azzi laughed. "Please don't cook a turkey. I don't want you to burn down your apartment."

"YouTube exists for a reason bro," Paige giggled. 

"Welllll, DCC has this big Thanksgiving dinner after the game. It's kind of a tradition. And everyone gets to bring a plus-one." She paused, suddenly looking nervous. "Would you want to come? With me?"

Paige's heart skipped. "You want me to come to your team Thanksgiving?"

"Yeah," Azzi said. "I mean, if you want to. No pressure. I just thought it might be nice, and it will spare the Dallas Fire Department a holiday house call."

Paige grinned. "Are you asking me to be your plus-one, Azzi Fudd?"

"I am," Azzi said, biting her lip. "Is that okay?"

"That's more than okay," Paige said, pulling Azzi down for a peck. "I'd love to come."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm. Plus, that means I get to watch you perform with Beyoncé."

Azzi's dimples were prominent as she grinned. "I'm so fucking nervous"

"You're gonna be amazing," Paige said firmly. "I know you are."

"I hope so," Azzi said, settling back down against Paige's chest. "I just don't want to mess up."

"You won't mess up," Paige said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "You're gonna kill it like you always do. And if you get nervous just find me in the stands and picture me naked or something."

Azzi laughed softly. "Why would I do that when I can see you naked up close and personal right now.” 

Paige giggled. 

"This is everything I've ever wanted,” Azzi said as Paige shut her eyes. She didn’t know if she meant Paige, the performance, or both.

______________________ 

Two days before Thanksgiving, Paige woke up with a mission. She needed to figure out how to ask Azzi to be her girlfriend officially. To everyone but each other, they were basically already dating. But Paige wanted to make it official, wanted to be able to call Azzi her girlfriend without any uncertainty.

The problem was, she had no fucking idea how to do it. So she did what she always does in a time of peril… text Nika and KK. 

Paige (9:47 AM): yo i need help

KK (9:48 AM): uh oh boogers this must be important

Paige (9:49 AM): how do i ask someone to be my girlfriend

Nika (9:50 AM): WAIT

Nika (9:50 AM): ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT THE CHEERLEADER

KK (9:51 AM): OH SHIT

KK (9:51 AM): PAIGEY IS IN LOVE

Paige (9:52 AM): i didn't say that bruh

Nika (9:52 AM): you didn't have to

Nika (9:53 AM): we are smart

Paige (9:54 AM): whatever

Paige (9:54 AM): can you guys help me or not

KK (9:55 AM): okay okay sorry we’re just excited 

KK (9:55 AM): does she know you want to make it official?

Paige (9:56 AM): i mean we've talked about wanting to see where this goes

Paige (9:56 AM): and we're basically already dating

Paige (9:57 AM): but no label 

Nika (9:58 AM): so ask her

Nika (9:58 AM): just be direct

Nika (9:59 AM): "hey i really like you and i want you to be my girlfriend"

Paige (10:00 AM): that feels way too simple

KK (10:01 AM): sometimes simple is good

KK (10:01 AM): you don't need some elaborate plan

KK (10:02 AM): just tell her how you feel bruh

Paige (10:03 AM): but what if she says no

Nika (10:04 AM): she's NOT gonna say no twin

KK (10:05 AM): girl boo you're overthinking this P

KK (10:05 AM): just ask her

Paige (10:06 AM): okay but WHEN

Paige (10:06 AM): like do i plan something special or just do it randomly

Nika (10:07 AM): when's the next time you're seeing her?

Paige (10:08 AM): thanksgiving

Paige (10:08 AM): she’s performing w beyoncé at the cowboys game

Paige (10:09 AM): and then she invited me to the DCC thanksgiving dinner after

KK (10:10 AM): DAYUM OK MISS GIRL

KK (10:10 AM): ask her after the performance

KK (10:11 AM): she'll be all hyped up and happy

Nika (10:12 AM): agreed

Paige (10:13 AM): you think?

Nika (10:14 AM): trust me P

Nika (10:14 AM): just tell her how you feel

Nika (10:15 AM): the worst thing that can happen is she says she needs more time

Nika (10:15 AM): but i rly don't think that's gonna happen twin

KK (10:16 AM): we believe in you

Paige (10:17 AM): thanks guys

Paige (10:17 AM): i'm still nervous as hell but thanks

Nika (10:18 AM): you should be nervous

Nika (10:18 AM): it means you care

KK (10:19 AM): nika since when are u soft 

Nika (10:19 AM): shut up

Nika (10:20 AM): seriously P

Nika (10:20 AM): you deserve to be happy

KK (10:23 AM): go get your girlllll

Paige (10:24 AM): thanks for the pep talk miss u guys

Nika (10:25 AM): anytime twin

Nika (10:25 AM): now go plan what you're gonna say

KK (10:26 AM): tell us how it goes!!!

Paige (10:27 AM): i will i promise

On Thanksgiving Day, Paige got to AT&T Stadium early. She’d spent the last 2 days hyperventilating, but now that the day was here she couldn’t even think about that conversation. Or even about football. All she could think about was seeing Azzi dance on that massive stage with her literal idol.

When halftime finally arrived, Paige's heart was pounding, almost harder than it was before her National Championship game in college. The crowd roared as the opening notes of "Formation" filled the stadium. Then the DCC shuffled across the field as the lights went up.

When the spotlight hit Beyoncé, the stadium shook. But Paige had her eye on a different dancer. Azzi was front and center hitting every move perfectly. God, she was incredible. 

Paige could see the joy on Azzi's face. This was Azzi in her element, doing what she was born to do, and Paige had never been more attracted to her (although at this point she had that same feeling every time she saw her). 

When the medley ended, Paige found herself hooting and hollering like a lunatic. She could’ve sworn Azzi picked her out in the crowd and winked before walking off the field. 

Paige made her way down towards the tunnel with 5 minutes left in the 4th quarter. 

After about 15 minutes of bouncing on her toes like an excited toddler, Azzi appeared, still in her performance outfit. When she saw Paige, her entire face lit up.

"Paigey!" Azzi said, running over and throwing her arms around Paige.

"Az, you were incredible. Like, I don't even have words. That was the coolest fuckin’ thing I've ever seen I told you that you’d kill it,” Paige said, hugging her tightly.

"Come on," Azzi said after she gave Paige a quick kiss. "I need to change and then we can head to the dinner. But first..." She bit her lip. "Beyoncé wants to meet you."

Paige's eyes widened. "What?"

"Yeah," Azzi said, laughing at Paige's expression. "I told her you were here and she said she wanted to say hi. Come on."

Paige let Azzi lead her through the maze of tunnels backstage, her heart pounding. They reached a private area where Beyoncé was talking with her team, and when she saw Azzi, she smiled.

"Azzi!" Beyoncé said warmly. "You were phenomenal out there."

"Thank you so much," Azzi said, and Paige could hear the awe in her voice. "This is my... um, this is Paige."

Paige noticed the hesitation, the way Azzi didn't quite know how to label her, and it made her more determined to ask her later.

"Nice to meet you, Paige," Beyoncé said, shaking her hand. "You play for the Wings, right?"

"Yes ma'am," Paige managed, trying not to freak out that she was talking to Beyoncé. "It's an honor to meet you."

"The honor is mine," Beyoncé said graciously. Then she turned back to Azzi. "Can I talk to you for a minute? Privately?"

Azzi glanced at Paige, who nodded. "I'll wait here," Paige said.

Azzi followed Beyoncé a few feet away, and Paige tried not to eavesdrop, but she couldn't help catching bits and pieces of the conversation.

"...incredibly talented..." Beyoncé was saying. "...starting a tour in March... would love to have you..."

Paige's heart stopped. A tour? Beyoncé was asking Azzi to go on tour? Holy shit.

She watched Azzi's face, saw the shock and joy and disbelief there. Saw the way Azzi's hands were shaking as she nodded, as she said something Paige couldn't hear.

When they came back over, Azzi looked dazed.

"Everything good?" Paige asked, even though she already knew the answer.

"Yeah," Azzi said faintly. "Everything's... yeah."

They said their goodbyes and made their way back to the locker room area so Azzi could change. Paige waited outside, her mind racing.

A tour. Starting in March. That was only four months away.

What did that mean for them? Would Azzi leave Dallas? Would they try long distance? Jesus Christ this really threw a wrench in the plan. 

Paige felt panic rising in her chest.

When Azzi emerged, changed into jeans and a sweater, she still looked shell-shocked.

"You okay?" Paige asked softly.

"I think so," Azzi said. "She asked me to join her tour. Starting in March. Six months, all over the world. Barcelona and London and Dubai and Buenos Aires and like…literally everywhere."

"That's amazing, Az," Paige said, and she meant it, even as her heart was breaking a little. "That's your dream."

"It is," Azzi said, and there were tears in her eyes now. "But it's also... it's complicated."

"Why?"

Azzi looked at her, really looked at her. "Because of you," she said softly. "Because I don't want to leave you. I don't know what this means for us."

Paige's chest tightened. "We don't have to figure it all out right now," she said, even though she desperately wanted to. "Let's just... let's go to dinner. Celebrate your incredible performance. We can talk about the rest later."

"Are you sure?" Azzi asked, searching Paige's face.

"I'm sure," Paige lied.

They went to the DCC Thanksgiving dinner, and Paige tried to be present, tried to enjoy meeting the rest of Azzi's teammates and eating good food and celebrating. But her mind kept drifting back to the conversation with Beyoncé (still a crazy fucking sentence) and the uncertainty of what came next.

Azzi's teammates and coaches were the pinnacle of southern charm. They were all warm and welcoming and clearly very adoring of Azzi. They asked Paige about basketball and the Wings' season, and explained how they had a secret bet going on after the content day where they met. Paige answered everything as best she could, but she felt like she was on autopilot.

At one point, Azzi pulled her aside.

"Hey," she said softly. "You've been quiet. Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Paige said. "Just tired. It's been a long day."

Azzi didn't look convinced, but she didn't push. "Okay. We can leave soon if you want."

"No, it's fine," Paige said. "This is your night. I want you to enjoy it."

But the truth was, Paige's mind was spinning. She'd been so ready to ask Azzi to be her girlfriend. But now, with the tour looming, she didn't know if it was the right time.

What if she asked and Azzi said yes, but then left for six months? What if the distance was too much? 

The questions swirled in her head all night, and by the time they left the dinner, Paige had made a decision.

She wasn't going to ask. Not tonight. Not until she knew what Azzi wanted. 

They drove back to Paige's apartment in relative silence, the easy comfort between them replaced by a tension that Paige hated but didn't know how to fix.

"Do you want to come up?" Paige asked when they pulled into her parking lot.

"Do you want me to?" Azzi asked, and there was something vulnerable in her voice.

"Always," Paige said honestly.

They went upstairs, and once they were inside, Azzi turned to face her.

"Okay, what's going on?" Azzi asked. "You've been weird since we left the stadium. Is this about the tour?"

Paige sighed. "Maybe. I don't know."

"Talk to me, P," Azzi said, taking her hands. "Please."

"I just..." Paige struggled to find the words. "I'm happy for you. I really am. This is an incredible opportunity and you absolutely deserve it. But I'm also scared."

"Scared of what?"

"Scared of losing you," Paige admitted. "Scared that you'll go on this tour and realize you don't need me, or that the distance will be too much, or that we'll try to make it work and it'll just fall apart."

Azzi's eyes filled with tears. "Paige..."

"I know it's selfish," Paige continued. "I know I should just be supportive and happy for you. And I am, I swear I am. But I'm also terrified because I..." She stopped, the words catching in her throat.

"Because you what?" Azzi prompted softly.

"Because I'm falling for you," Paige said, the words tumbling out. "Like, really falling for you. And the thought of you leaving, of not seeing you every day, of not being able to hold you and kiss you and just be with you... it's killing me."

Azzi was crying now, tears streaming down her face. "I'm falling for you too," she whispered. "So much that it scares me. And I don't know what to do about the tour because it's everything I've ever wanted, but so are you."

"We don't have to decide anything tonight," Azzi said finally. "The tour doesn't start until March. That's four months away. Can we just... can we just be together for now? Figure out the rest later?"

Paige nodded, pulling Azzi into a tight hug. "Yeah," she said against Azzi's hair. "Yeah, we can do that."

"I'm so proud of you, Az. You were incredible today."

"Thank you," Azzi murmured sleepily. "I'm glad you were there. Thankful for you."

"Me too," Paige said.

And as Azzi drifted off to sleep, Paige lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if she'd made the biggest mistake of her life by not asking and not making this official while she still had the chance.

But the uncertainty of it all was just too overwhelming. So she held Azzi close and tried not to think about March, about tours, about the very real possibility that the best thing that had ever happened to her might be about to slip through her fingers.

Tomorrow, she told herself. They'd figure it out tomorrow. But deep down, Paige knew that some questions didn't have easy answers, and some decisions couldn't be put off forever.

The clock was ticking, and Paige had no idea how to stop it.

__________________

The next morning, Paige woke up to an empty bed. For a moment, she fully panicked. Had Azzi left? Had she already made her decision? But then she heard the sound of running water from the bathroom and let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.

She reached for her phone. 6:47 AM. 

Nika (6:48 AM): you alive twin?

KK (6:48 AM): Nik bro you gotta remember the time difference its early asf here

Nika (6:49 AM): sorryyyyy croatia mode

KK (6:49 AM): you talk to the Queen? 

Paige stared at the messages, her thumb hovering over the keyboard. She didn't know what to say, how to explain the knot of anxiety that had taken up permanent residence in her stomach.

Paige (6:50 AM): yeah it was crazy

Nika (6:50 AM): you ask Azzi to be your girl??? 

Paige (6:51 AM): can i call you later? it's complicated

Nika (6:51 AM): oh shit

The bathroom door opened, and Azzi emerged in one of Paige's old Hopkins t-shirts, her curls damp. She looked soft and beautiful and so completely herself that Paige's chest ached.

"Hey," Azzi said, climbing back into bed and curling into Paige's side. "You're awake."

"Couldn't sleep," Paige admitted, wrapping her arms around Azzi and breathing in the scent of her shampoo.

"Me neither," Azzi said quietly. "I've been thinking."

Paige's heart stuttered. "Yeah?"

"About everything." Azzi pulled back slightly so she could look at Paige. She looked much more serious than usual. "I don't know what to do, P. This is everything I've worked for. Dancing alongside Beyoncé? That's a career-making deal. And DCC’s usually only stay like 2-3 years max and this is year 2 for me already. Charly’s manager has already texted the two of us three times this morning."

"What are you leaning toward?" Paige asked, trying to keep her voice neutral even though her heart was hammering against her ribs.

"I don't know," Azzi said, and there was frustration in her voice. "A couple months ago, this would've been an easy yes. But now..." She trailed off, her fingers tracing absent patterns on Paige's collarbone. "Now there's you."

"Az," Paige started, but Azzi shook her head.

"Let me finish. Please." She took a breath. "I really like you, Paige. Like, really like you. You make me feel things I didn't think I was capable of feeling. And the thought of leaving, of being gone for months, of potentially losing this, it makes me feel physically sick."

"But?" Paige prompted, because she could hear it coming.

"But I also can't ask you to wait for me," Azzi said, her voice breaking slightly. "That's not fair. We've only been doing this for a few months. We're not even... I mean, we haven't even defined what this is. And I can't ask you to put your life on hold for something that might not even,"

"Don't," Paige interrupted, her voice sharper than she intended. "Don't finish that sentence."

Azzi looked at her, eyes wide and vulnerable. "Paige–"

"I know we haven't defined this," Paige said, sitting up and pulling Azzi with her so they were facing each other. "I know it's new. But don't act like this is nothing. Don't act like what we have isn't real."

"I'm not," Azzi said quickly. "P, I'm not. That's the problem. It is real. It's so real it's terrifying. And I don't know how to choose between this and my career. I don't know how to make that decision."

"You shouldn't have to choose," Paige said, even though the words felt like glass in her throat. "If this is your dream, Az, you should take it. I would never ask you to give that up for me."

"But what happens to us?" Azzi asked, and there were tears in her eyes now.

Paige didn't have an answer. She wanted to say they'd figure it out, that they'd make it work, that distance didn't matter when you felt like this about someone. But the truth was, she didn't know. She'd never done this before

"I don't know," she admitted. "But we’ll figure it out.” 

Later that afternoon, after Azzi had left for a meeting with Charli’s manager (soon to be hers, too), Paige finally called Nika.

"Tell me everything twin," Nika said immediately. 

"Okay, first of all," Nika said when Paige had finished, "that's insane. Beyoncé? Like, for real?"

"That is so not the point, bro."

"I know, I know. But still, P, that is insane." Nika paused. "Okay, real talk. Are you crashing out like this because you love her?"

The question caught Paige off guard. "I... we've only been doing this since like August."

"P, that’s not what I asked."

Paige closed her eyes, leaning back against her couch. Did she love Azzi? She thought about the way her heart raced every time Azzi smiled at her. She’d felt like that since they first met. It was hard to explain, but when they were together it was like all the scattered pieces of her came together when she was around Azzi. Obviously she cared if she had thought far enough ahead to make it official. Paige Bueckers historically did not do “official”. Oh fuck. 

"Yeah," she said quietly. "I think I do. Or I'm falling, at least. Hard."

"Then you need to tell her that," Nika said firmly. "Before she makes any decisions about this tour, she needs to actually know how you feel."

"But what if that makes it harder for her?" Paige argued. "What if knowing how I feel makes her turn down the opportunity, and then she resents me for it later?"

"Or what if not knowing makes her think you don't care enough?" Nika countered. "What if she takes the tour thinking you're not that invested, when really you're over here falling in love with her? Paige, you can't make decisions for her. You can't protect her from hard choices by hiding how you feel. That's not fair to either of you."

Paige knew Nika was right, but God this was scary. 

"What if I tell her and she leaves anyway?" she asked, her voice at a whisper Nika had never heard before.

"Then at least she'll leave knowing the truth," Nika said gently. "And at least you'll know you were honest. But P, I think she's just as scared as you are. She’s probably crashing out with her teammates about it too."

After they hung up, Paige sat in the silence of her apartment, replaying Nika's words over and over. She pulled out her phone to text Azzi.

Paige (3:47 PM): how's the meeting going?

Azzi (3:52 PM): intense

Azzi (3:52 PM): manager is VERY excited about the tour

Azzi (3:53 PM): charly is already in apparently so she's here and i’m just listening to them talk about logistics and rehearsal schedules

Paige (3:54 PM): that's good though right?

Azzi (3:55 PM): yeah

Azzi (3:55 PM): i guess

Azzi (3:56 PM): can i come over tonight? i don't want to be alone

Paige (3:56 PM): of course baby. i'll order pizza

Azzi (3:57 PM): you're the best

Azzi (3:57 PM): see you soon

When Azzi arrived that night, she looked exhausted. There were shadows under her eyes, and her shoulders were noticeably tense.

"Hey," Paige said softly, pulling her into a hug as soon as she walked through the door. "Rough day?"

"You have no idea," Azzi mumbled into Paige's shoulder. "They want an answer by the end of the week. She says if I'm going to do this, we need to start preparing now. Rehearsals, wardrobe, choreography, it's a whole thing."

They moved to the couch, Azzi curling into Paige's side like she belonged there. The pizza box sat forgotten on the kitchen island.

"What do you want to do?" Paige asked carefully.

"I want to do both," Azzi said, her voice breaking. "I want the tour and I want you and I want to not have to choose. But that's not how life works, is it?"

"Az."

"My manager thinks I'm crazy for even hesitating," Azzi continued, the words spilling out now. "She keeps saying this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. And she's right, objectively. This is everything I've ever worked for. I mean it would actually be so full circle since we literally did “Crazy in Love” with the Tiger Girls. But then I think about not seeing you for months and missing all these moments we could have together, and I just..." She trailed off, wiping at her eyes.

Paige's heart was pounding. This was it. This was the moment Nika had been talking about. She needed to be honest, no matter how fucking terrifying telling the truth was. 

"Can I tell you something?" Paige asked, her voice shaking slightly.

Azzi looked up at her, eyes red-rimmed but attentive. "Of course."

"I was going to ask you to be my girlfriend," Paige said. "Last night, after your performance. I had this whole corny ass speech planned about wanting to be yours and wanting you to be mine, for real."

Azzi's breath caught. "Paige–"

"Wait," Paige stopped Azzi from saying anything else before she could forget everything she needed to say. "I didn't ask because I got scared. I thought maybe it would be easier if we kept things casual or if we didn't put a label on it. But the truth is, Az, I don't want casual. I don't want to keep pretending like this is just some fun thing we're doing. Because it's not."

"What are you saying?" Azzi whispered.

"I'm saying that I meant it when I said I'm falling. Like I’m deadass falling in love with everything about you, Az," Paige said, the words tumbling out in true Paige fashion. "I know the timing is fucking terrible and we’re living up to the lesbian u-haul shit but it's true. And I think you should know that before you make any decisions about the tour. I'm not asking you to choose me over your career. But I need you to know that this is real for me. You're real for me. And if you go on that tour, I'll wait. However long it takes, I'll wait. Because you're worth it and I have faith in the fact that we can make it work."

Azzi was crying now, tears streaming down her face. "You mean that?"

"Every word," Paige said, reaching up to wipe Azzi's tears away with her thumbs. "I know we haven't been doing this long, but I've never felt like this about anyone. And I don't want to lose you, but I also don't want to be the reason you give up on your dreams. So whatever you decide, I'm here. I'm all in. I’ll be your dance WAG or whatever."

Azzi giggled. "God, Paige, I'm so fucked,” she whispered. 

“Why?” Paige asked.

“I’m in love with you.”

Paige leaned in then, inches from Azzi’s mouth. “Say it again.”

Over the next few days, the confession removed some invisible barrier that had been between them. Azzi still hadn't given her manager an answer, and Paige was trying not to push, trying to give her space to make the decision on her own terms. But they were also closer than ever. T

On Wednesday night, Azzi showed up at Paige's apartment with a bag of TruFru in hand. 

"You made a decision," Paige said. It wasn't a question.

Azzi nodded “I talked to my manager today. And to Beyoncé's team."

Paige's heart was in her throat. "And?"

"I asked if there was any flexibility in the schedule," Azzi said. "What kinds of breaks were built in, times when I could fly back here for a few days or meet you wherever you guys are. There’s a week-long break in April and another one at the end of July around All-Star.”

"Azzi–"

"I'm going to do it," Azzi said, and there was determination in her voice now, mixed with fear and excitement. "I'm going to be a backup dancer on Beyoncé's tour. But I'm also going to be your girlfriend, if you still want me.” 

Paige crossed the distance between them in two strides, pulling Azzi into her arms. "Of course I still want that, baby.”

"It's gonna be hard," Azzi warned, her voice muffled against Paige's shoulder. "Long distance, insane schedules, time zones. It's probably gonna fucking suck."

"You living your dream isn’t gonna suck, though," Paige said. 

Azzi pulled back, looking up at Paige’s ocean-blue eyes she’d fallen so in love with. "So ask me."

"What?"

"Ask me what you were going to ask me that night before everything got complicated.” 

Paige's heart was racing, but she smiled, cupping Azzi's face in her hands. "Azzi Fudd, will you be my girlfriend?"

"Yes," Azzi said immediately, smiling as the words left her mouth. 

"We're really doing this," Paige said, almost in disbelief.

"Yes ma’am," Azzi confirmed. 

“Alexa, play XO by Beyoncé,” Paige giggled. 

It’s a lazy Sunday afternoon with no team commitments or assignments due, which is Azzi’s favorite kind of day, but not because of the same reason as most others. For most college student-athletes, a day like this means elite levels of rotting — watching Netflix, ordering Doordash for every meal, and moving as little as possible until it’s time to peel yourself off the couch to crawl into bed. 

Azzi enjoyed all of that, let’s not get it twisted. On the other hand, her long-time best friend and girlfriend always had different plans for days like today. Paige wanted to be productive. Whether it was catching up on household chores or doing a project she hadn’t had time to get to yet, she was bound to be responsible for at least part of it. 

That did something to and for Azzi. 

Maybe she’s just easy for her girl, but seeing her take care of the dishes in the sink or folding their shared laundry pile or even, god forbid, building a piece of furniture, all had the same effect. She felt it right between her legs every single time. 

Azzi is curled up on the couch with a blanket and a book in hand. She’s been reading for a couple hours and now she’s on the verge of falling asleep when she hears the front door of her apartment open. 

It’s Paige.  She hears her before she sees her. 

“Hey, babe. I’ve got some ideas for dinner.” Paige calls out from the entryway.

“Oh yeah?” Azzi rubs her eyes awake, anticipating a conversation about which restaurant they’re going to order from. 

“So first idea, Wing Stop.” Paige replies back as she comes into Azzi’s sight. 

Azzi loses any train of thought. “Well hi there.” Azzi can’t help the big, playful smile that forms on her face. 

“Like what you see?” Paige smiles back before giving her a wink. She leans back against the wall to give her girlfriend a chance to enjoy the view. 

Azzi rolls her eyes and laughs at her smugness. “You’re so annoying.” But she isn’t going to deny that she does in fact like what she sees. 

Paige is wearing a pair of green plaid pajama pants that’ve become a staple in her wardrobe. She’s not wearing a shirt, instead showing off her black Nike sports bra and the waistband of her boxers that are peaking just above her pants. Her hair is pulled back in a low messy ponytail. 

“That didn’t answer my question.”

“You already know the answer, bighead,” she shoots back, but there’s little bite to it. 

“Doesn’t mean I don’t wanna hear you say it.” Paige scoffs before a short laugh bursts out of her. 

Azzi just shakes her head, ignoring Paige’s probe for compliments her ego doesn’t need.  She gets up to stretch her body awake so she can greet Paige properly. She lets out a sigh of relief feeling her muscles and joints loosen after sitting for so long.

Paige is still pressed up against the wall when Azzi reaches her and she gives her a quick peck on the lips. Paige wraps her up in a big hug and squeezes her tight while she ministers a trail of kisses from her forehead to her temple to the final destination of her neck. Azzi’s pajama shorts barely cover her cheeks so Paige can’t help but run her hands down her back for a quick grab of her butt. 

They exchange another short kiss and then Paige is pushing herself off the wall, heading toward the kitchen. She opens the fridge to grab a bottle of water and goes straight to Azzi’s bedroom without saying another word.

Azzi’s not really sure what Paige is up to so she follows closely behind. She watches Paige move throughout her room clearly looking for something specific. 

“Uh – what are you doing, Paige?” 

“Looking for something.”

“Clearly.” Azzi quips back with an eye roll. “I can help you if you give me a little more to work with.” 

“No need. Found it.” she says in a singsongy tone. 

Paige is pulling out a large IKEA box from the back of Azzi’s closet. It’s a shelf that Azzi’s been meaning to put together since the beginning of the semester. Obviously, she hasn’t gotten around to doing that yet. 

“I’m gonna put this together for you, mama.” She gives Azzi a kiss on her cheek before moving back out into the living room. 

Azzi is in trouble and she knows it. She can feel her center getting wet already and she involuntarily clenches down there watching Paige move back down the hall with her back and shoulder muscles flexed from carrying the box. 

She’s put on some muscle. Azzi thinks to herself. 

Paige sets the thin box down leaning it against the couch. She goes back into the entryway to grab the small tool bag where she keeps her drill, screwdrivers, and whatever else belongs in there. When she returns, she immediately starts working, opening the box and pulling all of the shelf pieces out. 

Paige sits on one end of the couch, eyebrows scrunching in concentration as she reads the instructions to make sure she has all the parts.

Azzi doesn’t offer to help. All her friends would call her a princess, but it’s not her fault. She’s been conditioned to sit back and let her girlfriend do things like this for her. Paige wouldn’t have taken her up on it even if she had offered to help. How do they think she got to be a princess in the first place? She’s been getting this kind of treatment for years and she’s not complaining. 

Instead, she’s curled herself back into the opposite corner of the couch with the blanket pulled over her legs like she’s watching her favorite show, which she is. 

Paige has the drill out now. She’s standing now, hunched over meticulously putting a couple pieces of the base together. Azzi runs her eyes up and down Paige’s body, very much enjoying the view. Her abs are flexed slightly so she can see the line down the center of her stomach. Azzi thinks about how much she’d like to follow that trail with her tongue. Her eyes move to Paige’s bicep next. It’s bent from holding the shelf in place while she uses the drill to secure the pieces together. She can feel her internal body temperature rising quickly. And then, when Azzi’s eyes land on Paige’s hand on the drill, she has to hold back an audible groan by biting her lower lip. 

Fuck. 

She wants nothing more than Paige’s big, veiny hand on her and in her where she needs her most. Azzi has to squeeze her legs together to alleviate the ache she feels, but it does little to help. Her heart is pounding and she can feel how her pussy pulses in time with it. She tries to adjust herself again and the only thing she notices is how much slick is pooling in her pajama shorts and onto her thighs. 

Of course Paige would be doing something so hot on a day when Azzi chooses not to wear any underwear. 

Azzi reaches behind her neck to rub out some of the tension that’s building. She’s doing her best to ground herself — she’s far too gone though. She decides to pick her book back up to distract herself, but she is not processing anything she’s reading because she keeps looking back at Paige every five seconds. 

After about twenty minutes, Paige flips the shelf upright and pushes down on each shelf to make sure it’s sturdy. 

“There. All done.” She smiles at her handiwork, proud of herself for putting it together by herself in such a short amount of time. “I’m gonna go put it in your room, Az.”

Paige is on the move again before Azzi can even reply, oblivious to the kind of effect she has on her girlfriend in these scenarios. 

Azzi sees the opportunity though. She stands to follow Paige, ignoring how she can feel her arousal run further down her thighs.

Azzi reaches her room just as Paige is placing the shelf in the open space for it right next to her desk. Coming up behind her, she runs her hands up and down her back, followed by wrapping her arms around her waist to pull her close. 

She gives her a soft kiss on her neck from behind and whispers right in her ear, “Looks perfect, P. Thank you.” Her voice is soft and sultry. Paige knows that voice well. She leans back into Azzi’s touch, enjoying the shower of light kisses Azzi is giving her across her neck. 

She responds with a “You’re welcome, princess.” And then Paige turns in Azzi’s arms to face her, pulling her in for a slow kiss. She’ll never get over how perfectly their lips seem to fit together. 

The pace is easy at first, exchanging open mouthed kisses and simply enjoying the feeling of their bodies pressed against each other. Although Paige can sense Azzi’s urgency increasing, she continues to control the pace, moving her lips slowly because she likes making Azzi wait a little bit — it increases the likelihood that Azzi will beg for it and she loves that more than she’d care to admit.  

But when Azzi bites Paige’s lower lip, pulling it slightly and then sucking it between her teeth for a brief moment, Paige loses any restraint she has left. The kiss intensifies, both tilting their heads to the side to make the angle better. Azzi has one arm circled around Paige’s waist. The other one is in the blonde’s hair, making her messy ponytail even messier as she pulls Paige in close like she isn’t already as possibly close as she could be. 

Neither one of them is sure who initiates it, but their tongues are now pressing and moving against one another. Both breathing heavy and letting out little sighs and moans as they make out. 

Paige’s hands drag down Azzi’s body until they reach their destination — Azzi’s ass. She grabs two handfuls of it, kneading and massaging the fat and muscle. Azzi whines in response and Paige lets out a quiet breathy fuck between kisses. She’ll never get tired of touching and feeling her like that, it makes her head spin in the best way possible. 

Without giving much thought, Paige lifts Azzi up and feels her legs wrap around her waist like they’ve done countless times. As Paige makes her way towards Azzi’s bed, she can feel Azzi’s arousal on her stomach. She’s absolutely soaked. Paige is worked up too, but they haven’t been making out long enough for how wet she is down there, which means that she’s been like this for a while. They’re still kissing, but when they flop onto the bed, Paige hovering over her girlfriend, she gives her a knowing smirk. 

“You been worked up for a bit, ma?” 

Azzi can only nod in reply. She bites her lip waiting for Paige’s next move, she’s putty in her hands at this point, just ready to feel her where she needs her most. 

Thankfully Paige isn’t restrained enough to make her use her words like she often does. Instead she just reaches for the waistband of Azzi’s shorts. When Azzi lifts to help her take them off, Paige pulls them the rest of the way. 

She basically growls. 

“Damn, baby. Not wearing anything underneath.” 

Azzi’s leg spread a little wider for her to get a good view and Paige just takes it all in. She’s absolutely dripping, pussy glistening in the natural light, arousal all over her folds. She sees how the slick is well past her center, trailing a few inches down on both thighs. 

“You like watching me build shit for you, huh?”

Azzi’s hip buck up remembering what got her like this in the first place. “God, yes P. You know how much I like it when you take care of me.” 

“What’s that line in from that one song…? Tears run down —” 

Paige is cut off by Azzi whining. “Paige, please, can we not right now.” 

She just laughs in response, deciding not to make her wait any longer. “I’m gonna take care of you right now, babygirl.”

Desperately she says “Yes, please… please — fuck,” knowing just how much Paige likes it when she begs. It’s a selfish endeavor, hoping it’ll make her move faster. 

It works because Azzi feels two of Paige’s long fingers run through her folds. She does it slower than she’d like, but she’s not about to complain. Paige runs it up and down her folds, gathering as much slick as she can near her entrance. 

They’re still face to face, Paige hovering over her, so when she brings her hand up to lick her fingers clean, Azzi can see just how wet she really is. She lets out a breathy laugh. “You should build shit more often.”

Paige sucks her fingers clean, groaning at Azzi’s taste, and nodding at Azzi’s request with a smile on her face. She brings her fingers back to Azzi’s center and doesn’t hesitate. She pushes both fingers inside in one quick thrust. 

Azzi shuts her eyes from the pleasure, crying out a fuck yes as her hips naturally jolt forward to meet Paige’s hand. Paige starts a steady rhythm, letting her fingers pump in and out, moving with ease from how wet Azzi is. 

She just watches her fingers disappear and reappear for a bit, watching how the slick starts to cover her palm. There’s something about seeing Azzi so turned on by such a simple task that makes her feel wanted, desired, loved. 

All these thoughts swirling in her head make her move her hand faster. Paige isn’t just using her hand muscles to push into her, she’s using her whole arm to thrust with a bit more force, but with the way Azzi is moving to meet her, it doesn’t feel like enough. 

So she adjusts herself on the bed, still on top of Azzi, but she lets her body rest on top of her now so they’re fully pressed up against one another. And once she’s in the right position, she starts to use her own hips to grind into Azzi while her own hand is still between them. 

This gets the desired response, as Azzi claws at Paige’s back. 

“Oh, fuck. Yeah — keep doing that.” Azzi cries out between moans. 

So Paige keeps going. She snaps her hips into Azzi in time with her fingers working in and out of her. She curls her fingers up to touch her as deep as she can go every time she’s fully inside. It’s a rhythm that has Azzi whining those high pitched moans letting them both know she’s getting close. 

And like always, Paige can’t help herself from praising her girl. 

“You’re so perfect, Az. So wet for me.”

“Sound so pretty, baby — keep letting me know how good it feels.” 

“Pussy so tight.”

The pressure continues to build with every thrust, every squeak from the bedframe, every sigh of pleasure. 

Despite Paige still being fully clothed, the movement is working her up as well. She starts groaning with every thrust, moving her hips in a way that catches her own clit in just the right way. Recognizing how good that feels, she keeps going regardless of how much her own wrist aches at the angle and pressure she’s putting on it. 

“P, I’m close.”

“I gotchu.” Paige starts grinding the heel of her hand into Azzi’s clit while she continues to pump in and out of her.  “Fuck — yes, yes, yes…” Azzi continues to cry out as she reaches her climax. When her legs shake, closing and squeezing around Paige’s hips, her head falls back with a blissful smile across her face. Paige doesn’t remove her hand just yet, letting her fingers rest inside Azzi as her pussy continues to clench around them in pulses, knowing that she’s not ready to feel empty just yet. 

“Fuck, P. That was amazing. Thank you” 

“You’re welcome, baby.” 

Azzi reaches out for Paige to give her a kiss. It’s slow and messy, and it deepens quickly. Paige starts to move her fingers again, out of habit more than anything. Azzi reaches down to stop her though, pulling Paige’s fingers out of herself. She hates the initial emptiness, but the thought of returning the favor is too strong to stop her. 

The problem with a quiet UConn night was that Paige Bueckers never handled boredom well.

January had wrapped the campus in darkness and cold, making everyone disappear early and stay in once they did. Except for that specific Thursday, when half the team had gone to watch the hockey game.

Apparently it was a big one, according to KK, who had bounced out of the dorm with her jacket half-zipped. The rest of the girls had scattered into suspiciously vague "plans". And somehow, through the sheer improbability of the universe, it had left just Azzi and Paige.

Alone. In Azzi's room.

Azzi was stretched out against the pillows, bonnet securely on, legs crossed at the ankles. She was wearing an old Georgetown hoops T-shirt that had seen better days. It was faded almost beyond recognition, a couple of small holes near the armpit, and more than a few mystery stains that could have been coffee, ketchup from Paige demolishing a bag of Lays on her bed months ago, or cottage cheese. Most likely cottage cheese. That was paired with red boxers covered in little white hearts, leaving her thighs bare under the covers.

Paige sat beside her, leaning back against the wall, knees bent, controller held a little too tightly in her hands. She had already put her glasses on, a sure sign she was clocked in for the night, and her hair was twisted into a messy top bun that had been done with exactly zero intention of impressing anyone. She wore an old USA Basketball shirt and UConn sweatpants from her junior year, the ones she refused to part with despite their age.

It was obvious they had both committed to a "stay in, do nothing" kind of night. No expectations, no plans, just existing in the same space together.

For a solid fifteen minutes, it worked.

Azzi turned pages quietly, fully locked into The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo. Paige was halfway through a Fortnite game, controller resting on her thigh between movements, tongue poking slightly out of the corner of her mouth in concentration.

But then Paige lost and got bored of Fortnite, which meant only one thing...

Paige sighed. It was dramatic, intentionally loud, clearly meant to be noticed.

Azzi didn't look up.

Paige sighed again, even louder this time.

Still nothing.

So Paige did what any mature, twenty-something elite athlete would do... She stretched her legs out and nudged Azzi's calf with her foot.

Azzi moved her leg away without looking, already irritated.

Paige waited exactly three seconds before doing it again.

This time, Azzi shot her a look over the top of her book. "If you kick me one more time, I swear to God, Paige..."

"I am not even kicking," Paige said innocently, widening her eyes. "I am… existing next to you."

Azzi's mouth twitched despite herself. "Your existence is annoying."

Paige smiled like that was the highest compliment she had received all day. She leaned her head back against the wall, waited a full five seconds, then tried again.

"Azzi."

No response.

"Az."

A page turned.

"Azzalicious."

Azzi snapped the book shut and looked at her, unimpressed. "What."

Paige grinned at her. "You bored?"

Azzi glanced pointedly at the book in her hands. "No."

Paige pouted. "Do you wanna play 2K with me?"

"No. I am at a really good part."

"You have been at a good part for an hour."

"That's because it keeps getting better."

Paige slumped dramatically against the wall. "I don't like playing alone."

"You are literally playing online."

"It's not the same," Paige said. "There's no emotional support."

Azzi raised an eyebrow. "You want emotional support for a video game?"

"Yes," Paige said without hesitation. "Preferably from you, babe."

Azzi shook her head and lifted the book again. "Hard pass."

Paige tried a new tactic. 

She scooted closer until their legs fully brushed, then rested her head against Azzi's shoulder.

Azzi glanced down at her, then back at the page. "Paige."

"Please. I will even let you pick my team."

Azzi reopened the book. "No."

"I won't trash talk."

Azzi laughed despite herself. "That's a lie."

"I will… do your laundry tomorrow."

That made Azzi pause.

She slowly marked her page with her finger. "You don't know how to do laundry."

"I will learn."

Azzi considered it, then shook her head again. "Still no."

Paige groaned and threw her hands up, letting her head thunk back against the wall. "Stop ignoring me."

"I am reading."

"You are choosing a book over me. Over the love of your life."

Paige lit up immediately, completely unfazed. "Fuck yeah! Should we play 2K24 or…"

Azzi finally closed it, setting it face-down on her lap. "Fine. But just so you know, that book has seven husbands and still somehow less neediness than you right now."

"No," Azzi cut in. "I said I would give you the attention you are very clearly craving," She paused, "But I do not want to play video games."

Paige's face fell. "Then what do you wanna do?"

Azzi thought for a moment, eyes drifting toward the corner of the room. Then her mouth curved into a mischievous smile.

"Oh," she said casually. "I just remembered something."

Paige squinted. "Why do you look like that."

"Because," Azzi said sweetly, "we still haven't finished that Monopoly game from Christmas break."

Paige froze. "Absolutely not."

"Yes."

"You accused me of cheating!?"

"You did cheat."

"I did not."

"You stole money from the bank."

"It was a loan."

Azzi laughed and swung her legs off the bed. "Get up, Bueckers."

Paige groaned but stood anyway. "This is so unfair. I was bored and just wanted to spend time with my girlfriend and now I am being punished."

Azzi grabbed the Monopoly box from under her desk and dropped it onto the bed with a solid thud. "Should have appreciated my presence when I was quietly reading."

Paige groaned but shifted closer, legs tangling with Azzi's as they set the board up between them.

"I should have gone to watch stupid hockey with KK," Paige muttered.

Azzi smiled, already shuffling the money. "You love it here, baby."

This was not what Azzi had envisioned when she suggested Monopoly.

Because half an hour ago, she had been dominating.

She had properties across the board. She had money stacked neatly in front of her. She had Paige annoyingly squinting at the board and pretending not to care, which Azzi knew meant she cared a lot.

Azzi had been reclining back against the headboard like a billionaire heiress, casually organizing her cash, fully convinced she was about to humble Paige Bueckers in Monopoly for the foreseeable future.

She had been too smug and comfortable.

And then something devastating happened.

Azzi rolled the dice, already smiling, not even bothering to look at where she was going to land…

Paige cracked up and leaned forward.

"No," Azzi said flatly.

Azzi stared at the square. Then up at Paige. Then back at the square again, like if she looked long enough it might change.

Boardwalk…with a hotel. Paige's hotel.

"No," Azzi repeated, louder, as if volume might help. "That's not real."

Paige tilted her head, pushed her glasses up her nose, and studied the square with exaggerated seriousness. "Looks pretty real to me."

Azzi slapped her hand down on the bed. "You put a hotel on Boardwalk?"

"You said I don't know how to play this game smartly," Paige replied calmly. "I just decided to be fancy."

Azzi groaned and started counting out the money, peeling bills off her stack one by one, each one physically painful to surrender. By the time she handed it over, her pride was already wounded.

"That's robbery," she muttered.

Paige accepted the money with a quiet, deeply annoying little smile, but there was no gloating.

Azzi tried to shake it off. She sat up straighter, rolled her shoulders, told herself she would recover. She still had assets and time to win it all back from Paige.

Two turns later, she pulled a Chance card.

Azzi read it once, twice, and stared straight ahead into nothing.

"What?" Paige asked softly.

Azzi lowered the card. "Pay a luxury tax."

Paige nodded. "Mm."

"Which is," Azzi continued slowly, "half of what I have left."

Paige winced sympathetically. "Oof."

Azzi snapped her head toward her. "Don't oof me."

She slammed the card onto the bed and started counting again, this time angrily, lips pressed into a thin line. When she was done, her once impressive stack looked… embarrassing. Humbling. Disrespectful.

And somehow, Paige still hadn't said a word.

From there, everything spiralled.

She landed on Paige's railroad, then another railroad. Then somehow, against all logic, another property Paige owned that Azzi swore she had been two squares away from.

By the end of it, Azzi had maybe… three bills. And one was a five.

She leaned back against the headboard, arms crossed tightly over her chest, cheeks puffed out in a full pout, bonnet slipping slightly to the side like it, too, was disappointed in her life choices.

Paige, meanwhile, sat across from her with the most infuriating expression Azzi had ever seen.

She wasn't gloating. She wasn't trash talking. She wasn't even smiling that big. She just looked… satisfied. Like she knew exactly how mad Azzi was and was enjoying it on a completely different level.

Azzi hated it.

"Say something," Azzi snapped.

Paige blinked. "Why?"

"Because you are being annoying."

"I am not doing anything."

"That's the problem."

Paige glanced down at the board, then back up at Azzi. "Do you… need a loan?"

Azzi gasped. "Absolutely not."

Paige shrugged, still wearing that infuriating little smirk. "Just offering."

Azzi uncrossed one arm long enough to point at her. "This game is rigged."

"You picked it."

"I didn't pick this outcome," Azzi muttered, arms snapping back into place, chin lifted in wounded pride.

Paige didn't respond, instead, she tilted her head just slightly to the side.

It was subtle, but Azzi caught it instantly.

Paige's posture shifted, her shoulders relaxed and her eyes darkened just a little behind her glasses. She quickly checked Azzi out like she just realised who had been sitting in front of her for the last hour.

Azzi's eyes flicked up. Narrowed.

"…What," he asked, already suspicious.

Paige shrugged, slow and innocent, then ran her tongue across her bottom lip like she was testing an idea.

That look.

Azzi knew it. She knew Paige better than anyone. That look meant Paige had stopped thinking about Monopoly entirely and had started thinking about something else entirely. 

"Don't," Azzi warned automatically.

Paige smiled.

"I just had a thought." she said. "A proposal, if you will."

Azzi squinted. "That's never good."

"I think it's actually very good," Paige said. "For both of us."

Azzi hesitates.

She knows better. She knows Paige too well.

But curiosity won anyway.

"…Fine," she said. "Say it."

Paige shifted closer, slowly like she was giving Azzi plenty of time to stop her which she knew Azzi wouldn't. Her knee brushed Azzi's. Paige leans in, lowering her voice like she was about to share a secret, and her fingers began moving along Azzi's bare thigh. One step at a time.

Azzi inhaled sharply. "Paige."

"I am a businesswoman," Paige said quietly, eyes locked on Azzi's face. "I believe in creative solutions."

Azzi already knew where this was going. She knew it the way you recognize trouble the second it smiles at you.

Paige's fingers moved barely an inch, but Azzi felt it everywhere.

"And I was thinking," Paige continued, eyes flicking briefly to Azzi's mouth, "if you really wanted to improve your financial situation…"

Azzi's jaw tightened. "Don't."

"…you could earn back a hundred."

Azzi recoiled like she'd been personally insulted. "A hundred?"

Paige blinked. "I am generous."

Azzi yanked her leg back. "That is insulting."

Paige's eyebrow lifted. "You think you are worth more?"

Azzi straightened immediately, arms crossing, chin tipping up. "Excuse you?"

"I am just saying," Paige replied smoothly. "Supply and demand."

"You are out of your mind if you think I am doing anything for a hundred Monopoly dollars."

Paige tilted her head. "Two hundred?"

Azzi scoffed. "Try minimum five."

"Five hundred?" Paige repeated, impressed.

"Yes." Azzi gestures between them. "You don't get premium services for pocket change."

Paige laughed out loud, dropping her head for a second. "Premium services?"

"Absolutely," Azzi said. "You want luxury, you pay luxury prices."

Paige whistled low. "Damn."

"Know your worth," Azzi said, smug and immovable.

Paige exhaled. A long, loud sigh.

Azzi frowned. "That's it?" she asked. "You gave up? You don't wanna pay five hundred for my services?"

Paige didn't answer. She just looked at her pointedly. Then she reached for her stack of money.

Azzi watched, confused, as Paige began counting neatly with no rush. One bill at a time, tapping them together, aligning the edges like she was doing serious math instead of Monopoly on a dorm bed...

"…Paige?" Azzi said. "What are you doing?"

Paige finished counting. Then calmly named the full amount.

"All of it."

Azzi blinked. One. Twice.

"…What."

Paige finally met her eyes. No teasing, just that unmistakable look.

"I will give you everything I have," she said simply. "For your services."

Azzi stared at her, brain fully buffering.

"That's…" she stared, then stopped. Her eyes flicked down to the money then back to Paige. "You are serious?"

Paige shrugged, like this was the most reasonable conclusion in the world. "Luxury product," she says, pointing at Azzi. "Luxury price."

Azzi's breath caught.

"I know a good investment when I see one."

That was all it took.

Azzi grabbed the front of Paige's shirt and yanked hard. 

Paige let out a surprised laugh and landed fully on top of her, knees braced, hands instinctively catching her weight on either side of Azzi's shoulders. 

Azzi didn't give her a second to recover. 

She tilted her head up and crashed their mouths together, the kiss fierce and possessive, swallowing Paige's laughter whole. 

Paige softened instantly, lips parting with a soft moan, her fingers curling into Azzi's shirt like she couldn't get close enough.

Azzi took advantage immediately.

With a sharp twist of her hips, Azzi bucked up and flipped them over in one fluid roll. Paige hit the bed with a gasp, her back sinking into the rumpled sheets, eyes wide as Azzi loomed above her. 

The shift was pure power, Azzi's thighs straddling Paige's hips, pinning her down.

Paige's breath hitched as Azzi nipped at her bottom lip hard enough to sting, then licked the spot soothingly before diving back in, tongue thrusting deep.

Paige's hands roamed up Azzi's sides, desperate and grabbing, but Azzi snatched one wrist and slammed it against the pillow above Paige's head, holding it there with a firm grip. 

Her free hand dove under Paige's shirt, palm flat and hot against the strong muscles of her stomach, fingers splaying wide to feel the heat radiating off her skin. Paige tore her mouth away with a ragged inhale, her forehead collapsing onto Azzi's shoulder, breaths coming in short, wrecked bursts.

"Fuck, Az," Paige whispered, voice already hoarse, her free hand clutching at Azzi's back. 

But Azzi just grinned against her neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses down the column of her throat, sucking marks into the pale skin.

She released Paige's pinned hand only to trail her fingers lower, hooking into the waistband of Paige's sweatpants and tugging them down roughly, exposing the damp patch on her underwear.

Paige arched up, hips lifting instinctively, but Azzi pressed her back down with a hand on her hip. 

"Not yet," she murmured, voice low and commanding, a thrill running through her at how Paige shivered under her touch. 

Azzi slid lower, shoving Paige's shirt up to her ribs, her mouth latching onto a nipple. She sucked hard, teeth grazing, while her hands yanked the pants and panties off in one go, leaving Paige bare and spread on the bed.

Paige's thighs trembled as Azzi settled between them, the air in the cramped dorm room thick with their shared heat. 

"Azzi, please," Paige begged, her usual cool cracking, fingers threading into Azzi's hair and pulling her closer. 

Azzi looked up, eyes dark with intent, and hooked Paige's legs over her shoulders, spreading her wide. She could see how wet Paige was already, pussy glistening, clit swollen and begging.

Without another word, Azzi dove in. 

Her tongue flattened against Paige's folds, lapping up the slick arousal in one long, hungry stroke from entrance to clit. Paige cried out, back bowing off the mattress, her hands yanking Azzi's hair harder. 

Azzi didn't hold back. She sucked Paige's clit into her mouth, flicking her tongue fast and relentless, the wet sounds filling the room as Paige's hips jerked up to meet her.

It was messy, just like Azzi wanted. 

Saliva and Paige's juices smeared across her chin, dripping down her neck as she ate her out with fervor, one hand pinning Paige's thigh to keep her open, the other sliding two fingers inside her tight heat. Paige clenched around them immediately, walls pulsing, and Azzi curled her fingers, stroking that spot that made Paige's whole body seize.

"Oh god, yes, fuck, Azzi," Paige's voice broke on a sob, her thighs squeezing Azzi's head, but Azzi pushed them apart again, thrusting her fingers deeper, faster, while her mouth worked Paige's clit without mercy. 

Paige was unraveling, her breaths turning to whimpers, body slick with sweat, the bed creaking under their movements.

Azzi pulled back just enough to watch Paige's face, flushed, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted in ecstasy, before plunging her tongue inside alongside her fingers, tasting her fully.

Paige finally shattered with a scream, her orgasm crashing over her, pussy gushing around Azzi's tongue as she rode it out, hips grinding desperately.

Azzi kept going, licking her through the waves, fingers pumping slowly now to draw it out, until Paige was a trembling, oversensitive mess, tugging weakly at Azzi's hair to pull her up.

Azzi crawled back up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, a warm smirk lighting her face at the dazed, blissful expression on Paige's. 

"So was it a worthy investment?" she teased, voice low and affectionate, before capturing Paige's lips in a deep, lingering kiss, letting her taste their shared essence.

Paige moaned into it, her arms wrapping around Azzi's neck, already stirring with fresh warmth despite the lingering tremors.

Azzi pulled back and smiled smugly, her eyes soft with adoration.

Paige lay flat on her back, chest rising and falling in heavy, satisfied breaths, her hair a tousled halo across the pillows, glasses long discarded somewhere in the sheets.

She looked utterly undone, beautifully wrecked. Her eyes were hazy, her thighs still trembling faintly from the intensity.

Instead of hovering, Azzi shifted down onto the bed beside her, tugging Paige gently into her side with a loving pull. Paige followed without hesitation, rolling over and nestling in close, her body molding perfectly against Azzi's.

Her arms wrapped around Azzi's waist, holding on as if she never wanted to let go. Her face buried against Azzi's chest, cheek pressed warm and trusting there, her breathing gradually evening out in that familiar spot where she always ended up when she was spent and blissfully overstimulated.

Azzi let out a soft, contented laugh and curved an arm around her, fingers threading gently through Paige's hair, stroking with soothing care.

After a moment, Azzi tilted her head slightly, looking down at her with a mix of smugness and tenderness. "Luxury service?" she asked, voice warm and playful.

Paige didn't lift her head. She just nodded against Azzi's skin, her arms tightening like the answer was the most obvious thing in the world.

Azzi grinned. "Good," she said softly. "Because that means I won the game."

Paige huffed out a breathless laugh into her chest, shook her head weakly, and held on even closer.

"No," she murmured, voice rough and thoroughly sated. "Pretty sure I did."

Azzi smiled wider, smug and utterly content.

The Monopoly money was scattered and forgotten, the board pushed aside in the heat of the moment. 

it was a stupid gift, truly. it was a gift that paige had thought about and schemed and stalked to get— but it was stupid, nonetheless. 

she and azzi had only fucked, and they’d only done it once but paige knew it wouldn’t be the last time. 

she’d reached a level of infatuation that had her concerned with herself. she thought about azzi the second she woke up after fucking her. she thought about azzi on the flight home, during the two games she played before christmas and during every single one of her finals. 

the woman was burned into her brain. the sound of her voice, the way she tasted, the pressure of her legs around paige’s head, the pressure of her pussy around paige’s fingers. she’d never forget it. 

not that she wanted to. before she even made it back to connecticut, paige decided she was gonna have azzi again. that she’d do whatever to ensure that she’d always have azzi.

she'd talked herself down from corny grand gestures and settled on a christmas gift. not one azzi would have to pretend to like, or one she'd never be able to use in public. she wanted to get something that azzi would never forget, but would never have to explain. simple but useful and noticeable. 

how she got to louboutins— paige didn't know. it was supposed to be simple, but she had to verify the purchase before she could actually buy the shoes and she had to pay extra to ensure that the gift box wouldn't be destroyed by the plane. 

when she got home, she saw azzi and her father on opposite ends if the couch, watching a cop show. they both whipped their heads around when she opened the front door, but paige only looked at azzi. 

azzi with her ocean of curls and her strong collarbones and braless chest. she smiled her real smile and said hello and paige nodded because she couldn't breathe enough to speak. she thought she remembered everything about azzi, but standing in that doorway felt like she'd forgotten just how damn beautiful the woman was. 

she practically shoved her own self down the hall and into her bedroom, throwing her duffel onto her bed and flopping down on her ottoman— the same ottoman that azzi had left that gift bag that started paige's… whatever you'd call the thing paige had for her.

something in paige felt gross while blaming her feelings on azzi. she was acting like a guy. pretending that a woman was to blame for someone else attraction to her, was a definable man-ish trait. but maybe that was paige's form of toxic masculinity.

she shook her head, like someone could see her rejecting her own inner monologue. 

this wasn't azzi's fault— it was no one's fault. the sex was too good to be considered a fault (as was the conversation and the cuddling after, but paige was mainly focused on the memory of azzi's breasts in her mouth in that moment.)

she reached behind her and grabbed the duffel bag. carefully, she pulled out the box that held azzi's shoes. she looked at the fancy wrapping that she paid to have put over the box and realized that this was an insanely stupid gift.

who the fuck bought christian fucking louboutins for a woman they'd only fucked once?

apparently, paige did.

she debated not giving azzi the shoes, but then remembered that these shoes costed a thousand and forty-five dollars. so she she decided she'd wait. because shoes like these deserved more than a rushed passing of hands and whispered thank you. shoes like these deserved A Moment.

she nearly exploded with want in the few days it took to get azzi alone. she co-existed with her father and azzi as if the proximity was comfortable.

for two days, paige watched azzi move throughout the house noticing every minuscule thing she did, and watched it as if it was a major event happening before her eyes. she clenched around nothing when azzi bent over to fluff the throw pillows. her stomach tightened at the sight of azzi in the same nightgown from fourth of july. she felt a violent jealousy when her father said anything that drew even the smallest giggle from azzi's perfect mouth.

none of this meant anything— at least not to a normal person. but paige had grown to accept the fact that she was not normal about azzi. she tried to be. she tried not to talk to her— to continue treating her father's current girlfriend the way she'd treated all of them.

she did her best not to speak to her, but sometimes she forgot. at least, she told herself that she forgot, rather than admitting that she made the conscious choice to talk to azzi for a stupid reason like wanting azzi's attention on her. it was always something small— asking azzi to pass her something, or saying "excuse me" when accidentally bumping into her when there was plenty of empty space for paige to walk through. 

that was all paige allowed herself, though. and it was enough for those two days. the memory of azzi's skin brushing her as she passed the salt, and the sound of her sharp inhale to the feeling of paige's body pressing into hers was enough to hold paige over until she was able to get her alone. she patient and observant, the way she'd learned to be after years on the court. 

her Moment came when bob announced to the whole house that he had to go to work, as if the only other two people in the house weren't sitting in the living room with him when his phone rang. 

everytime bob spoke to azzi, paige felt a slight surge of guilt. because she didn't particularly like her father, but she didn't hate him. and he'd kept azzi this long which meant he had to like her. 

but then paige looked at azzi and remembered that azzi wasn't someone who deserved to be liked. she remembered that azzi deserved to be craved and learned and ravished. she'd think about how something as simple as liking wasn't worthy of being in the same sentence as azzi fudd, and then she'd feel better about fucking her dad's girlfriend. 

paige felt her body spark at the sight of him walking out of the house, but she waited until she heard his car leave the driveway to say acknowledge the fact that she and azzi were finally— finally— alone.

she moved from the loveseat she was on to the couch where azzi was wrapped in the throw blanket. she smiled at azzi. "hi."

"she speaks." azzi snarked, but it had no merit based on the way the apples of her cheeks swelled from her smile. 

still, paige's face dropped. every joke had truth to it, and she didn't want azzi to think paige didn't want to talk to her. she didn't want azzi to think paige wanted anything but her.

"i've spoken to you." azzi arched a brow at her and tilted her head as if to say really? like a dog with it's tail between it's legs, paige course corrected. "kinda."

"hm." azzi looked pleased with herself, which wasn't the plan. she was supposed to be pleased with paige— she was supposed to be pleased by paige.

"i'm sorry." paige shook head, scooting closer to the woman that had consumed her every waking thought for the past seven months. "i just didn't wanna fuck anything up. was trynna act like i always do so my dad wouldn't peep anything."

azzi rolled her eyes, and moved her hand like she was pushing the thought away. she smacked her lips and smirked at paige. "your father doesn't notice anything besides his food being over salted. you'd have been fine."

then why are you with him? paige wanted to ask. 

she had a million question for azzi, actually. all of which revolved around that one central annoyance. paige didn't see a point in asking it, though. she knew it would only hurt her. she knew that knowing what azzi saw in bob would be be detrimental to her overall sanity, so she bit her tongue and remembered her mission. 

"i got you something." she watched azzi bring a hand to her chest and rub her thumb over the pink diamond that laid perfectly on her chest. 

paige felt great pride for being the one to give azzi her emotional support necklace.

she grinned softly before speaking even softer. "again?"

"yeah." paige's eyes stayed on the hand on azzi's chest. "again."

she almost dug her teeth into her lip at the dip in of azzi's collarbones. she almost pounced at the sight of the veins and tendons in azzi's hand. she almost came at the idea of that thumb swiping cross her clit while azzi—

she popped onto her feet, causing azzi to gasp a little bit. paige couldn't bring herself to feel bad about scaring her with the sudden movement, because she was too focused on not fucking her before she gave her the shoes. 

Mission. she had a damn Mission. 

without a single word, she walked to her bedroom and retrieved the box. before she walked back out, paige stared at herself in the mirror. she took in her pink cheeks and her booming heart. she tried to tell herself to calm down— to play this cool because azzi was older and paige was acting like two-month-old golden retriever. 

she was so fucking desperate and it should have been humiliating. but it wasn't. she'd scream from every rooftop that she got to be desperate for azzi. that it was allowed of her to want this woman because the woman wanted her too. she was wanted by the most enamoring person she'd ever met so no— she wasn't humiliated by her desperation. 

back in the living room, she stood infront of azzi, who was still wrapped in the blanket on the couch.

"it's a um—" she shoved the box in azzi's face. "it's a christmas gift. but i want you to have it before christmas in case you wan—" she shook her head, embarrassed of this stupid fucking gift. "just open it."

azzi took the box, but made no move to open it. she just looked up at paige with those eyes, but they were big— wide with something that looked like uncertainty. 

she looked down at the box in her lap, then up at paige again.paige nudged her head at the box, a silent plea for azzi to open the fucking box. she didn't. she kept looking up at paige.

paige sighed and furrowed her brow. she wanted to cry from anxiety. her leg shook like she was a child having a tantrum. 

she held azzi's eye contact, but tried to silently communicate that she was about to lose it. she moved her mouth, but nothing besides a weak whine came out. 

please she mouthed.

still gazing up, azzi ripped the black wrapping paper. paige didn't give a single damn about the fact that she'd paid for that. she was booming inside, too worried that she'd royally fucked up.

azzi ran her hand over the shoe box and looked down. her mouth dropped open when she saw the label. she said paige's name. paige said nothing. when azzi removed the lid from the box and saw the glossy black heels, she snapped her head up. 

"paige." she sounded stern and paige was going to throw up.

"what?" she asked. "you don't like it? is it the wrong size? because i checked the family group chat from when taylor asked if she could borrow your clogs for her lab or whatever but i got a size up because i didn't want them to hurt your feet and—"

she was cut off by azzi waving her hands and saying her name yet a-fucking-gain.

she shut her eyes and took a breath before pressing her lips together. "i really need you to say something other than my name."

azzi looked up from the box of shoes with an offended look on her face. "you don't like when i say your name?"

she was flirting. thank freaking god.

paige huffed out something that was supposed to be a laugh, but sounded more like an exhale of relief and shook her head. "not like that." her blonde hair swished in her face and paige smiled at the feeling of it brushing against her nose. 

she'd worn it down this entire trip, remembering that when she came the second time, azzi pulled her hair. she didn't care about that, it was more so about paige wanting the full feeling of azzi's hand in her scalp, rather than the feeling of her bun being tugged. 

"how would you like me to say it, p?" 

mirages of "you can taste, p" and “paigepaigepaigepaigepai—SHIT” flashed before the her eyes. 

she snapped out of it when she felt azzi's hand clasp hers and tug her onto the couch. she climbed into paige's lap, and suddenly, anxiety was a thing of the past. paige held her, bringing her hands so they were interlocked at the small of her back. 

azzi rested her arms on paige's shoulders, twirling the hairs on the back of her neck as she spoke. "i love the shoes. i was just surprised, okay? i mean they— they're literally red bottoms."

paige grinned like world peace had been achieved. "you like them?"

that's all she wanted. she wanted azzi to like it. she wanted to see her smile the way she had when she saw the necklace. 

"i said i love them, sweetheart." azzi slid a thumb over paige's cheek. "they're gonna be so cute with my dress for the pictures tomorrow."

paige was too busy trying not to focus on how perfect azzi felt in her lap to process anything azzi had said. her fingers felt so good wrapped around paige's jaw and her breath felt so cool against paige's face. 

"that's good." she responded, non-committal. "i'm glad" 

"you wanna see?" paige's eyes dropped to azzi's chest, braless, but covered by a navy blue tee. azzi followed her line of sight and swatted at paige's shoulders. "my dress. do you wanna see my dress?"

she laughed while she nodded. "yeah, of course."

azzi chewed on her bottom lip, looking paige over. then, she dropped a single peck against the girls lips and climbed off her.

"okay, be right back!" she cheered, like she hadn't just kissed paige for the first time in a month. like she hadn't tilted paige's world even further off it's axis with something a slight as a peck. 

as she watched azzi run down the hallway with her shoe box in hand, paige deflated into the couch. she let out a huge puff of air and wiped her sweaty palms down her spread thighs.

she'd known for a while that her relationship— whatever you'd call it— with azzi could never be casual. she'd known that before they fucked. but while azzi changed into her dress, paige thought about how much she'd wanted that moment since she got home. 

she weighed the ache of wanting more— wanting it all— against the security of what she already had. 

she pictured the reality of what her life would be if she asked for it— for azzi to be hers and for them to be together outside of their secret gifts and the rare moments that they had alone. she imagined azzi sleeping in her bed and meeting azzi's friends. she tried to think of what it would feel like to be in azzi's pink room. to touch all of her knick-knacks and fuck azzi on every surface in her house. 

she mulled over very interaction between them, from their first conversation until when azzi was just in her lap. she thought about how every hidden second felt to her and she chose to have restraint. 

she chose not to press for commitments or clarity or anything more than she already had and she told herself that asking for it all would only ruin everything. 

was azzi just going to leave rich and successful (boring) bob, who lived close and wasn't desperate?

no. no she wasn't. 

and paige knew that she'd treat azzi they way she deserved. she'd spend the rest of her life on her knees for azzi if it was possible. 

but it wasn't possible, and paige knew that, too. so she packed up all her wants into a corner of her brain that she tried not to think about and began convincing herself that this would be enough. torturous eye contact and days of waiting to be alone would be enough. 

she heard the clacking of azzi's new shoes come down the hallway and wiped a hand down her face just to make sure she hadn't started crying. 

she turned her head to see azzi strutting like she'd been meant to walk down the hallway of paige's childhood home in the thousand dollar shoes that paige had bought for her. 

her dress was black with fur trim and it looked expensive and so azzi that paige didn't even wonder of it was meant to be worn for the holidays. if azzi was wearing it, it was meant for whatever she was wearing it to. 

"so," azzi twirled, "do we like it?"

her grin was so tight that paige could see the dimple in her cheek, and paige's body began to vibrate. azzi's face was always so loud about everything she felt. paige could look at her and tell when she was annoyed, or when she wanted to say something and right now she could tell that azzi was over the fucking moon.

her gift made azzi happy. she'd done good. 

"we do." paige nodded. "we really do."

and then azzi was walking towards paige with a warmth in her eyes that made paige want to jump out of her body. 

she hiked her dress up a little and climbed back into paige's lap and paige hoped to everything holy that azzi was thinking the same thing she was. 

azzi pecked paige's lips again, cradling the girls jaw in both hands. "i'm gonna curl my hair for the pictures tomorrow." she kissed her again, longer this time. "it's gonna be in a ponytail with a red ribbon." 

this time, she sucked paige's bottom lip into her mouth. "they'll match the bottoms of my shoes."

paige brought her hands to the bottoms of azzi's thighs and slid them under her dress so she could cup her ass. azzi wasn't wearing panties. 

she tilted up and took azzi's mouth, before leaning back so her head rested on the back of the couch. azzi leaned with her, pressing weight over paige's chest. 

they kissed like that— kissing and sucking and licking until paige's hair was mousy and azzi was panting into her mouth. paige let her pull away for air and went to her neck, sucking on the same spot that turned her to putty the last time. 

azzi moaned and squeezed the back of paige's neck and paige felt like a literal caged animal, trying her absolute hardest to treat azzi with the softness she deserved. but then azzi started grinding down onto paige's lap and she could feel the warmth of azzi's pussy through her sweats.

she tightened her hand around the meat of azzi's ass and breathed her name out like it was oxygen itself. 

azzi bent her neck so her mouth was right by paige's ear said, "feels so good."

paige pushed up hard off of sheer natural instinct and azzi whined like she felt everything but pain.

her hips stuttered in paige's lap and paige squeezed again, "please keep going," she begged. "keep riding me."

azzi kept going, fucking her hips into paige's with her neck bent so that paige could do whatever to the skin there and along her collarbones. 

paige did her damnedest to stay still so that azzi could take what she needed, but still, azzi pulled a hand from under dress and dragged it between her legs. 

"need your hand— put your hand on me," she whimpered and paige let wrist be guided beneath the black fabric. 

"azzi," she rubbed two fingers over azzi's pussy, taking in the heat and the slickness and the overall perfection of her current situation. "you're so wet." 

azzi nodded and twisted her face in pleasure as paige flattened her palm against her. azzi grinded again, sliding herself across paige's hand. she pushed the heel of her palm up and azzi let her head drop onto her shoulder. 

"i made you happy?" she asked because she needed ot hear it. her eyes rolled back when azzi bit at the muscle between her neck and shoulder. "oh my fucking god," 

"you make me so fucking happy." azzi moaned. "i feel so pretty— yes— so pretty in my new shoes."

"you look so good in them," paige praised, pulling azzi so she could look at her pretty fucking face. 

"we're gonna match," azzi locked in on paige's eyes, still fucking against her palm. "you're gonna look so sexy in the clothes i bought you."

you deserve it.

paige used her hand on azzi's ass to guide her faster. she kissed azzi again, sucking at her tongue and nipping at her lip when she leaned back again. 

"you feel so good, p" paige started moving her palm with azzi's rhythm and azzi threw her head back and cursed. "right there— yes, sweetheart."

she fell apart on top of paige, riding her orgasm out while paige watched, wet with a sense of depravity. 

when she was done, azzi slouched into paige's chest. she looked up to see paige bring her palm to her mouth and lick the mess off of it. 

she was hungry, nothing on her mind but tasting azzi from the source. 

"lemme take you to the bed." 

──

paige set azzi down on the bed without breaking their kiss. she bent over and tongued at azzi's mouth, one hand on the mattress and one holding azzi's leg around her waist so she could keep feeling her heel digging into her back. 

azzi's hands were everywhere. from paige's hair to her back to her ass to her biceps— she ran her hands wherever she could get them. paige loved that. she liked feeling azzi everywhere on her because it made feeling azzi everywhere within her, that much stronger. 

azzi pulled so that paige had her pancaked onto the mattress, and wrapped both legs around her in a full body hug. without permission, paige bucked her hips down and azzi gasped into her mouth while pullig paige impossibly further into her. 

if they stayed like that forever, it would have been okay with paige. bumping and grinding into each other while as close as humanly possible was like heaven to her, but she also was greedy and was going to take what she could get. 

azzi had the same thought, it seemed, because she used her hips to roll them over so she was on top of paige again. she stopped kissing her. stopped running her hands over paige's body. stopped grinding into her. 

she just sat there, looking at paige.

"what's wrong?" paige asked, breathing heavy with her hands in the air like she'd done something wrong.

azzi shook her head, and brushed a finger down the length of paige's nose. "you're so pretty,"

like she was offended, paige scrunched her nose. "pretty?"

"pretty." azzi nodded, pulling paige's hand so they laid above her head. she moved her hands from her wrists to her forearms all the way down to her biceps and squeezed the muscle there. "beautiful."

she looked transfixed and sounded like she was in utter awe, and for once, paige didn't worry if someone was calling her pretty as a microaggression. 

azzi bent down and kissed both of paige's biceps. she pushed her shirt up and kissed the lines framing paige's hips. she kissed at paige's ribcage and when she'd pushed paige's sports bra up, she kissed her nipples. 

she was touching so much of paige's body, treating her like they had all the time in the world, and she'd go as long as it took for her point to be proven.

only when paige could feel her heartbeat in her pussy, did azzi climb off of her. paige watched her take her dress off and didn't care to hide the fact that she was breathing so hard that her stomach was sinking into her with every exhale. 

she took in azzi once again. the last time they did this, it was night and the lights were off and paige couldn't full see the details of azzi's naked body. but now, in the light, paige could see the faint lines of azzi's own abs. she could see the dimples in her hips and freckles on her chest. 

she never bent down to unstrap her shoes. she'd kept the heels on. 

paige didn't know how she went a month without this, and she was worried that this would be the only time she'd have it until easter. 

she ripped her own shirt and bra all the way off and threw them , and let azzi pull her bottoms off with same urgency.

now, they were both bare and staring at each other. paige was ready for whatever azzi was planning, but she wouldn't rush. she'd let azzi stand there staring at her for as long as she liked, no matter how frantic she was beginning to feel.

thankfully, azzi stepped closer and put her hands on paige's knees. 

"scoot up for me." paige moved so she was sitting up with her back on her headboard. azzi nodded, getting on the bed. "good." 

paige brought her legs together and squeezed at the praise and she nearly passed out watching azzi's tits bounce as she scooted on her knees. when she got to paige, she spread her legs and sat on her haunches between them. 

slowly, she leaned forward placing a confusingly chaste kiss on paige's lips. paige had no clue was was going on, but she was so wet and so needy and she wanted azzi so bad that she wouldn't interrupt by asking questions.

azzi kissed her again, deeper this time and slid her hand between paige's legs. 

"azzi," paige pleaded, trying to chase her tantalizing, soft touch.

"paige." azzi responded, still not applying the pressure needed for relief.

paige wanted to cry. she was clenching around nothing and her pride was practically leaking out of her pussy. "please."

"i just want you to know," azzi bent down and licked at paige's nipple. "that you are so pretty i just wanna fucking eat you." she sucked paige's other nipple into her mouth, before pulling away and looking in her in the eyes. "can i make you cum?"

paige would have let azzi decapitate her in that moment. she wasn't used to this— to someone taking their time with getting her off, and she wasn't quite sure how to do bottom and be vulnerable, but she was more than willing to learn. 

she nodded feeling like the equivalent of a limp spaghetti noddle. "okay."

azzi looked up at her and smirked. "okay?"

"yes." paige corrected. and azzi hadn't really done anything yet, but still paige added, "thank you."

azzi smiled. "you're welcome, sweetheart."

paige whined when azzi pulled her hand away, but it got stuck in her throat when azzi arched her back on her way down. she laid on her stomach with her feet in the air and paige stopped looking at her ass, so she could look at the red bottoms of azzi's shoes. 

azzi kept her feet in the air when she pushed paige's knees up so they were pressed against her chest. she kept her feet in the air when she kissed paige's thighs. she kept them in the air when she licked paige's pussy and moaned. 

paige's whole body clenched at the feeling of azzi's tongue on her, but everything in her loosened when azzi sucked her clit into her mouth.

paige let her head fall onto her knee and she dug her nails into the back of her thighs as azzi ate her. her tongue moved slow over paige's clit as she sucked and moaned and paige couldn't do anything but let her.

"oh my—" her head fell against the headboard and squeezed her eyes so hard she saw shapes. "fuck me,"

azzi kept going as she was, and paige could feel herself dripping. she was so wet she could literally feel it on her ass, and she needed more. 

"god," she whined. "please fuck me, mommy." 

she felt azzi grin into her before she felt a finger— a thumb— slip inside of her pussy. 

perfect. the stretch, the pressure against her spot, the heat of azzi's mouth— it was perfect.

she felt like her bones had slipped out of her body. she was wet and languid and happy to be being fucked by this perfect woman. 

"thank you," she cried, and she felt everything wash out of her as she came. "ohmygodthankyou."

the red of azzi's shoes blurred back into paige's vision as her legs dropped from her chest and slammed onto the mattress. azzi brought her head up and wiped the corners of her mouth with the cutest look on her face. 

her brown skin was flushed and despite her efforts, she still had paige's cum on her chin. it was wonderful. 

she settled into paige's lap and paige felt her slick against her stomach. she pulled paige in by the jaw and kissed her with so much tongue that paige tasted herself.

when she felt herself getting ready to go again, she put her hands on azzi's shoulders and said, "i wanna fuck you,"

azzi nodded quickly spread her legs a little, but paige shook her head.

"no like, i brought a strap." she chuckled, suddenly nervous. "from connecticut. i bought a new one. for you."

she looked into azzi's eyes, searching for any disapproval or upset, but instead, azzi raised her brows and smirked.

"oh?" her smile wrapped around word and paige knew that she was about to get what she wanted. 

still, she had to make sure. she had to hear the yes. 

"yeah," she smiled, leaning up and kissing azzi. "so can— can i? please?" 

"yes, sweetheart." azzi nodded. she sounded so fucking sweet. "you can fuck me with your strap."

paige smiled and kissed azzi as she rolled off of her lap. she went to her closet, where her duffel bag was and made quick work of putting on the harness and attaching the dildo. she tugged at it to make sure it was secure in its place and then stepped out to find azzi playing with herself. 

"hey," paige said, mildly offended. 

azzi kept rubbing herself as paige walked towards the bed, "i'm just getting ready."

paige furrowed her brows. "you don't think i'd do that?" 

had she not given the impression that she'd take care of her? did azzi think that she was just gonna shove into her and—

"no, sweetheart i just—" azzi moved her hand and folded them on her belly. 

"let me do it, please," paige hopped on the bed and grabbed azzi's ankles. she rubbed over the skin there, appreciating the coolness of the straps of her shoes. "i've wanted to eat your pussy since i got here." 

azzi giggled and settled her head against the pillows. her hair surrounded her head in a frizzy jumble of brown curls and her lips were kiss swollen. paige cataloged this moment in her mind, and brought azzi's legs up in the air. 

she pressed her ankles beside each other and kissed the bottoms of her shoes. "i'm glad you like your gift." 

"thank you for them." azzi cooed. "you didn't have to get me something."

paige kissed her ankles. "i'd give you anything." 

i'd give you everything. 

azzi smiled, as she watched paige leave open mouthed kissed down her legs. she moved down until she got to her thighs, and then she spread azzi's legs so they made a v around her head. then, she put them over her shoulders so she could feel the heels again, and dove in.

she ate azzi's pussy the same way she had the first time. with everything she had. like it was all she wanted to do forever. she moaned into azzi at the feeling of her hair being tugged and she took that as sign to keep going. she didn't stop until she heard, fuck i'm ready.

paige pulled away, ignoring the string of spit connecting her to azzi. "you sure?"

azzi sighed yes and paige moved so they were in missionary. azzi spread her legs and welcomed paige. she held paige by the biceps as she looked up at her with those huge brown eyes. her pupils were blow to shit, almost completely taken over her irises and paige almost completely lost her mind. 

she dipped her head, resting her weight on her forearmand her kness and she kissed azzi before sliding in.

azzi tipped her head back and moaned out oh paige and like she could actually feel it, paige groaned too. 

she kissed whatever skin she could get to and started rolling her hips. she sped up as she went until she'd reached a rhythm that had azzi clawing at her back. the sting of her nails paired with the sting of the heel in her back had paige thinking she might seriously be into pain.

she loved this. watching azzi's face twist in pleasure. she loved making that happen. she'd do this forever. and she kept that in mind as she stroked in and out. she wanted to always be the one making azzi feel the best she ever did.

she wanted azzi to feel this for days. she wanted azzi to think of it every time she wore her heels. 

"it's good?" she asked, still watching azzi's screwed up face. 

"it's so deep—holy shit," azzi gasped and looked down between them.

"i been thinking about this since i left." paige admitted. "being in you. making you cum again."

azzi brought her eyes up and paige could see something in them that made her want to melt. azzi looked like she was in total bliss. like she wasn't— couldn't— think about anything. that was what paige wanted. she just wanted azzi to feel. to feel her and to feel good. 

"you look so pretty when you cum." she continued. "look so pretty when you're full."

"paige,"

paige knew she couldn't cum again, but her mind swirled with satisfaction. satisfaction with herself, with the look on azzi's face, with the rasp of azzi crying out her name.

"love when you say my name." she powered through everything going on in her head. she felt so weak, but so proud of what she was doing. "when you call me sweetheart and when you touch me."

azzi's mouth dropped open and her eyes almost fluttered shut, but she blinked them open. "you're gonna make me cum," 

her hands came up to paige's face, and she cradled it while sliding a thumb into her mouth. paige closed her lips around it and sucked as she kept fucking her. azzi's face twisted again at the sight as she let out an air holy shit. 

"don't stop," azzi shook her head and threw it back. "you're so good." 

paige moaned around her thumb and brought her free hand down to swipe across azzi's clit.

she pushed the finger out of her mouth and kissed azzi's lips. and like a secret, she whispered in her ear, "please, mommy. cum in the shoes i bought you."

she sucked at the spot on azzi's neck and brushed over her clit and fucked into her pussy and she kept going until azzi's whole body locked up and she shook under her. 

"oh fuucckkkkk" she screamed before slapping a hand over her mouth and muffling herself. 

paige watched the veins in azzi's neck pop out, she watched a flush take over her chest, she watch her hand tremble over her mouth— she watch it all and knew that she'd done what she was supposed to do. she'd made azzi happy. 

she'd done good.