Deluca Drag

April 6th, 2038

Bridgette does not pace. She is not a pacer. She is a scientist, a mathematician, and an astrophysicist. She does not fidget, does not waste energy on unnecessary movement, does not waste words on things that do not require saying.

And yet, she is pacing. She is messing with her long ponytail, combing it out with her fingers.

Gianna, meanwhile, is not pacing. Gianna is lounging on their bed in nothing but a tank top and boyshorts, flipping a stress ball in one hand, watching her wife walk a path into the floor.

"You're going to wear a hole in the fuckin' carpet," Gianna comments, twisting onto her side, grinning in that lazy way that makes Bridgette want to throttle her.

Bridgette shoots her a look. "I should be the one saying that to you. You are defending a dissertation tomorrow. You, Gianna. Not me. You. And yet, here you are--sprawled out like an undergrad stoner in a philosophy class."

Gianna smirks. "You should hear how I define consciousness."

Bridgette pinches the bridge of her nose. "God help me."

"God has nothing to do with it," Gianna says cheerfully. "But the Higgs Field as a resistor to time? That's the real shit, babe."

Bridgette groans. "Gigi, you realize this is career suicide, right?"

Gianna flips onto her back, stretching. "Not if I'm right."

"You're not right."

Gianna props herself up on one elbow. "Okay, but what if I am?"

Bridgette stares at her. "You are seriously about to stand in front of a panel of physicists, some of whom have tenure, and argue that time isn't some inherent property of the universe, but is instead a byproduct of the Higgs Field's resistance? That light speed isn't a constant, but rather an artifact of 'DeLuca Drag'? That gravity itself is just a second-order effect of that resistance?"

Gianna grins. "Yeah, babe. I'm gonna argue exactly that."

Bridgette closes her eyes. "Jesus Christ."

Gianna laughs. "You should see the fuckin' equations. Beautiful shit. Like poetry. You wanna look?"

Bridgette throws up her hands. "No! No, I do not want to look at your nonsense equations!"

Gianna pretends to be hurt. "Oh, so now my work is nonsense? That's what you think of me?"

Bridgette presses her fingertips to her temples. "I think you're a crank, Gigi. I think you're a brilliant, infuriating, ridiculous crank. And I think you're about to go in there tomorrow and get laughed out of the goddamn building."

Gianna rolls onto her stomach, chin propped on her hands. "You're worried about me."

Bridgette glares. "Of course I'm worried about you! You're my wife, you absolute menace!"

Gianna grins wider. "You love it."

Bridgette does not dignify that with a response. Instead, she marches over to the desk, grabs Gianna's laptop, and slams it down in front of her. "At least pretend to be serious for five minutes. Go over your defense."

Gianna grabs her wrist instead.

Bridgette stiffens. Not because she doesn't want it--God, she wants it--but because the second Gianna touches her like that, all of her perfectly structured frustration starts to crumble.

"You're the one who needs to relax, babe," Gianna murmurs, pulling her closer.

Bridgette tries to resist. But Gianna is impossible. She leans up, presses a slow, lazy kiss to her wife's throat, and Bridgette exhales like she's breaking apart.

"Gigi..."

Gianna's hands slide under her blazer, pushing it off her shoulders, and Bridgette lets it fall.

"You think I need notes?" Gianna whispers against her skin, smiling when Bridgette shivers. "I'm about to prove I can defend something way more important."

Bridgette can't fight this. She doesn't want to.

And tomorrow, Dr. Gianna DeLuca is going to walk into that defense like she owns the place. Because she does.

But tonight?

Bridgette is the one getting taken apart.

April 7th, 2038

Bridgette is still a little misty-eyed from the moment Gianna's dissertation committee told her she passed. She's trying to play it cool, but Gianna sees the way she keeps fidgeting with her wedding ring, stealing glances at her.

It's been hours. They went out. There was champagne. There were toasts from colleagues who had no idea that Gianna fully intended to devour her wife the second they got home.

Now they're back. Bridgette is still wearing the dress she wore to the defense. And Gianna? Gianna is kneeling in front of her, tracing fingertips up the inside of her thigh.

"You're staring," Bridgette murmurs, voice quieter now, breath already catching.

Gianna just smiles. "Yeah, babe. I am."

She doesn't start fast. Doesn't rush. She presses a kiss to Bridgette's knee first, then the sensitive skin above it. Slowly, softly, dragging her lips up, pressing love into every inch of her.

"You were perfect today," Gianna murmurs against her thigh.

Bridgette shivers. "I wasn't the one defending."

"You might as well have been. You were holding your breath the whole time. I saw you."

Bridgette swallows hard. Gianna is looking up at her now, deep brown eyes full of something intense.

"Let me take care of you," Gianna whispers.

Bridgette nods.

So Gianna does.

She kisses the inside of her thighs, slow and deliberate, like she's memorizing her. Her hands are soft, no urgency, just slow caresses, like Bridgette is something sacred.

And when her mouth finally finds her, she doesn't rush.

She lets Bridgette feel every slow, deliberate stroke of her tongue, every lingering kiss, every warm breath against her.

Bridgette is breathing harder now, her fingers slipping into Gianna's hair.

"You're so beautiful like this," Gianna murmurs against her, voice thick with adoration.

Bridgette's fingers tighten. Her head tips back, a sharp inhale slipping past her lips.

Gianna keeps it slow. She doesn't push. She lets Bridgette rise on her own, lets her body dictate the pace, lets herself become a part of Bridgette's unraveling.

When she finally adds her fingers, it's not fast. It's deliberate. Gentle at first, pressing inside with reverence, curling just enough to make Bridgette's breath catch.

And Gianna? She watches. Watches the way Bridgette's lips part, the way her breath comes faster, the way her body reacts to every touch.

"Say it," Gianna murmurs, curling her fingers again.

Bridgette barely manages to lift her head, blinking down at her, dazed. "Say what?"

Gianna grins against her, pressing a slow, deep kiss exactly where Bridgette needs it.

"You know what."

Bridgette groans, shuddering. "Gigi..."

Gianna sucks at her clit, crooking her fingers, pressing deeper. "Say it."

Bridgette is trembling now, so close she can't hold herself together, and Gianna loves it.

And then--just as she's about to break--she whispers it.

"Doctor."

Gianna smiles against her, presses one last kiss, and watches her fall apart.

When it's over, when Bridgette is breathless and boneless, legs weak, glasses crooked on her nose, Gianna presses her lips to her stomach.

"You're stuck with me now, Mrs. DeLuca."

Bridgette laughs, shaky and warm. "I was stuck with you the day I walked into that Wawa."

Gianna grins. "Damn right you were."